With all of the angst going on in the news and social media as well as here in the blogosphere, I thought we should start off the day with a smile. So here you go.
“$2500! You spent $2500 on that?” Jeanette watched in horror as she watched her husband Terry insert the last of the 57 pink flamingos he’s purchased on Amazon into their front lawn. The driveway was littered with the debris of cardboard shipping boxes.
“Come on. We can afford it. You know how much dough we stashed away from the Corleone caper.”
“That’s not the point. But we’re supposed to keep a low profile, you moron. Why don’t you just get a couple of spotlights and set off some fireworks while you’re at it? Maybe you could send an email to Vito and Sonny telling them our address so they could come over and blow our brains out.”
Terry walked to where his wife was standing on the front porch and put his arm around her. “They look swell, don’t they?” The Cheshire Cat never had a grin as wide as his.
“You’re nuts. They’re tacky as hell.”
“Exactly. We embezzled millions from the mob working as their accountants and we’re on the lam from them and the Feds. What better cover to hide behind than the queen of all tacky lawn ornaments?
I wrote this for the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge for June 10, 2018. The idea is to use the image above as the inspiration for crafting a piece of flash fiction of no more than 200 words. My word count is 189.
Lacking an immediate story idea when I first saw the photo, I Googled “Pink Flamingo” only to come up with the tacky but classic 1972 film Pink Flamingos created by John Waters. Except for the idea of criminals hiding out, I found nothing I could use in that movie (and I’ve never seen it), so I moved on.
Then I found The Tacky History of the Pink Flamingo at Smithsonian.com and I had the rest of my “hook.”
These plastic monstrosities were created in 1957 in an effort to allow people to accessorize the “sameness” of their tract homes that reproduced like lemmings in the post-war era. You can read the full history for yourself, but apparently:
In their yard near Leominster, Nancy and Don Featherstone (the sculptor who was commissioned to create pink flamingos) typically tend a flock of 57 (a nod to the creation year) that neighborhood college students feel compelled to thin.
To read other stories based on the prompt, visit InLinkz.com.
The thieves took everything except the dog. Of course there was a good reason for it. The dog was armed.
“What the hell were you thinking? Our stuff. They took all our stuff. What kind of watchdog are you, anyway?”
The small, cigar smoking mutt in the body armor took another pull from his fifth of Jack Daniels. “Back off, man. I have the mother of all hangovers and I’m in a really bad mood.”
“A little hair of the dog, eh?”
“It’s too early in the morning for puns.”
“It’s dinnertime and I just got home from work to find my place has been cleaned out.”
“So what? You’ve got homeowner’s insurance, right?”
“I’m calling the cops. Ditch the clothes, the booze, and the miniature assault rifle, so I don’t have to explain you when they get here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be passed out in the doghouse by then.”
“If your parents find out about this, they’ll kill us.”
“They won’t find out. Besides, I’m not a little cub anymore. I’m a big bear.”
“I fell in love with you the second I saw you. Maybe even before that.”
“I know, Goldie. You’ve told me before. You ate my porridge, sat in my chair, even *ahem* even slept in my bed.”
“I was a little girl then, Babe.”
“And I was a little cub who didn’t know the ways of the world, but look at us now.”
“We still have to keep this our little secret. If Mum and Da ever saw us together, they’d freak.”
“I’ve seen your Da’s gun. He even tried to hunt Papa once, but fortunately he missed.”
“It’s not just my parents we have to worry about, there’s yours as well.”
Catherine and Vincent were in love, but cursed by the evil Bishop of Aquila to forever be apart. She had spurned his blasphemous advances, and though thought to be the faithful servant of the Holy Pope, he in fact was in league with dark and sinister forces.
He discovered her affair with Vincent, Captain of the King’s Guard, a relationship forbade her due to her royal blood, and so with His Majesty’s blessings, a powerful spell born in Hell forever changed the man Vincent was into a huge, ferocious beast.
“Oh, sure. You want it now. Can’t you wait until we get to the cabin? In case you haven’t noticed, its freezing.”
Come on, Baby. Don’t be like that. You’re just mad because I was hibernating with those other bears.”
“I noticed how you had your eye on the large female.”
Gilberto Curry wandered into Gleneagles Bar, probably one of the more famous landmarks on Gozo, and sat at the nearest vacant table. He’d become bored with nearby Malta the minute he entered the airport gift shop and saw endless replicas of the cinema’s “Maltese Falcon.”
Sipping on his second beer of the day, he was surprised when a very beautiful and very drunk young woman sat in the chair opposite him.
“I hate every single one of you men.”
“Then why are you sitting with me?” No doubt her husband cheated on her or her boyfriend just came out as gay.
“You’re always running off, even when captured, the gods make you let them go back to their wives…uh wife. He only had one.”
“Well, if he was married…”
“I had twins by him. Think he ever came to visit, pay child support? Oh no. Bleeping Zeus wouldn’t have it.”
“Zeus? Who was your intended?” Gilberto was still sober enough to be curious.
“Odysseus. Seven years together and he never came back.”
“Lady, you must be really drunk if you think…”
“Calypso. I’m Calypso. Want to see my island? Maybe you could stay a year or two.
I wrote this for the Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner – 2018: Week #12 challenge. The idea is to use the image above as the inspiration for creating a piece of flash fiction no more than 200 words long. My word count is 197.
I was able to make out the name Gleneagles Bar in the photo and found out it’s located on the island of Gozo which is the second largest island in the Malta archipelago (the first largest being Malta).
Gozo is associated with the island of Ogygia, home to the mythological nymph Calypso. She is said to have kidnapped the Greek hero Odysseus as recorded in Homer’s “Odyssey” and then held him against his will for seven years (some sources say five) because of her love of him. They eventually had sex and there are other legends stating she had either one or two children by him.
Eventually, Zeus made Calypso let Odysseus go so he could return to his wife, and the whole tale sounded worthy of the most schmaltzy country and western song. So I imaged an inconsolable Calypso still pining for her lost love (who she’s never seen or heard from ever since), drowning her sorrows in a bar on the 21st century version of her island while trying to pick up any man who will listen to her tale of woe.
To read other stories based on the prompt, go to InLinkz.com.
“We should call him Mr. Snowy McTinsel.”
“Grandpa, that’s a silly name for a snowman.”
“Okay, Daria. What would you name him?”
“How about Frosty?”
“That one’s been used.”
“A name can be used for more than one snowman.” The six-year-old stomped her foot down in resignation.
“If you say so, but we’d better get you back home now. Sun’s going down.”
“Can I have cookies?”
“Dinner first, then cookies.”
The pair walked away bidding the newly crafted snowman farewell, the old man crinkling the left over aluminum foil in his pocket. When they were gone, metallic eyes shimmered and glowed.
“We have arrived after our long slumber, Amon.”
“Indeed Gaap, and claimed the first possession for Legion.”
“Wait,” cried Zagan. “Something’s wrong. I can’t move the arms.”
“You’re right,” added Kasadya. And it doesn’t have feet or legs either.”
“By Lucifer, I should never have put you in charge of choosing the first victim, Gaap. Now we’re stuck inside of this…this object.”
“It’s been so long. I just forgot what humans looked like.”
“Terrific,” sulked Amon. “Now we’ll have to wait until the thaw before being free to roam the Earth again.”
“But Amon, this is Canada.”
I wrote this for the Sunday Photo Fiction – March 4th 2018 challenge. The idea is to use the image above as the inspiration for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 200 words long. My word count is 198.
I’ve written a lot of “snowman” and “Grandchildren” stories, but seeing that this snow-being used aluminum foil gave me the idea of glowing eyes. The rest just sort of wrote itself.
To read other stories based on the prompt, go to InLinkz.com.
“So, you think we should just walk right in?”
“Why not? The invitation seems pretty clear.”
“Look, I’m not all that sure about this ‘invitation’ business. After all, we’ve just got this one guy’s word for it.
“Yeah, but he worshiped the boss for like twenty-five years. He should know what he’s talking about.”
“Okay, I get that, but he’s gone over to the other side now, actually warning people about us and that invitation thing.”
On Tuesday, October 31st at 11:57 a.m., Batman, the Joker, and Harley Quinn entered Gordon’s Community Bank on the corner of Elm and Broadway. Bank employees had been seeing “the cosplay crowd” filtering in and out all morning long and it was pretty amusing. That is until the Joker handed the teller a note and produced a handgun.
Outside, Robin had disabled the silent alarm to the police while Catwoman waited in the getaway van.
Less than two hours later, Scooby-Doo, Shaggy, and Daphne pulled the same job at the Second National Bank on River Drive with Fred disabling the alarms and Velma driving the vehicle.
At a minute until three, Spider-Man, Daredevil, and She Hulk hit a Curio Shop on Franklin. It didn’t have a silent alarm so Hawkeye kept watch while Black Widow sat in the driver’s seat.
“What the hell did you take these stupid little heads for, Jen? Cash. Only cash, remember?” They were resting back at the hideout.
“Sue me, Matty. I like ’em, okay?”
“Okay, profitable haul. It’ll set us up for the year.”
“Right, Selena.” Pete was still counting his share. “Next year, the Halloween Bandits strike another city at random.”
I wrote this for the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of October 29th 2017. The idea is to use the image above as the prompt for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 200 words long. My word count is 200.
I had an idea for what I wanted to write even before seeing the prompt, so I had to work the image into my story. I’d read some Sunday comic strip earlier that made me think how easy it would be to walk into a bank on Halloween in disguise when any other day of the year, the staff would immediately call the police. I also thought it would be interesting to have this gang commit their crimes only on Halloween and in a different city picked at random each year.
Of course, they’d have to steal enough to support themselves for the coming year, but if they weren’t greedy, that would probably work. I very, very loosely based my “Halloween Bandits” on various television and animated cartoon versions of the Royal Flush Gang.
Oh, Jen is named after Jennifer Walters, the alter ego of the She Hulk. Matty is for Matt Murdock, Daredevil. Selena is named for Selena Kyle, Catwoman, and Pete is for Peter Parker, the secret identity of Spider-Man. The dialogue didn’t require all five gang members and besides, I hit the 200 word limit.
To read other stories based on the prompt, go to InLinkz.com.
Laura and Simon were an unusual pair of private detectives. They were divorced last year after ten years of marriage but neither could bear to sell the detective agency they co-owned, nor was one willing to concede sole ownership to the other. So they continued to see each other day after day, night after night at “Marcus and Marcus Detectives.” Laura even used her former last name professionally though in her personal life, she’d reverted back to Rodriguez.
Unlike television or cinematic private detectives, their cases were far less glamorous or dangerous. Mostly one spouse hiring them to see if the other spouse was having an affair.
“Usual drill, Simon. I pose as a hooker to see if ‘Mr. Sleezebag’ will give me a tumble. You stand by with the camera and I’ll record the dialogue.”
They were sitting in their car outside an office building near downtown. She was in the driver’s seat, which she preferred, and he was sitting next to her checking the camera.
“Got it, but for the record, his name is Chester Albright.”
“Or ‘all dumb’ for cheating on his poor wife.”