Stopped clocks are right twice a day.
Life is carefree at birth and death.
Written for Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt, where we are challenged us to write a post using the word “carefree” in exactly 14 words. Photo credit: ApplePo3 at DeviantArt.com.
“Look up there,” Carl yelled, pointing to the second story window on the stone building.
“What is it?” Mike asked.
“It’s a hornets’ nest,” Carl answered. He bent down and scooped a handful of stones from the path and started throwing them up at the nest.
“What are you doing?” Mike asked. “The last thing you want to do is stir up a hornets’ nest.”
“I’m doing the people who live there a favor,” Carl insisted. He threw another stone at the nest, but it hit the window and broke it.
“Some favor,” Mike said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: J Hardy Carroll.
When Linda G. Hill gave us the word “bone” as the topic for this week’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt, I will admit that the first thing that came to mind was the slang term for what happens to a certain part of the male anatomy when in a state of sexual arousal. So I guess it’s true that even men of my advanced age can occasionally think like a 17-year-old hormonal boy.
But then I reconsidered and thought about the four broken bones I’ve had in my entire life. Fortunately, all were relatively minor fractures. And all happened when I was a lot younger.
I broke a toe delivering newspapers on my paper route when I was around 11. I was wearing sneakers and was running up cement steps when I guess I misjudged where my foot was and ended up kicking one of the steps really hard, breaking a bone in my big toe.
My next broken bone occurred during a little league baseball game. I was playing second base and was attempting to field a ground ball when it took a weird bounce. Because I’m right handed, my baseball glove was on my left hand, and when the ball took that unexpected bounce, it smashed into the pinky finger on my right hand, breaking the middle phalanx bone. My pinky finger on my right hand remains misshapen to this day.
Finally, when I was in my late-twenties, I took a nasty spill on a black diamond ski slope and cracked two ribs. If you’ve ever cracked a rib or two, then you know that, for about a month after having broken a rib, you don’t want to sneeze or laugh. And you also don’t want anyone to hug you. Breaking a rib has a very sad, lonely recovery period.
And so there you have my history of broken bones. Perhaps this post might have been more interesting had I gone ahead and written about what first came to mind when I saw the word “bone.”
“Oh, baby, what happened to your Barbies?” Jenn’s mother asked when she saw all of her daughter’s dolls broken apart.
“I hate them!” Jenn yelled in anger.
“But I thought you loved your Barbies.”
“Look at them, Ma,” Jenn said. “They’re beautiful, but I don’t look anything like them.”
Written for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales prompt. Photo credit: Skitterphotos at Pexels.com.
There are days lately when I feel like I’m broken.
Days when nothing seems right and everything seems wrong.
Days when the very idea of getting up and out of bed is abhorrent.
Days when my body aches and my mind has stopped functioning.
Days when my shell feels cracked and my insides feel rotten.
Days when I wish the nightmare would finally be over.
And then there are days like today.
Days when the sun is shining and there’s not a cloud in the sky.
Days when I can’t wait to rise and shine and meet the world head-on.
Days when I feel as if all of my dreams will come true.
Days when I’ll be seeing you, hugging you, touching you, loving you.
Days when you fix my broken body, my broken heart, my broken soul.
Days when you put me back together again.
Written for today’s one-word prompt, “broken.” Image credit: Marisa04 at Pixabay.com