I rubbed my eyes hard, but she was still sitting there, staring off into the distance, seemingly unaware of my presence.
I slowly and silently moved closer and saw what looked like feathers on her shoulders and back. Surely she wasn’t a winged creature. The feathered wings must have been part of a costume that she was wearing.
I positioned myself standing directly in front of her, but she appeared not to see me. “Excuse me,” I said. “Are you okay?”
At first she was unresponsive, but then she finally looked up at me, as if emerging from a deep trance. She stood up to face me, a look of curiosity on her face, but she said nothing.
“Do you speak English?” I asked. She nodded affirmatively. “Why are you wearing those feathers on your back? Are you Native American or something?”
She put her forefinger in front of her lips and, without saying a word, slowly began to float just above the ground. Spreading her wings wide, she began flapping them, lifting her further into the air, and then, like a bird, she took flight and disappeared over the trees.
Was she real or was she just a daydream?
Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt from Donna McNicol. Photo credit: Pixabay. Also for Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (daydream).
George stepped inside the makeshift tent and took a seat opposite the old woman. In a heavy Eastern European accent, she said, “I see you have some secrets that you have been zealously guarding. But don’t worry, I won’t divulge them to anyone.”
“Good, because if you did, I’d have to kill you,” George said, a broad smile on his face. The woman was not amused.
“I have a proposal for you,” she said. “Stop trying to be funny and I’ll continue telling you what’s in store for you. I see a date on a calendar. There’s going to be a big event coming up next week.”
“Yes, that’s when my girl and I are getting married,” George said excitedly. “Tell me, are we going to have a long and happy marriage?”
Just as he asked the question, the skies darkened, the winds picked up, and it started to sleet. The curtains of the structure they were sitting in started flapping wildly in the wind and both George and the woman stood up and began to run out of the tent, looking for shelter from the storm.
But once outside of the tent, a powerful gust of wind lifted up the heavy, wooden chalkboard that advertised “Readings,” and it came crashing down hard upon George’s head, killing him instantly.
The woman looked down on George’s body and said, “The event I saw on your calendar wasn’t your wedding, George. It was your funeral.”
Written for Donna McNicol’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: Wendy Van Hove. Also for these daily prompts: Your Daily Word Prompt (zealous), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (divulge), The Daily Spur (kill), Word of the Day Challenge (proposal), Ragtag Daily Prompt (calendar), and Daily Addictions (sleet).
“I told you we needed more red wine,”Hennie squawked, “but no, you said one bottle was enough.”
“I didn’t expect you to finish off the whole bottle practically all by yourself,” Felix said.
“You never listen to me, Felix,” Hennie said. “You either ignore me or you do the opposite of what I want. I should have known that the two of us were incompatible.”
“Stop getting your feathers in a fluff, Hennie,” Felix said. “I’m tired of you strutting around here like queen of the yard with your constant henpecking.”
“Oh meow,” Hennie mocked. “And I’m tired of your wandering around the neighborhood at all hours, hanging out with your ne’er do well ally cat friends doing who knows what.”
“Do you want to know why I get out of this yard every night?” Felix asked. “Well, it’s because I’m sick of your cluck-clucking day in and day out.”
“Okay,” Hennie said. “I’ll try to stop ruffling my feathers at every little thing that you do. And you’re right, I have had too much wine.”
“Thank you, Hennie,” he said. “I will curtail my nighttime wandering and spend more time with you, my little chickadee.”
“I love you, Felix.”
“I love you more, Hennie,” Felix purred.
Written for Donna McNicol’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Photo credit: DeAnna Gossman.
“Jeez, what happened to your shirt, dude?” Eddie asked.
“It was freaky, man,” Steve said. “I was jogging along Telegraph Road when I saw this really weird sign warning about owls in the road. I thought it was so odd that I took a picture of it.” Steve whipped out his iPhone and showed the picture to Eddie.
“Yeah, that is strange,” Eddie said, “but it doesn’t answer my question about how you ripped your shirt.”
“So after I took the picture, I started jogging again when I heard a screeching sound above me and an owl swooped down and started chasing me,” Steve said. “I fell down, the owl landed on me, and it started tearing at my shirt with its talons. I tell you, Eddie, I feared for my life. I’m going to steer clear of jogging on Telegraph Road from now on.”
“Dude, I think you were having a bad trip,” Eddie said. “What kind of acid did you drop?”
Steve held up his right hand. “Nothing man, I swear!” he said.
Eddie just shook his head. “Listen, dude,” he said, “if you don’t want to tell me about how you really tore your shirt, that’s your business, but to go with some random tale about being attacked by a freakin’ owl? Seriously, Steve, you need to elevate your storytelling game.”
Written for Donna McNicol’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt and for these daily prompts: The Daily Spur (shirt), Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (trip), Daily Addictions (steer), Word of the Day Challenge (random), and Your Daily Word Prompt (elevate). Photo credit: Morguefile.