The Fifty-Fifty Brother

Photo courtesy of Donna McNicol

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The Fifty-Fifty Brother

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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.

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

SOME THINGS JUST DON’T CHANGE

Photo courtesy of Pixabay

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SOME THINGS JUST DON’T CHANGE

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“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.”

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction: April 5, 2020.

WYATT, THE MEDIATOR

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WYATT, THE MEDIATOR

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“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.”

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

“NOUGH SAID

Photo courtesy of Bobbie & Devin

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“NOUGH SAID

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“Be careful, MayBelle. You’re going to fall out.”

“You’re the only one that has ever fallen out, if I remember right, Bronson,” replied MayBelle. “And if I remember, before you even tried to get back in the window, which… … if I remember right- was not possible… … you floundered around in all that pig sty mud chasing one scrawny, get-away chicken and you smelled like,” she paused and made a face. “Well, a lady doesn’t speak of such things.”

“What do you think they left the window open for?” Bronson had a bit of worry in his voice. “Intruders, you know.”

“Intruders!” MayBelle was horror-struck. “Two huge beasts hanging out a window watching the passersby, and you think intruders are going to break into this house?”

She wasn’t finished. “How dumb do you think humans are?”

“Well,” began Bronson, “our masters did leave the house with all the alarms off… and both the front windows are open. I don’t think I have to really answer that question.”

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Written for SUNDAY PHOTO FICTION: DECEMBER 15, 2019. 

HOUSE-HUNTING

Photo by Blair Fraser on Unsplash

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HOUSE-HUNTING

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I was more than excited … Mark had finally agreed to house hunt.

After being married to one the lead architect of Newsome, Newsome, and Cole (Mark was the Cole) for eleven years, we were taking the plunge.

I wanted away from the rat-race of The City. Mark readily agreed. He had his own plane and chopper; we could live anywhere. Mark wanted a house that was uniquely his own. He saw himself as the new – completely recyclable and environmentally friendly – Frank Lloyd Wright.

Chauffeured from the apartment to the airport, we boarded Brutus, Mark’s refitted Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk.

Once out of urban airspace, Mark started a play-by-play of the lakes and rivers.

The countryside was beautiful.

I was very quiet; when I had said out-of-the-rat race, I was not sure I meant this far out.

Dipping Brutus’ nose, Mark landed on a newly constructed heliport. I looked around as we waited for the rotors to stop. To my right… a crystal river. To my left… a gorgeous lake; its outermost banks still in the mist.

Gently grasping my hand, Mark helped me out. “Look behind you,” he said. “Picture the possibilities. This is going to be home.”

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction: July 14, 2019.

JUST PLANNING AHEAD

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

“Yes, Seth, I know your heritage…

“Maybe dating back to the pharaohs.”

You’ve told me. ”

Agatha’s eyes roll as she lowers the receiver from her ear.

“Yes, I do believe in planning ahead. …. It is an admirable goal in husband.”

“I love the new house.”

“No, I’m not angry that you purchased it without me seeing it first.” She quietly gasps and looks at her roommate and soon to be bridesmaid.

“The river out back is beautiful.”

“The backyard will make a wonderful place for the dinner party.”

“Seth,” Agatha composes herself and speaks as quickly before Seth could interrupt.

“It’s not the house… or the river, Seth. They are lovely.”

And then she went there.

“My family loves you. They know you are a tad eccentric. But don’t you think it would have been better to wait until after our wedding to build your honorary burial.”

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Written for SUNDAY PHOTO FICTION.

ANOTHER BLIND DATE

Photo Credit: Reena Saxena

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ANOTHER BLIND DATE

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“I left my jacket draped across the back of the chair. Is that enough?”

“Maybe I should have told her about a book I was reading. If I had left a book beside of the drink, along with the jacket, it would have looked better.”

“A book would have given me a great conversation starter…”

“Too late now…”

“I will keep that thought in mind for the next one.”

–              –              –              –              –             

“She’s ten-minutes late.”

“Is she always late for everything? That’s not a great personality trait. Especially since I like to be early.”

“Sometimes I’m too early. Too early can be annoying for people too.”

“Maybe, if we end up falling in love and getting married, the two traits will actually balance us out. Her yin to my yang.”

“Let’s not get the cart-before the horse… First she has to show up.”

–              –              –              –              –             

“Hummmmm … … …”

“I wonder if she is sitting somewhere in this bar watching the same seat that I am waiting for me to show up?”

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction- April 28, 2019.

CINDERELLA HAS NOTHING ON ME

Cinderella had her glass slippers…

Dorothy, of Oz, had her ruby ones.

Maxwell Smart could call CONTROL with his telephonic-loafers…

Even Forest Gump had his special cross-country sneakers.

And now, I had found my treasure.

I had been window-shopping on the bustling side streets of Delhi for most of the afternoon when I spied them…

… Beautifully crafted white leather pointed-pumps with ivory-hewn buckles.

I could not believe my luck.

As I caressed the elegant lining of the left pump, my finger snagged a rough edging. The irregularity was not in the workmanship. A yellowed paper was wedged beneath the ivory buckle.

Feeling a sudden trepidation, I stepped behind the bustling shopping aisle and carefully unfolded it.

I recognized the lettering … It was written in Sanskrit.

“If only I could read Sanskrit,” I thought.

Instantaneously, the yellowed paper warmed and the lettering suddenly transmuted into English. WARNING: THREE WISHES. Two wishes remain.

I was astounded. One of my wishes I had already wasted.

“I wish I had a quieter place to think.”

Suddenly stone walls surrounded me. A small beam of light shone from a barred window high above.

“STOP THINKING!” I shrieked into the emptiness of the cell.

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction: February, 24, 2019.  

THE WRITING WAS ON THE …

Anurag Bakhshi

The necessary paperwork had cleared with Dynamic Aviators months ago- permission for a sight-seeing fight over my neighborhood.

But the negotiations … ‘neighbor-shopping’ and bartering… to find five houses with residents who would agree to have painted roofs and that lived in adjoining lots… That was painstakingly difficult.

(I agree, my small favor was a bit over the top.)

Then I had to check the weather-fronts for a three day span… and convince my boss (not as nice as my neighbors) for three days off.

Now, I had only convince Margaret (my steady of four years) of for a quickly unscheduled vacation-date day.

And then (of course) to paint the message.

***

After much small talk and some dipsy-doodling over the memorable sights of our small town, I said, “Margaret we should – just for the heck of it- fly over my neighbor to get a bird’s eye view of the home place. I think it’s your turn with the binoculars. See if you can find my house.”

Quietly, I unbuckled my harness and stooped to a knee.

I heard a small gasp. Her eyes instantly bubbled into tears.

This was going to be a great story to tell our kids.

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FYI: If you were not able to catch my Sherlock clues… The roofs of the houses had been painted with this message- MARGARET, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction: December 16, 2018. 200 words

Ba-ba-be Is Missing

Jane triumphantly paraded around the garden in search of her missing doll. She had just left Ba-ba-be on her own for a few minutes when Mommy had called to come inside to see Grampa.

Ba-ba-be was very willing to watch the flowers and bees by herself, for just a short while, because anytime Grampa visited he always brought a package of Goldfish crackers. Sometimes Gramps even had Tootsie Rolls.

Jane new that they both were Ba-ba-be’s favorites as much as her own.

After circling the rose garden, for the third time, Jane decided that she would need to go quickly inside and see Mamma.

Ba-ba-be often got into trouble because of her questionable behaviors. She was all the time running up to total strangers and sitting on their laps … even though she knew better.

Mamma had cautions she and Ba-ba-be several times about such troublesome behaviors.

Jane carefully unwrapped her Tootsie Roll and placed it in her mouth. “Ba-ba-be was never very careful about things like that when left on her own,” she thought.

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Written for Sunday Photo Fiction and The Three Things Challenge, 10 August 2018.