I was always nearsighted, which required me to wear glasses so that I could see distant things clearly. But as I aged, I found I was having trouble reading things like books and newspapers. My eyes just couldn’t focus.
I went to see my ophthalmologist and he said I needed bifocals. That would enable me to see things both far away and close up.
But bifocals? Fuhgeddaboudit. Bifocals are for old people. So I went to see my pharmacist buddy, Doctor Marx, at the Highgate Pharmacy, and he fixed me up with a pair of “cheaters” for just twenty bucks.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: CEAyr.
“Cheaters,” by the way, is a colloquialism for reading glasses in my neck of the woods. Also, for what it’s worth, the tomb of Karl Marx is located at the Highgate Cemetery in London. But I chose to ignore that piece of evidence sticking to a page in the book for this piece.
“No, I won’t,” Howie said, folding his arms defiantly across his chest.
“Honey,” his mother said, “it’s just for tonight. Your aunt made the room ready especially for you.
“I won’t sleep in this room tonight,” Howie said, stomping his right foot on the floor.
His mother followed Howie’s gaze to the plant on top of the bookshelf. She reached up, grabbed the plant, and took it out of the room. When she returned she asked Howie again if he would sleep in the room.
“Thank you, Mommy,” Howie said, “for saving me from the giant spider. I love you.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Penny Gadd.
“I want to do a conga line dance,” Mildred said. Her four adult children were visiting Mildred at her nursing when Barbara, the oldest, asked her mother what she wanted to do.
“A conga line dance?” Barbara said. “Mother, don’t be silly. You’re in a wheelchair. How can you do a conga line dance?
Mildred got an annoyed look on her face. “You’re the one being silly, Barbara,” she said. “Your brothers, your sister, and you line up behind me and push me around the grounds in my chair while we dance to conga music. It’s not rocket science, dear.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Linda Kreger.
“Tacky,” Adele said as she looked around and offered her unsolicited opinion about the restaurant’s decor. “What is that monstrosity on the wall? A papier-mâché orca? Really, Gladys, why would you even suggest a place like this for our weekly lunch?”
“Oh Adele, don’t be such a snob,” Gladys said. “I think it’s kind of campy.”
“I sort of agree with Adele,” Arlene said. “The decor does seem kind of kitschy.”
“Campy? Kitschy? Seriously, you two are just being bitchy,” Gladys said. “This is a restaurant, not a gallery. We came here to eat, so shut up and let’s order.”
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Dale Roberson.
“The forecast is calling for rain this weekend,” Anna said. “Maybe we should put off the yard sale until next weekend.”
“Don’t be silly, Anna,” Dick said. “I’ve advertised it on Craigslist and I’ve put up posters all around the neighborhood. Besides, I rented one of those booth canopy tent-like things, so if it does rain, we can move everything under that to keep it all dry.”
“Okay, Dick,” Anna said.
No one, least of all Dick, was prepared for the severity of the thunderstorm that passed through that weekend. Dick’s booth canopy tent-like thing didn’t stand a chance.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Photo credit: Jan Wayne Fields.