My father is a musician. He plays the violin. My mother is a musician. She plays the cello. My sister is a musician. She plays the clarinet.
My parents bought a piano for me because they wanted me to be a musician. But I just didn’t have the knack. The family’s musical gene wasn’t passed on to me.
In a fit of pique, my father moved the piano outside onto the sidewalk in front of the family music store, where it sat unused and rotting away.
Then I discovered my passion, my green thumb. I can make plants grow anywhere.
Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Anshu Bhojnagarwala.
“Here’s a picture of the scooter that was stolen from right in front of my flat, Officer,” Dwayne said.
“Is the black cat also missing?” Officer Bremen asked.
“No,” Dwayne said. “The cat is fine. He’s inside.”
“He’s a cutie,” the officer said. “My wife and I had a black cat, too. She looked just like yours. She was almost twenty when she died last year. We miss her. What’s his name?”
“It’s Rudy,” Dwayne said. “But I called….”
“Rudy?” The officer said, laughing. “Like In Rudy Giuliani?”
“Excuse me, Officer, but can we talk about my stolen motor scooter?”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: C.E. Ayr.
Joe’s Red Mountain Market & Deli attracted a lot of long haul truckers back in the day. The store was about an hour and a half west of Albuquerque, right off Interstate 40.
These days, though, Joe felt lucky if half a dozen customers showed up on any day. A Love’s Travel recently opened on I-40 about 10 miles east, as did a Flying J Travel about 10 miles west, taking away most of his business.
Joe had little choice but to close the place. He locked the store’s door for the last time and walked away. Looking back, he sighed and thought, “progress?”
Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jean L. Hays. *Sorry, went over the word limit by four words.
“They’re beautiful,” the girl said about glass roses arranged in a crystal vase.
“Thanks,” he said. “I grew them myself.”
“But these aren’t real roses, they’re glass,” she said.
“They were real once,” he explained. “I developed a process that enables me to transform living things, like these roses, into glass in order to preserve their beauty forever.”
“Do you have other things you’ve turned to glass?” she asked.
“Oh yes.” Opening up a cabinet, he showed her a glass spider, bee, and snake. Then he went to the closet. “And here’s my daughter,” he said. “She was about your age.”
Written for the Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo is Rochelle’s.
“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.