Take a taxi they said.
They go everywhere fast.
Everyone uses them.
Including their extended family, a gaggle of geese, a stable of horses and their mother in law.
There’s always room for one more.
It defies known physics.
I was the one more.
The last sardine.
A chicken pooped on my head.
A goat ate my shoelaces.
We set off at a terrific speed enveloped in a plume of black exhaust.
We swerved and careened through the crowds, hooting like a parliament of owls.
The ancient tires squealed and yowled like a convocation of screaming eagles.
Welcome to New York, they said.
I closed my eyes and thought of England.
The sad one:
She played as if she had the devil in her.
She danced across the ivories, her head thrown back and sweat glistening on her brow. She played until her fingers bled, literally.
She played until the audience had quietly filed out of the concert hall. She played until the men came with their white jackets and took her away.
And long after she’d left, the piano kept on playing. It played for years, locked away in the basement. It played until she drew her last breath.
And the devil at the crossroads danced and danced in the moonlight.
The fun one:
Did you know that there’s a piano in the
Okay. Um. Why is there a piano locked in
I put it there.
I didn’t know that you played the piano.
But, you’re… well, you’re a… a musical virtuoso
that can play any instrument in the world.
Every instrument in the world but that piano.
Just that piano.
That specific piano?
Aren’t you going to ask me why?
Pianos don’t bite.
Try and play it.
OW! What the… !@#$! It bloody near took off my fingers!
I told you so.
Then why did you tell me to play it?
It gets hungry.
The photo prompt was:
I was sulking. A
proper adolescent sulk.
I was sitting on
the bleachers really aiming for the depths of teenage despair.
Then the light
came. And them.
Suddenly, I realized that the world wasn’t really ours.
It wasn’t like the
They weren’t green.
They didn’t come
They sure as hell
They came to take overcome.
They came in
They came with an
eerie aura of focus and determination.
They came to shoot
They came to play ball.
Find the Friday Fictioneers prompt here.
“Mum. Why are we standing here?”
“Because it is a queue and to queue is the
way of our people.”
“But, what is at the end?”
“I don’t know. It’s part of the surprise.”
“What if it’s something gross?”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Can I go and look?”
“No! That is not how this works. One must
stand in the queue come rain or snow. One must show patience and stoicism in
the face of adversity.”
“Mum. It’s a mime. Everyone is standing
behind a mime. For no reason whatsoever.’
“That is what it means to be British.”
Pancakes are good.
I like pancakes.
I have everything I need to make them.
I can see the sieve.
I can see the pan.
Fat lot of good that does.
Look, I’m not stunted. I’m not a homunculus. I’m a normal sized person.
What gigantoid genius thought that hanging
stuff from a double-volume loft roof would be a good idea?
I’d get a ladder, but the same savant hung
it that from a hook in the garage and I can’t reach that either.
The person involved can kiss his chances of
I’m going to Starbucks for a latte.
The family pushes Granny
But Granny doesn’t move
The family pushes harder
But Granny’s hit her groove
Uncle Sam works out at the gym
But Granny works out harder
His muscles may be hard and trim
But Granny’s mind is sharper
Daddy likes to think he’s strong
But Granny’s nerve is stronger
He tries to move his mum along
But Granny has lived longer
My mother and sister try
But Granny doesn’t need to
She just sits and rolls an eye
They really don’t have a clue
I know something they do not
And Granny knows I do
Granny put the brakes on lock
And there’s nothing they can do
Please prune the tree, I asked.
That’s all. Not demolish. Not decapitate. Just trim.
What could go wrong, I thought?
And then, to my deepest regret, I went out.
I arrived home to this scene of wanton devastation.
He had succumbed to the power of the Chain Saw and went all Texas Massacre on the flora.
Finally, exhausted, he laid down the offending weapon and had a beer.
Leaving the dismembered pieces of his slain enemy littered on the ground.
This, I was informed, was entirely my fault because I left him unsupervised with a power tool.
Note: This story is a work of fiction and in no way resembles my husband at all. Really, he didn’t do this. My father did though, to a Chinese Elm Tree.
About Friday Fictioneers
Each Friday, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, posts a photo prompt for a 100-word story.
Have a look at come of this week’s entries for some inspiration.
Thank you to Janet Web for the beautiful image.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly flash fiction photo prompt.
1 photo. 100 words. (more or less, give or take)
Pop over to http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/
Please take a moment to click on one of the links below to read what others have done with this week’s prompt.