Mitch felt his throat tighten, belly flop and the beads of sweat from on his forehead. The raven haired brown eyes beauty stepped into the coffee shop at her regular time 7:33. He knew it was a bit like a stalker to already have her coffee ready, but she always ordered the same kind.
She looked at the name on the cup and flashed the million-dollar smile.
Mom helped him with the slogan, dad shared his knowledge of business to craft the plan. But the execution was all Benny. Everyone in their small mid-western town knew Benny. He seemed to be everywhere that spring and summer. He mowed yards, raked away left over leaves, picked up trash, collected aluminum cans, walked dogs, fed pigs or whatever he discovered people would trade their money for.
At first his parents thought he was just bored sitting at home all the time. For an only child sometimes existence even as a child was difficult. They watched him become more confident that summer. He also compiled a nifty little bank roll. They discussed in private what should be done with his collection. Parents do that sort of thing you know.
Late one night Benny made his way to their bed room to tell them his plan.
“I want to give like you do to Pastor Dave,” Benny said, drawing smiles from mom and dad.
“I think that is wonderful honey,” mom said.
“What about the rest?” dad asked.
“You know those cool Avengers high tops?” Benny asked.
“I want to buy those,” Benny said.
Before his parents could object he continued to speak.
“Because my new friend Willie has no shoes.”
“He doesn’t?” mom asked.
“No. His house burned down so he has to wear his older brother’s shoes. I think he would like the Avenger shoes.”
Since his mother brought him to the port when he was a child, Peter was fascinated with seagoing vessels. He collected watercraft of every design, including the models constructed with glue. His mother’s purge of most of his collection was still a sore spot. No, wait it was all of his collection but the tug boat. Sure they were living on her waitress salary in a small apartment, but still it was his world then. Now the port was his.
“Let’s see you try to get rid of my new collection Mother!”
“Well. I can tell you it is early twentieth century in origin,” the expert began. He continued to expound on the wherewithal of the piece as Kate’s mind wandered. She had coveted this day for years. Finally the Antique Roadshow was close enough to tote her mother’s prized possession over for a looksee. This old painting had hung over the fireplace in their home for her whole life, all seventy-three years.
“The style tells us this family was well to do, maybe even aristocratic,” the expert continued. Kate could imagine now, just as she had countless times the sound of the piano as the man allowed his fingers to find the keys needed to support the woman’s singing. Kate managed to fit many of her old classical favorites into this scene. This was something from her childhood she vowed never to part with.
“OH MY!” the expert said when he squinted at the artist’s signature.
“What?” Kate asked.
“Would you consider selling this? I’ll give you two million!”
Cal listened to the gentle lapping of the water against the long bridge allowing it to almost hypnotize him while he made his way along the wet boards. A passing rainstorm still left the sky with some deep blues which could mean the promise of more.
In the distance Cal was sure he could see the form of a person on the angled poles set on the sides of the bridge. What was the person doing? As he accumulated a few more steps he realized the person was a young girl. That young girl! The one he watched in the market every weekend.
“Hello,” she said as drew near.
“How do you do that?”
“Walk on these without falling, especially when they are wet?”
“Well, I promised myself I would do this until you asked me out. I have been doing it for almost three months now, so I suppose what they say about practice makes perfect must have some truth.”
“You think I am going to ask you out?”
“Aren’t you?” she said blinking her deep azure yes as she smiled.
March 23, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write about an audience. It can be broad or small, and gathered for any reason. How does your character react to an audience? Is the audience itself a character. Go where the prompt leads.
Brent didn’t like this moment. It took him longer to unpack his instrument than most. But he knew he had to do it with care due to his affected limbs. His mother tried more than once to explain cerebral palsy to him and why it made things so much harder for him, but all he knew was that it hurt and made his life much more cumbersome.
Brent slid his hand in the custom loop that would allow him to retain control of the bow and began to play. One by one people gathered to hear his flawless music.
Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner is one of the quartet of weekly photo prompts I try to frequent each week. I noticed a post over on Joe’s Musings, my mother blog called My List of Regular Blog Challenges is getting a lot of interest and it was created long before I found this, so does not list it. I need to get that remedied.
But anyway Roger Shipp @ A Writer’s Community hosts this event on a weekly basis. He is very generous in allowing 200 words to spin a tale inspired by the picture provided. Give it a whirl!
Marty jammed his radio onto his belt so he could use both hands to loosen his belt a notch. He loved the Japanese quick service kiosk in the airport food court.
He noticed a young woman acting a little strangely and could feel his “spidey sense” kick in. That is what his sons called it when he knew they were up to something and thwarted their plans before they could execute.
The girl seemed especially nervous as she waited in line to get through security. Marty positioned himself so he could watch what she did.
As soon as she cleared security she began to move very fast toward the gate area. Marty followed, watching her tug at a backpack that looked heavier than it should be. When the girl saw him she began to quicken her pace.
He lost sight of her and feared the worst. He had his walkie to his mouth when he rounded the corner to see the girl down on one knee pr0posing to her fellow who was about to board a flight to Africa. Her backpack was open with a small karaoke machine blaring a popular love song. It was a good thing Marty was a romantic.
Burke chided himself silently as he tuned his guitar. He could hear the words of his mother saying “you always speak before you think son.” Impetuous, she had called him. Burke felt he was spirited, eager or some positive adjective. Either way he was in another predicament. This one wouldn’t kill him any quicker than most adventures he lived.
This jerk in the bar put down $1000 to say Burke could not continue to make music on his own without repeating a song for twelve hours. Burke wasn’t sure he could, but when the guy began to verbally abuse Sydney, Burke’s dream girl who was a waitress in the bar Burke’s lot was cast.
Now he scrambled to think of what songs he could play between now and 7 pm tonight.
“Personally I like the rounded look. We are basically making a bunch of spikes, almost weapons on these fence panels,” Harmon said as he toiled on the order for the massive fence that would line the perimeter of J. Hardy Carroll’s estate.
“Mr. Carroll was very specific Harmon. He wants this design and this one only,” Butch the boss man replied.
“Makes you wonder what he is protecting or hiding,” Harmon commented.
“Only a set of the prettiest triplets God ever created. Louie said they are models.”
Harmon knew this, it was why on this panel he made it weaker.