This post is in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge.
“Listen Kid, let’s get this straight right from the git-go. I work for your parents, ok? Remember when your mother discovered that ounce of marijuana in your room. And yet you denied it was yours? Come on Sunny Boy, that just proves you were stupid even before you smoked that big doobie. Even your old man called you a dope fiend. Even looking at your eyes now it appears rehab didn’t do the job either. So before your mom and dad take any drastic measures they thought they would try something that might engage your sense of humor. So they hired me to perch on this stupid sign. Do you get it now kid? Keep off the grass! Hope you get the message because I find it hard to sit on top of a Coke can.”
Alastair’s Photo Fiction
“Come on guys, it’s time to go. He had a good life until he hit that window” said Vinnie.
“We were the best of pals, weren’t we”, said Joey.
“Hey, I wrote an Eulogy for him” chimed Bobby. “It goes like this:”
“When newborn on his fledgling wings,
A pigeon dreamt of lofty things,
But elders warned of what’s in store,
“You’re just a pigeon. Nothing more.”
“Perhaps,” he thought, “I’ll be a swallow,
So swiftly flying none could follow,
Or maybe with great eagles soar!”
He was a pigeon. Nothing more.
“Or a poet! Scholar! Mathematician!
Saint, philosopher, great magician!
Like ravens, I’ll quote, ‘Nevermore!'”
Alas, a pigeon. Nothing more.
He dreamed of being other birds,
But in the end ’twas naught but words.
‘Twas just a pigeon–nothing more–
Who’d never heard of glass before”.
“I have something to inscribe on his tombstone” said Vinny.
“Accept the fact that some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue”.