#writephoto — The Prank

C6260736-3479-4561-8C35-C11E9DCFFA2B“I can’t believe that some clown broke into the museum on Halloween night and covered the armored knight in the medieval display with that spray cobweb crap,” the museum curator said.

“Well,” his assistant said, “The display opened with a lot of pomp and circumstances last week. Maybe some jaded kid decided to pull a teenage prank. But the thing is that nothing was stolen or destroyed. Look at it from the aspect of a relatively harmless prank.”

“Yeah, well that’s not exactly music to my ears, my friend,” the curator said. “Take out your diary and write a note to yourself to upgrade our after-hours video surveillance system,” he directed his assistant. “Teenage prank on Halloween or not, I don’t want people breaking into the museum at night.”


5EE3F6D7-D218-48FF-93CD-80D881A85DB0Written for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt. Also for these daily prompts: Daily Addictions (clown), Ragtag Daily Prompt (pomp), Word of the Day Challenge (jaded), Your Daily Word Prompt (aspect), The Daily Spur (music), and Fandango’s One-Word Challenge (diary).

#writephoto — Wildfires

A1264AC8-030A-4711-9549-D7C0FFF460EE Debra could feel the heat from the fire that was engulfing her house, the only home she’d ever known.

“Come on, sweetie, we have to go,” Debra’s father, Greg, called out to his daughter. “We need to evacuate now.”

Tears were flowing down her cheeks. “I don’t want to go, Daddy. Why is this happening to our house?”

Greg walked over and grabbed Debra’s hand and started to lead her away from the burning house. “It’s wildfire season, sweetheart,” he said. “The lack of rain all summer has made all of the grasses and underbrush very dry. And high winds blew down some trees, which fell across power lines. These power lines fell to the ground and sparked brush fires. Then those same high winds rapidly spread the flames of the fire.”

“Why do we live in a place that has wildfires, Daddy,” Debra asked.

“It’s close to my work, baby,” Greg said. “Besides, no matter where you live, there are weather-related risks, whether it’s blizzards, flooding, hurricanes, tornadoes, thunder and lightning.”

Greg was interrupted by a firefighter. “Sir, you need to get yourself and your daughter out of harm’s way before we lose control of the fires in this area.”

Debra looked up at her father as they ran to his car. “We’ve lost everything, haven’t we?”

“No Debra, sweetie,” Greg said. “We lost stuff, but it’s all replaceable. But we still, and always will, have each other.” The two of them hugged, got in the car, and Greg started the engine. “Now let’s get the hell out of here,” he said, “while we still can.”


Written for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt.

#writephoto — The Deer Hunter

Deer in the snowJethro learned over and whispered in his son’s ear, “Now.”

“No!” Billy said in a loud voice. The buck, which had been standing between the two trees, looked up when it heard Billy’s voice and then bolted out of sight.

Jethro smacked his son upside the head. “Look what you done, boy,” he said. “You had a perfect shot, goddam it. What’s the matter with you.”

“I’m wet and cold and tired and hungry,” Billy said, “and I don’t want to shoot no deer.”

“You don’t think I’m wet and cold, boy?” Jethro snapped. “I’m out here in this mess trying to teach you a valuable skill and you don’t want to shoot no deer? What are you, some kind of sissy?”

“I just don’t see why we need to shoot and kill a beautiful, defenseless animal, Dad,” Billy said. “It’s not like we need its hide to keep warm or its meat to eat.”

“You don’t know that, boy,” Jethro said. “Might come the day when you gotta fend for yourself and if you don’t learn these skills I’m trying to teach you, you’re gonna be shit outta luck.”

“I’d rather be shit outta luck than ruthlessly kill other living creatures,” Billy said.

Jethro smacked his son upside his head once again. “Dammit, boy, you need to learn how to survive. It’s a kill or be killed world out there and you need to learn how to protect and defend yourself and your family. You hear me boy?”

Billy looked at his father and said, “That deer wasn’t going to kill me. I didn’t need to protect myself or you by shooting it. Shooting and killing that innocent deer for sport is the very definition of cruelty and is what is wrong with the human race.”

Jethro looked up toward the sky. “Dear Lord,” he said, “what did I do to you for you to curse me with an animal lovin’, tree huggin’, sissy-boy liberal?” Then he looked at Billy and said, “Wait until your momma finds out what kind of boy her son has become.”

“Oh she knows, Dad,” Billy said. “She knows.”


Written for the Thursday Photo Prompt from Sue Vincent.

#writephoto — I Miss This

4E6FE625-ED1F-4609-9D28-2C75214C5B47I don’t miss the hot, muggy, oppressive summers, the frequent and sometimes severe thunderstorms, the mosquitoes and ticks. I don’t miss the dismal, gray, bone-chillingly cold, snowy, icy winters. I don’t miss paying the outrageous winter heating bills and summer air conditioning bills.

But, since moving from New England to San Francisco a decade ago, I do miss one thing. I do miss the colors of autumn.

The temperatures in San Francisco are generally temperate throughout the year. With relatively rare exceptions, the city is blessed with mild winters and cool summers. The only real weather changes are the rains in winter (it’s dry for months at a time in summer), and a slight warm-up in September and October.

Hence, few trees in the city in which I now live shed their leaves in the fall. And for those few trees that do, their leaves go from green to brown to the ground. No reds. No oranges. No yellows. Just green to brown to gone.

In order to see any colorful fall foliage around the Bay Area, you need to travel outside of the city. But even then, it just doesn’t match the symphony of colors you can experience in the northeast United States.

And I miss that.

But the good news is that there are no leaves to rake.


Written for Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt.

#writephoto — A New Dawn

D7D80597-4590-4CF5-B600-A6A36F50150FAfter what seemed like the darkest hour
The sun finally broke through the clouds
Where we used to hide and cower
We could finally shed our heavy shrouds

We thanked the powers that be
That our prayers were finally heard
And now we could very clearly see
That a true miracle had occurred

No doubt it won’t take that long
For the grass to grow and the trees to bud
And in his name we sang our song
Because we knew that we were once again loved


This very un-Fandango-like poem was written for this past week’s Thursday Photo Prompt from Sue Vincent and her inspirational photo.