PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma
“Closer, move him closer,” Jacs whispered.
“I’ve got it!”
“So move him closer.”
Which he did for about five seconds. “I can’t hear.”
“Well,” Tim whispered, “if you’d just shut up and let me work…..”
Another five seconds.
“You are the only person I know who can shout in a whisper.”
Tim ignored him, jumping the grasshopper inside the door.
“Oh, look, a grasshopper.” Female. Footsteps like thunder.
“Crap!” in unison.
The woman tossed the grasshopper out.
“Thank god. If the BugsMilitaryListeningDevice prototype had been destroyed, we’d be in deep you-know-what!”
But it hadn’t.
As long as we know in our hearts what Christmas ought to be, Christmas is.”
~ Eric Sevareid
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one…just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald
1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.
3. Please credit photo to photographer.
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try and stay within this limit.
5. Pingback to the challenge post in your story’s post.
6. This is a flash fiction challenge (stories in 100-175 words or less)
Pix by Joy Pixley
“You really don’t want to jump here,” Ron Smart-Ass teased. Big brothers – the worst- but I didn’t have time for him now.
I couldn’t tear my gaze from the placid water below. Would it be cold or warm? Clear? Cloudy? Would I sink into endless mud and never come back?
“Got snapping turtles,” Ron snickered. “Eat your toes off.”
I ignore him.
Closing my eyes, I jumped, landing with a splash, kicking up once my downwards movement ended. Breaking the surface, I looked up.
“Come on in, the water is fine!”
Boys started jumping, splash-bombing into summer.
“If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?”
― Jodi Picoult,
“‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.'”
Raised eyebrows. “‘Where There is Smoke There is Fire?’ ‘Smoke Gets….'”
“No, done that one.”
Lowered eyebrows. “‘The Pot-Smokers Song?'”
“There is no such song.”
“Believe what you want, but there is.”
“By whom….Neil Diamond.”
She tried to read him, but, as always, got nowhere.
“I’ve got one”.
He motioned her to ‘take the stage.’
“‘Smoking in the Boy’s Room?’ ‘Smoke on the Water.'” Pause. “I always liked that one.”
“What? ‘Smoking in the Boys Room?'”
“No, ‘Smoke on the Water.'” She sang a few words of the song. “Smoke on the water, a fire in the sky.”
“Isn’t that about some studio burning down?”
He liked to know the back-stories of songs. His friends thought him weird, those few he had, but his Dad was a rock star and, early on, taught him to listen beyond the song, beyond the music, to the story inside.
With a roll of her eyes, she nodded. He was too weird sometimes. Only reason she befriended him was cause his Dad was – WOW!
“‘When Smoky Sings….'” Thought for a moment. “Is that about Smoky The Bear?”
“Bears can’t sing.”
“But they can have songs written about them!”
“True, but I don’t think so. At least this song.”
She held in her instant irritation. Just add him, water, anger and stir for a totally irritating boy whose father was a Rock and Roll God.
“Forget it,” waving away his laptop. “Don’t google it.”
“Well for one thing, its stupid.”
“Okay, ‘Smoke Rings in the Dark.'”
“That’s so not a real song.”
“Gary Allen.” He sang. “The night is like a dagger / Long and cold and sharp / As I sit here on the front steps / Blowing smoke rings in the dark.”
She tossed her cards down. “You win. Again.” Stormed out with the bang of the back door.
Why did he have so much to prove? His Dad was…… well, was a superstar. Did anybody in this world not know or like his Dad?
He rose slowly, steadying himself on the couch before heading outside. Step, drag, step, drag, step, drag. Nobody would ever know his face, never scream for it. For him. Throwing panties and bras. Pulling up their shirts for him to autograph their breasts.
Settling on the top step, he pulled out a cigarette and smoked for a few minutes before blowing a smoke ring….. almost, almost perfect.
How true, he knew, how true.
The lyrics used in this story belong to their respective writers.
“When you stop expecting people to be perfect, you can like them for who they are.”
― Donald Miller,