A TRUE MOONLIGHT SERANADE

MorgueFIle March2020 5505949277945981e863844c582745fc
MorgueFIle March2020 5505949277945981e863844c582745fc


A TRUE MOONLIGHT SERANADE



“Sweetms, when you said we had a five-story beach-front house with a 360-degree lookout tower, this isn’t exactly what I thought you were talking about.

“She’s beautiful, Darling … Isn’t she? You can sleep to the rhythmic beatin’ of the waves every night. And you ought to see it in the moonlight.”

“There appears to be a lot of stairs. What about when our folks visit?”

“Easy peasy. There’s a lower loft under the first floor. I’ve installed an elevator-lift. It’s complete with its own full bath and master suite along with a kitchenette.”

“Looks like you’ve thought of everything.”



Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Week #32: 2020. 

AMOS AND JESSE

PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast
PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast


AMOS AND JESSE



“It’s nothin’ to it.”

“Are you sure, Jesse?”

“You’ve heard Uncle Bo talk about train-hopping to go somewhere-or-nother almost every night we camped.”

“But Ma said half-a-what Uncle Bo said was rose-glassed reminiscing.”

“Ma just said that to keep us home longer. Pa needed us to do the farmin’. Well, there’s no farmin’ left. Pas drunk it all away and the bank got the dirt now. You know Ma is going back East. I ain’t a-goin-be no city dandy. Is that what you want?”

“’Course I don’t”

“Then stop bein’ so fickle-hearted and let’s run.”

“Wyoming, here we’s a come!”



Written for Friday Fictioneers: August 8, 2020

It’s Perfect

restaurant
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson


It’s Perfect



The arrangements were complete.

I had double-checked every detail.

Heck, I triple-checked most of them.

After changing my shirt for the fourth time… it was wasn’t dirty, I just couldn’t control my sweating… I calmly walked downstairs. I wanted to check out the table settings before they got here.

It’s perfect.

They are to be seated just in front of the windows. What a lovely view.

It’s perfect.

Wait…

That’s his car. They’re early.

Heading to the back closet, I grab my coat, gloves, and Barrett M95.

If Nathan, my twin brother, gets married before me, everything goes to him.



Written for Friday Fictioneers.

The Fifty-Fifty Brother

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Photo courtesy of Donna McNicol


The Fifty-Fifty Brother



Fifteen-million dollars.

Half of my inheritance.

All resting on this one chance encounter.

The terms of my father’s will had been specific.

***

I knew Dad had had a mistress. (I suspect he had had many.) But this one was different for some reason. This one gave him a son.

And now… This ridiculous hitch in his will.

I had been groomed to be the new CEO of Hilldenbury International. I would be, no matter how this foolishness played out.

But, if the worst happened…

If Bartholomew (my ill-conceived half-brother) was shown to have “a heart-of-kindness, like my beautiful Felicia” to quote my philandering father, Bartholomew was to receive half of the estate.

I would inherit the business; he would get the rest.

***

I had hired the best detective agency. My father’s attorney presented them with the scenario my licentious father had planned.

If Bartholomew offered assistance to this vagrant itinerant upon their meeting, then he was to be recognized as Mr. T.Y. Hilldenbury’s long-lost son.

If not, the entire fortune was to be mine, Bartholomew was to be forgotten.

Sweat was dripping from my face, and that of my solicitor as we watched the scene play out before our eyes.



Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

THE ILL-FATED RACE

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PHOTO PROMPT © Jeff Arnold


THE ILL-FATED RACE



“Grab your bag. You know it don’t last long.”

“Already packed from the last one. Didn’t even have to replace the snacks. Last’n disappeared before we’d left town.”

“That’n was a small one. Look at the size of this baby,” Rudolph’s excited was evident. “’Bigger the rainbow, bigger the pot of gold’, Granddad said.”

“Granddad said a lot of things.”

“He won’t’ a lied in his last words… ‘Somewhere over the rainbow…’”

“Rudolph, that wasn’t Granddad. That was Dorothy, of Oz.”

“What did Granddad say?”

“Shut the dad-burn door. It’s cold in here.”

“Oh, then why are we chasing this rainbow?”



Written for Friday Fictioneers: 100 word prompts.

AWAITING THE SUNSET

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AWAITING THE SUNSET



“We’ve been hiking for over two hours- uphill – the entire way, yet the mountaintop seems even further than it did when we started. Are you sure we’ll get there for sunset.”

“I’ve hike this trail many-a-time, dear. When the lads were only eleven, we made up on to the top to set up camp before sunset.”

“Are you saying I’m slower than the boys were?”

“No dear, you’re not slower. Only less patient.” her husband said with a smile. “At least you don’t keep asking, ‘Are we there yet?’”

“I can clearly see that we’re not there, yet, Sweet’ums.”

“A hint of sarcasm. Still plenty of vim-and-vigor in you.”

“This had better be worth the trip.”

“It will be. And unlike my trip with the lads, we’re carrying only water and a few snacks in our packs. No tents.”

“I think you promised a candlelit dinner at the top. I hope that you’re planning to woe me with trail mix protein bars.”

“No, My Sweet.” Another smile crept across his face as it turned away. “The chopper is already atop the mountain with the rest of our things.”  And quickly he continued his assent, not waiting for a reply.



Written for FLASH FICTION FOR THE PRACTICAL PRACTITIONER: Week #14. 

SOME THINGS JUST DON’T CHANGE

gnome-heads
Photo courtesy of Pixabay


SOME THINGS JUST DON’T CHANGE



“Just look at that beautiful sunrise. I can never see enough of them.”

“Looks the same to me. I’ve seen enough of them to last a lifetime.”

“My honey-bee, a calloused heart doesn’t become you. I remember …”

“You can stop with all that sweet talkin’ and those stupid memories. And quit your fiddlin’ with my hair. It’s taken eons for it to look this way.”



Written for Sunday Photo Fiction: April 5, 2020.

THE MYSTERIOUS TRUTH

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THE MYSTERIOUS TRUTH



“Wait, Andy. Shouldn’t we think about this a little more?”

“Nah. This either opens the door to Grammy’s winter closet, like she said …”

“Or it’s the entrance the elven kingdom Grandfather mutters about when he’s drunk,” finished Walter.

Opening the door, the boys stood stunned. Before them – a winter wonderland.

“Welcome.” They turned and were greeted by a stout, dwarf-like creature wrapped in wolf pelts, holding two crowns. “We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”

“They were both right,” whispered Andy.



Written for the 80-Word Challenge for FANSTORY and Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner: Week #13.

WYATT, THE MEDIATOR

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WYATT, THE MEDIATOR



“Gramps, you know those cigars are not good for you.”

“Who sent you over here, Wyatt?”

“Grandpa, I just concerned.”

“Concerned.” Grandpa smiled. “That’s your mother’s word. Concerned. She knows I’m old enough to make my own decisions… Should be… Ninety-two years old and I can do whatever I dang well please.”

“The nurses don’t like it.”

“Then they don’t have to smoke ’em.”

“They say it makes your room and bedclothes smell bad. And you know they’re not allowed here at the home.”

“You notice where we are, Wyatt? We’re not at the home. We’re in Ms. McNally’s backyard. She don’t mind the smell. She brings me lemonade.”

“The nurses don’t like you walking over here much either.”

“I’ll walk over here any time I want to walk over here. Megan, I mean Ms. McNally, likes my company. You understand about girls liking a man’s company, Wyatt?” Grandpa winked.

“Grandpa, you better not let Mother hear you talking like that.”

“Hogwash. There’s nothing wrong with a man pursuing a woman, or now-a-days a woman pursuing a man. It’s nature.”

“Grandpa.” Wyatt’s face was red.

“Has your Momma told you ‘bout the birds and….”

“I gotta go.”

“Works every time.”



Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

HISTORICAL REPEATS

writers-life
PHOTO PROMPT © Jeff Arnold


HISTORICAL REPEATS



Dear Mother,

I hope you are well. I have just finished typing Mr. Tumulty news briefing. Yes, that Mr. Tumulty! (The private secretary to President Wilson) I have a temporary promotion. (If I do well, who knows?) Tumulty’s previous assistant has been out sick. (We are hoping it is not the Spanish flu, as Margaret, the President’s daughter has contracted it. I have been told that several Secret Service are sick also.)

Mr. Tumulty went home today not well. I am being vigilant. We never take our face-masks off here in the office.

Please send all my love,

Aristotle Mansfield



Written for Friday Ficitoneers.