“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.
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.
Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.
Teresa, without the H had real issues with the order. She had been counselled by everyone from sisters to the Monsignor about her unwillingness to submit to the program. Teresa without the H would not relent however. She said God was color blind accepting all who came with the right heart.
By all accounts she was perfect in any other measure, but the wearing of white was infuriating.
After supper one evening she was walking through the third floor when an unfamiliar man appeared from the shadows.
“You cannot continue this!” He said.
‘Why is this a matter for your consideration?”
“It is not as simple as black and white. Consider this your last warning!”
Teresa without the H shuddered when his hot breath bit into her neck.
The next day Teresa without the H was also without the white.
“Unbelievable ,” Grandpa George exclaimed. At 85 his mind was still so sharp and Sydney loved to spend time with him. It was his engineering prowess that attracted her. Of course his biggest accomplishments was in ballistic missile technology, but their was still a kindred admiration.
“What’s the range?”
“The battery is the limiter,” Sydney answered. “This model has the latest from our lab. With it the drone range is 25 miles.”
“You must be careful my Sydney. Uncle Sam will try to corrupt your wonderful talent like they did mine.”
“No worries G.G. No one’ll believe a blonde like me did this!”
Everyone has had a boss like Clinton Emery the Fifth. He wasn’t the fifth in his family to bear this name, but the only man anyone could claim to know that could down a fifth of whiskey at dinner and never bat an eye. That is as long as there was no olive involved. That is why he chose whiskey rather than Martinis. You see martini’s were Clinton’s kryptonite.
The story was that sometime during the Second War to End All Wars he landed in a French bar or what was left of it in desperate need of some liquid determination. This French beauty convinced him that martini’s were a man’s best friend after her. Clinton had never been able to say no to a female until that day May 3, 1944, but after “tossing olives” for sixteen hours he swore he would never do two things: trust a woman and let an olive anywhere near is liquid.