This piece was written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing prompt of ‘dire’, in 58 words.
She scanned her current dresses;
none of them inspired.
Unlike her titian tresses
her wardrobe just looked tired.
She hied herself to the dyer,
begged her urgent haste
‘Colour this so all admire
my epitome of taste.’
The gown, wrapped in paper cream,
unwrapped in breathless hope
‘Die, you dire dyer!’ was her scream
‘Whoever would wear taupe?!’
This was written for Carrot Ranch’s 2020 Writing Rodeo Event # 3, which required six words from the song “Git Along Little Dogies” in a unique 99-word story in the genre of your choice. It won First Prize 🙂
Molly’s nerves were a-jinglin’ driving the buggy back to the ranch. As a new bride fresh from the city, she tried to be a real country wife for Earl, cooking and milking the cow, and she tried to use Wyoming words whenever she could.
When Earl came in, she said ‘I got you a present’.
‘Well, that’s real nice, Molly. What is it?’
‘A dog to keep you company when you’re on the trail!’
She opened the bedroom door and out strolled a Dachshund.
‘And you didn’t think I was listening when you said ‘git a long little’ doggie.’
This piece was written for the weekly Six Sentence Story with the prompt of Clip.
In my old world, nits were removed with kerosene. Mothers bored into your ears to stop the potatoes growing in there and rubbed at your face with their spit on a handkerchief. Fathers twisted your ears as they dragged you to the scene of your latest sin and the local copper handled juvenile delinquency with the toe of his boot. Teachers clipped your ears to instil learning. I tell my grandson but he just scratches his head. Now where did I put that kerosene?
This piece was written for the Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge with the prompt ‘In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about life savers on any body of water. It can be a formal Coast Guard, historical or contemporary. It could be an individual who unexpectedly takes on the role. Go where the prompt leads!’
Around midnight, he would walk down to the bridge and wait, with one foot resting on the bottom rail, staring into the tidal shift below. He would wait for a stranger to appear at the other end of the bridge, mirroring his stance. ‘Time to go’ he would announce and hoist himself onto the second rail. The stranger would come running, yelling ’What are you doing?’ ‘Ending the pain’ he would say. And the stranger would pull him down and take him to the all-night coffee stand just off the bridge. He’d lost count of the lives he’d saved.
This piece was written for the weekly 99 word Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge with the prompt of ‘write a spooky tale told around a campfire’.
I suggest you read this link beforehand. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kurdaitcha
This was the first cattle drive for the Arrente boy the whitefellas called Jimmy. The whitefellas couldn’t care less for blackfella names. They paid themselves with money but paid the blackfellas with tea, flour and tobacco and their campfires were separate. Jimmy sat silently with the older boys and men. A rogue willy-willy suddenly blew out and then re-lit their fire. Old Tarpot said ‘Kurdaitcha man point that bone. Bin come for him tonight.’ All eyes turned to Jackie, who had been sick for days. Jimmy watched Jackie’s eyes glass over and then returned his own to the fire.
This piece is in response to this week’s Carrot Ranch prompt to write a 99 word story that includes something heard on the radio. It can be from any station or era. What is heard? A song, announcement, ad? Think of how radio connects people and places. Go where the prompt leads!
The radio kills people. I was 12 years old when the radio killed JFK. Stunned, I rushed out to tell my father. He was annoyed that I’d interrupted him mowing the lawn and just grunted and continued his grass cutting. I was 13 when the radio killed Winston Churchill and National Geographic published a floppy plastic record of his funeral service. I was 29 when the radio killed John Lennon, who I was hearing on the radio as one of the Beatles in the same year that the radio killed JFK. I’m convinced the radio is a serial killer.
My response to Chelsea Owen’s Weekly Hilarity Contest, (limit 200 words) with the following prompt. “…” [T]here really is no valid excuse for an able-bodied person going out of his head from being bewildered in the big woods so long as he has a gun and ammunition, or even a few dry matches and a jackknife.” Horace Kephart
When I jack-knifed my camper trailer in a place where even the most desperate dingo has never ventured, my first instinct was to adopt the foetal position.
Cramp eventually encouraged me to survey the damage. Alas my trusty Beetle and my 6 metre fully loaded camper had merged as one, never the twain to separate.
Recalling the immortal words of Horace, I rummaged through the wreckage until I found my only ‘gun’, complete with ammunition, and felt comforted by the fact that I had a staple diet at hand.
I also found dry matches and after I’d assembled enough twigs and branches, I looked around for somewhere to strike a match on. I decided the rough canvas on the trailer would be perfect and proceeded to experiment. Unfortunately, I had failed to note that the jack-knifing had ruptured my fuel tank.
When the Country Fire Service issued me with a coat that tied at the back to keep me warm and choppered me out to answer some pointed questions about the loss of some million hectares of virgin state forest, I couldn’t help but think of those poor souls in quarantine who would give anything to be me right now.
This 99 word piece was written for the Carrot Ranch challenge “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you are in absolute danger?“ Not sure what would be the the first thing in my mind in that situation but I know what was in Mum’s.
My Mum was a stickler for cleanliness. One day she said to me, ‘Goodness, there’s enough dirt in your ears to grow potatoes.’ So she did. I missed a lot that the teacher said because of those King Edwards in my earholes.
She would always ask if I had clean underpants on. She said she’d die of embarrassment if I got run over by a car and the doctors saw that I had skidmarks on my undies. Forget any inconsolable grief. She wanted to be able to hold her head high when she went to pick up my body.
This piece was written for this week’s 99 word challenge, with ‘nourish’ as the prompt, courtesy of Charli Mills’ Carrot Ranch
As Phoebe drove home with her husband, Spike, safely strapped into the passenger seat, she decided it was time for him to hear some home truths.
‘You know, Spike, in all our married years, never once have you praised anything I’ve done or supported me when it mattered. Frankly, I can’t even recall you being anything remotely like happy, except when you were sounding off about the stupidity of everyone around you.’
Silence.
Phoebe arrived home, unstrapped Spike’s urn, removed the lid and spread his ashes under her rose bushes.
‘Last chance to nourish something, Spike.’
The roses smiled.
Alas, Chelsea Owens’ Weekly Terrible Poetry contest is no more but rising from its ashes is the phoenix of the Weekly Hilarity Contest.
The first week’s challenge is:
My shop is called The Birds, partly because it’s unsettling Hitchcockian overtones amuse me but mostly because I only sell birds. Customers flock to my avianorium, where only the best of the nest will do, so that they can pin a feather in their cap and cock a snoot at less discerning buyers. One day, a preening peacock of the human variety entered my shop and looked down his not inconsiderable beak at various of my wing-ed wonders and trilled thus:
‘I had hoped to find feathered treasure but, alas, I feel let down. Nevertheless, I will take that vaguely presentable kookaburra to give my friends a laugh.’
‘$500, cage included.’
‘Oh, you are a hoot. $200 is my best and final offer.’
Taking my silence as lack of consent, he turned theatrically and made for the door, before pausing and turning.
‘One last chance to change your mind’
I gave him the bird.
Six Crooked Highways 