In 2016, when Sean and I made our Halloween wager, and he bet that Trump would win, I thought there was no way I could lose. But lose I did. I ended up having to dress up like a mad scientist and spend Halloween night in a cage.
Last year I bet him that the Patriots would win the Super Bowl again, but the Eagles won and now I have to wear a Mitch McConnell costume to this year’s Halloween party.
This Halloween I am betting the Dems will take back Congress at the midterms. It’s gonna be a sure thing.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Liz Young.
Mitchell sat at the head of the long table in the boardroom. He was angry. “People,” he said, “the competition is whipping our asses. Sales for the past two quarters are way down, while Acme Widgets is having a banner year. Our stock price is in the toilet even though the market is up.”
Mitchell looked around the room and said, “I need you all here first thing in the morning with ideas for how we can get a leg up on our competitors.”
The next morning Jason walked into Mitchell’s office and placed a prosthetic leg on Mitchell’s deck.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Helen managed to hold herself together well during the funeral and the gathering at her home afterwards. But that was yesterday. Now it was time to head to her father’s apartment to begin the task of taking inventory of his possessions and to start throwing out those things that were of no value.
It wasn’t until she walked into the small room where he had kept all of his instruments and music that the full weight of her loss hit her.
“Dammit, Daddy,” she said aloud even though she was alone. “Why didn’t I inherit any of your musical talents?”
Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers prompt. (Yes, I know it’s Saturday and I’m a day late. So what?) Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
“I call it Dan,” my father said.
“Why do you call your pet quail Dan?” I asked.
“Dan Quayle,” he said. “Get it?”
“No,” I answered. “Who’s Dan Quayle?”
“He was George Bush’s Vice President,” he answered.
“I thought that was Dick Cheney,” I said.
“No,” he said. “The first Bush’s Vice President. Remember when he screwed up the spelling of ‘potato’ as a judge at a spelling bee?”
“No,” I said.
“What about when he got in trouble for being critical of Murphy Brown as a single, working mother on TV?”
“Who’s Murphy Brown?” I asked.
“Forget it,” he said.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jean L. Hays.
It just may have been the most beautiful building she’d ever seen. Standing on the mezzanine level looking down at the Great Hall, Annie was brought to tears.
She never could have imagined being in New York City at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, but here she was. Her friends back home in the small, upstate town laughed at her when she said she wanted to study art history. Even her father questioned her about the kind of future she would have.
But here she was, with a full scholarship in art history from Columbia, standing in the Met.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Roger Bultot.