“Hi, it’s me.”
“I figured, Caller ID, remember?”
“Don’t be such a stick, Cheryl. New restaurant to try.”
“What kind of food?”
“For crying out loud, remember that diner you dragged me to in Cicero, and then you didn’t like the chili on the dog?”
“Well, Betty says this place is really good.”
“When was Betty in town? Where is this place?”
“She was here for the bug exhibit at the Field Museum. It’s out front. I thought we could go and get a dog and see the exhibit .”
“I’ll go for the dogs, Ethel, but no bugs.”
Here is the Hot Dog Stand Ethel wants to try. The Field Museum is in the distance. Currently they are showing Fantastic Bug Encounters! If you are in Chicago, stop by for a dog and see the bugs.
I enjoyed the photo prompt Rochelle Wisoff-Fields chose this week. Lots to see in Roger Bultot’s photo, and I found a story. Funny thing… part of my inspiration for this story was one I wrote a couple of years ago. Guess who took the photo for that prompt??? A Jukebox at Every Table
Here is where to read other stories for Roger’s photo… Friday Fictioneers
Thirty-three steps, that’s the distance from life to death.
Thirty-three steps, how far from the holding cell to the table.
Thirty-three steps, last she would take, as the chemical cocktail achieved her grimace.
Want to take part in the WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT? Write a story or poem with just 33 words, no more no less, and send it to Sammi Cox.
She does so enthral him, when the Captain sees her.
“Lock her below. Put her in chains. Enthral her.”
“Aye, Cap. Right away, Cap.”
Later, under sail. The Captain makes his way below deck. Pushing open the door, a candlelit damsel.
“What dost thou want of me Sir?”
“Only to look dear, just look.”
Thanks to Ula Grace for her assistance in this story. Want to take part in the WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT? Write a story or poem with just 54 words, no more no less, and send it to Sammi Cox.
Their address is 36 Carefree Lane. I wonder if they are really care free.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That’s what popped into mind when I saw the prompt.
Want to take part in the WEEKEND WRITING PROMPT? Write a story or poem with just 61 words, no more no less, and send it to Sammi Cox.
Little Sally left her pail in the grass.
Mr. Robert didn’t want to hit it with his mower so he hung it on a nearby shed.
Coming back with her shovel, Little Sally couldn’t reach it.
She went and found Bobby.
Bobby got down on all fours and Little Sally stood on his back.
She still couldn’t reach the pail.
So she jumped up… still not high enough.
When she came down Bobby collapsed.
Undeterred, Little Sally got the milking stool and made Bobby get back down on all fours.
Noontime, Mother clangs the dinner gong.
Little Sally sprints for the house leaving her pail in the grass.
✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️ ✏️
It’s always fun to find a new writing group. My pal Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is good at finding them. Rochelle, who you may know from reading my stories, is in charge of Friday Fictioneers and herds over 100 writers each week.
Please check out Writers Unite. I enjoyed seeing their prompt photo and a story immediately popped into my head, so this is definitely a flash fiction.
I never did know why he wanted to be on Survivor. He said it was to ‘find himself’. I always thought that was bullshit, myself. I’d go for the adventure, to search for idols, see the chicks in their bikinis. Actually underwear, that’s what they make them wear. I would’ve been self-conscious doing that, just my luck they would choose something dorky for me to wear. Remember Phillip’s pink briefs? The weather wouldn’t bother me, just the rice. Jeff snuffed his torch first.
I wonder if he ever found himself, and where the hell is he, he never came home?
§ § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § § §
Survivor is my favorite television show. Susan Eames told me she used to live in Fiji and took this photo there. That’s where Survivor is filmed, how about that?
To read the other stories by FF Writers prompted by the guy in the tree, here’s the frog link. And what the hell! It’s barely noon on Wednesday and 39 writers have already posted stories. It’s FRIDAY Fictioneers, people!
A telephone rings on Chicago’s Northside…
“Hi, Cheryl, you used to teach swimming, I’ve a question.”
“I’m all ears, Ethel. Why do you ask?”
“You know how Betty got me started being a fiction writer, my blog? Whadda call the animal strokes?”
“Oh yes, your blog. I haven’t seen much writing there lately, thought you gave that up.”
“Writer’s block. Betty sent me the latest photo prompt by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, there’s a picture of this woman swimming also. Story!”
“Not that one.”
“No, isn’t there a frog one?”
“The breast stroke is also called the frog kick, Ethel.”
“Great! Perfect title too.”
☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎ ☺︎
Betty tells me that Ethel is busy writing her first Friday Fictioneers story, but she’s having trouble sticking to the 100 word limit. If you want to write a story, everything you need to know is in the photo below, I think that may have been the one Ethel saw. The official prompt photo is at the top of this page, please use that one for your story.
I rarely reblog stories… I love this one and wanted to share it with my friends who like good stories.
So, a hammer walks into The Nutz & Boltz Tavern after a tough day on the job site.
The bartender leans over the bar. “What’ll it be, Hambo?”
“Gimme a Rusty Nail, Mack,” he replied. “And keep ’em comin’!”
“Rough day, huh? You look beat.” Mack observed as he built Ham’s drink.
Ham tried to shrug his steel shoulders. “Naaah. I’ll be alright after I pound a few of these down.”
Mack nodded. “That’s what you do best, buddy!”
The bartender’s sharp wit was never wasted on Hambo, and the two shared a hardy laugh.
Pretty soon, a nail saunters in to the same tavern. Seeing Hambo in her regular barstool, she opts for a seat at the other end of the bar. The little nail didn’t want any trouble.
“Be right back, Hambo.”
Mack swaggered toward his new patron. “Well, hello, Naylene…”
“Uh, h-h-hi, Mack.” Naylene stammered. His penetrating gaze and sleek, cunning…
View original post 193 more words
“Hi, Cheryl, instead of mass this week I want to go to a Jewish church, because of what happened in California.”
“I think they are called synagogues, Ethel, or temples.”
“No, temples are the Mormons, you like their singing.”
“Love the choir, Ethel, but I’m pretty sure the Jews go to temple too.”
“I guess I can look in the phone book for a Jewish church.”
“Oh for God’s sake. They are called Synagogues or Temples!!! Google it.”
“I’m going to ask Rochelle, she’s super Jewish and writes books.”
“I think it would be nice to go, let me know.”
✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎ ✡︎
When I first saw the FridayFictioneers prompt photo by Roger Bultot I thought of having the girls go to church, then I saw the Star in the window. You may know Ethel’s friend Rochelle, she’s written some books.
“Hi, Cheryl. Guess what, I’ve changed my lucky number.”
“No more 36? Ethel, why do you call so early?”
“I waited till nine.”
“On Sunday that’s early. What’s the new number?”
“Oh, Michael Jordan.”
‘No, silly, you know I don’t like basketball.”
“The Lord is my Shepherd? And, don’t tell me you aren’t religious anymore.”
“I’m still Catholic and that’s my favorite verse, but not it.”
“Well, I’m done guessing, so tell me or get off the phone.”
“You know my interest in Cytogenetics, 23 is the number of chromosomes in a human sex cell.”
“I’m making coffee now.”
♂︎ ♀︎ ♂︎ ♀︎ ♂︎ ♀︎ ♂︎ ♀︎ ♂︎ ♀︎ ♂︎ ♀︎ ♂︎ ♀︎