Sunday Photo Fiction — Mean and Inconsiderate

723932EE-D420-4715-8A6E-0D5A0FA1A04FIt was, perhaps, the meanest act I’d ever committed. Certainly the most inconsiderate. But I was only ten-years-old, so what did I know?

My father loved to build miniature settings. He had constructed an elaborate village around his HO scale train set in our attic. It included a train station, post office, church, store, and a few homes. There were painted roads with small cars and trucks and tiny little people. It was fully landscaped with trees and shrubs, hills, and a creek. A true work of art.

For Christmas one year, he decided to build a little fairy village on our patio for my younger sister. He constructed it from twigs, straw, branches, and stones. He built a tiny church, shed, fire pit, table, and bench. It was exquisite.

He finished it just in time for Christmas and, when Christmas morning arrived, my sister and I eagerly opened our presents. My favorite was a 20-inch tall Godzilla monster doll.

Dad escorted us out to our back patio and unveiled the fairy village. My sister squealed in delight. I, with Godzilla in hand, proceeded to destroy the tiny village by stomping all around, making horrible monster noises, just like the movie.

(202 words)


Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Image credit: Eric Wiklund.

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Sunday Photo Fiction — Vacation Home

66D2F4B2-454B-40FA-B915-A5926610D8CF“It’s so picturesque,” Emma said. “Like a picture postcard.”

“It’s not a good investment, Emma,” Paul responded.

“Why not?” Emma asked. “I’ve always wanted a vacation home by this lake. It would be perfect. I know the children would be thrilled.”

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “I think we need to keep looking.”

“But why, Paul? You know that, with that huge bonus you just got, we can afford to purchase one of those townhomes.”

“I don’t like how those buildings are sandwiched between the lake and the cliffs,” Paul said.

“That’s what makes it so breathtaking, Paul,” Emma argued. “What is your problem?”

“My problem, Emma, is climate change.”

“Climate change? Seriously?”

“Yes,” Paul responded. “Water levels have been rising by three to four inches each year in this lake. And that’s likely to accelerate. Besides, this region is prone to earthquakes and they’re saying one is overdue. Can you imagine how large chunks of those cliffs would come crashing down onto those townhouses if there was a large earthquake?”

“Fine, Paul,” Emma said. “I just never thought you’d fall for this Chinese hoax about climate change and succumb fake news.”

“You have to stop watching Fox News, Emma.”

(200 words)


Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: A Mixed Bag.

Sunday Photo Fiction — Rust

“It’s only been, what, three years since they painted the lighthouse,” George said, the annoyance in his voice clearly apparent.

“Yeah, boss,” responded Jimmy, who was standing next to George. “It was last done in the fall of 2014, according to the records we pulled yesterday.”

“Goddammit,” George said. “Gimme those binoculars, Jimmy.” George peered through the binoculars Jimmy handed him. He focused on the numerous, large, vertical rust stains all around the top of the structure.

F692E6B5-E62A-4022-8B12-D89350EECA50

“That sonabitch contractor fucked us over,” George’s annoyance having morphed into rage.

“So whaddya wanna do boss?” Jimmy asked. “Want me to round up some of the guys and go pound the snot outta him?”

“That muthafucka guaranteed that the paint job would last ten years,” George said. We paid a huge goddam premium for what he said was weather resistant, rust proof paint. Now look at all that rust up there.”

“Yeah, boss,” Jimmy said. “I remember that guy sayin’ that. So whaddya want to do, boss?”

“I’m gonna call my sister,” George said, picking up his cell phone, so upset that his hand was shaking. “Dammit, Sis,” he screamed into the phone. “Your lame ass husband screwed me over yet again!”

(200 words)


Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: A Mixed Bag.

Sunday Photo Fiction — Answered Prayers

4BEF8069-26FA-4D03-8BC2-48E8AE35D22B“Whatcha doing, Sweetie?”

Paul was squatting on the patio gazing intently at the siding of their house with what appeared to be a vacant look in his eyes, as if mesmerized while staring at nothing in particular. He pointed to a bug on the wall.

Carrie followed Paul’s gaze and saw a large bug on the low on the wall. “That’s a praying mantis,” she told him.

“A praying mantis?” Paul exclaimed. “Is it poisonous? Does it bite or sting?”

“Oh no,” said Carrie. “In fact, in some parts of the world, it is considered good luck if one of these curious looking bugs lands on you.”

“Good luck? Why is it good luck to have a stick bug land on you?” Paul asked.

“I honestly don’t know why,” Carrie answered.

“Why is it called a praying mantis,” Paul asked.

Carrie sighed. “Maybe because of the way the it holds up the front of its body and positions its large front legs. It appears as though it’s praying, doesn’t it?”

Paul suddenly jumped up from his squatting position, kicked out his foot, and crushed the bug against the wall.

“So much for answered prayers,” he said, grinning wickedly.

(198 words)


This is a twofer. It is written for today’s one-word prompt, “particular,” as well as for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt.

Sunday Photo Fiction — Street Baseball

2DBA451B-4748-4ED2-BE22-0871E7656C8D“Charlie,” yelled Hank. “You hit another ball down the storm drain.”

Charlie ran to where Hank was standing. “Hey, I’m sorry, man,” he said. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

Jeff and Tim joined Hank and Charlie. “How many does that make today, Charlie?” asked Jeff.

“Three,” said Tim.

“Well, game over,” said Hank. “That was the last ball.”

“Charlie,” Jeff said, “doesn’t your older brother play lacrosse?”

“Yeah, why?” Charlie responded.

“He has those sticks with nets on the end. Maybe we can use that to snare a ball and pull it out of the storm drain,” Jeff suggested.

Charlie was hesitant. His big brother hated for Charlie to touch his stuff. “I don’t know guys.”

“C’mon, Charlie,” Hank said. “Go get your brother’s lacrosse stick.”

Reluctantly, Charlie ran home, got the stick from his brother’s closet, and ran back to meet his friends at the storm drain. He handed the stick to Hank, who maneuvered it into the drain. “I think I got one,” Hank said. But when he tried to fish it out, the stick snapped in half.

Hank handed the broken piece of lacrosse stick to Charlie and shrugged his shoulders. “Sucks to be you, man,” he said.

(200 words)


Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Image credit: A Mixed Bag.