“Can your imagine his temerity to proclaim that he won the election when he definitively lost?” Jerry asked.
“It’s highly irregular, that’s for sure,” Steve agreed. “But what steps can we take?”
“I think that rather than letting him continue his delusional rage,” Jerry said, “the FBI should go to the White House, put him in handcuffs, and lock him up.”Steve smiled and started chanting, “LOCK HIM UP! LOCK HIM UP!”
Written for these daily prompts: Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (temerity), Your Daily Word Prompt (proclaim), The Daily Spur (irregular), Ragtag Daily Prompt (steps), and MMA Storytime (rage).
There’s something fishy about this sushi.
Written for Shweta Suresh’s Saturday Six Word Story Prompt, where the word is “fishy.”
“Today’s Weekend Writing Prompt from Sammi Cox is ‘paradox.’ That’s the same word I used for my one-word challenge yesterday,” I told my wife.
“That’s a paradox,” she said.
“No,” I said. “A paradox is a self-contradictory statement.”
“Okay,” she said, “Then it’s plagiarism. She copied you.”
“No, it’s just a coincidence,” I said.
“But you keep telling me you don’t believe in coincidences,” she said.
“Whatever,” I said.
Eric was sweating. Drops of perspiration from his forehead were finding their way to his eyes. His palms were sweaty, too. These were not good signs. Not good at all.
Eric looked down at the long, angry scar on this left hand. His mind flashed back to the last competition, when he was on his way to a first place finish. For his final shot he pulled back on the bow and just as he let go of the bow string, the arrow splintered, sending a large shard of wood into the webbing of his left hand between his thumb and forefinger.
They called it a freak accident. There was a lot of blood and it hurt like hell. Eric was rushed to the hospital and got about 20 stitches. He was assured that, with physical therapy and lots of practice, he could eventually return to competitive archery.
After months of therapy and practice, he was back competing in a tournament. Eric knew the odds of another arrow splintering were infinitesimal, but he couldn’t help but flashback to that day last year. When it was his turn, Eric took a deep breath, pulled the bowstring to the anchor point and let the arrow fly.
Written for this week’s Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner from Roger Shipp. Photo credit. GaborfromHungary at Morguefile.
For this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt from Linda G. Hill, we’ve been ask to write a post about “the last thing you put in your fridge.”
I’m writing this post at around 11 pm Friday night and have it scheduled to be published at 3 am my time on Saturday. The last thing I put in my refrigerator before this post was scheduled to be published was this:A can of cat food. Our cat goes through a little more than two of these 5.5 ounce cans of FirstMate Cage-Free Chicken Formula cat food a day. When there is any food still left in a can at the end of the day right before we go to bed, we store the open can, with a rubber top on the can, overnight in the fridge.
So, it’s safe to say that almost every night, the last thing that is put into our refrigerator each night when we go to bed is an open can of cat food.
And, that, my friends, is it. Question asked, question answered.