Tag: Postaday

Party Time

RDP: Filter

Word of the Day: Juicy

Daily Word Prompt: Pare

Photo Credit === Danny James

She had been planning this “little” get together with friends for the last month. I finally got her to pare her little list down to eight people including Iris. I always liked to invite Iris to one of our party’s because she always has an opinion on every subject. And what I really like about Iris is that she has no filter on her mouth. She’s not a shy one and you better be ready to cover your ears if you are easily offended. She will be the ideal person to try your new juicy pineapple desert.

Let the party begin.

Guten Morgen

This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers. 

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PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

German class started at 8 a.m. I hated it! The old building seemed an appropriate place to learn this old European guttural language. Even the architecture suggested a dark and troubled time.

It took two years of German classes to receive my degree.  It was that or take the equivalent number of hours in mathematics. My instructor for the entire two years was Herr Blumenthal. He stood an unimpressive five foot one, always smoked a pipe, and wore had the same tweed jacket for the entire two years.

My days started with the same words “Guten Morgen Herr James!”


	


	





	

		
		
The World That Was
	


	
	
	

		
This post is submitted to the FFfAW challenge.


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This week’s photo prompt is provided by Akshata Ram.


The sound of distant thunder could be heard on the deserted powdery playground.


Snow prints littered the scene.


In the early light of day everything was deadly silent. Deadly was indeed the proper word to describe what happened. Deadly because the technology of that world went spinning out of control and now nothing remains.


One could imagine the fun the children had running without a childly care of what tomorrow would bring. The parents sitting on park benches watching with parental pride the little ones who one day would rule the world.


But that was yesterday. That world does not exist.


Footprints are all that remain of that world.


After all, it was just an experiment.


The next one we create will be a better place to inhabit. Let’s rethink that evolution thing again.


134 words.


 


 


 

	


	





	

		
		
James Tower For Sale
	


	
	
	

		
This post is written for Friday Fictioneers. 


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PHOTO PROMPT © JS Brand


The great James Tower, located at 1 Lake Front Drive, in Homosassa Florida, is  a 4-story, mixed-use Skyscraper that just came on the market.  James  Tower served as the headquarters for the James Gang. Additionally, it housed the penthouse  condominium residence of the building’s namesake and developer, Rusty James, who was a real estate businessman and part time thief when the tower was developed. Several members of the James family also live, or have resided, in the building. The tower stands on a plot where the Crab Shack  was formerly located.


Make America Great Again: Buy James Tower!


 


 


 


 


 

	


	





	

		
		
What in The Hell Were We Thinking
	


	
	
	

		
This post is submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge.


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© Eric Wicklund


He did the math in his head. It was just over 60 years ago that he carrier her over the threshold in an overpriced semi-clean motel in San Mateo, California.


Then their respective careers took off resulting in them being transferred numerous times. After retiring they spent a good part of each year traveling abroad.  A dozen years ago they had travelled to China. She was past 70 then and still feisty and lovely in her own way.


Now her memory is failing. Her once beautiful dark hair is now nothing but white wisps. She can’t walk, and can’t stand up without help. Every little move can result in another fall and the possibility of more broken bones. She sleeps most of the day. Now she seems halfway gone mentally.


Modern medicine has kept her alive despite the fact she has expressed her desire to die. She is surrounded by teams of  doctors and nurses, medical students, respiratory therapists and countless other health care providers. She is too weak, and too meek to protest.


My fear is someday we will look back and say: “What in the hell were we thinking?”

	


	







	

		
		
George Smiley
	


	
	
	

		
This post is submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction.


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© John Robinson


“That’s the building. The one straight ahead. I worked there for many years before I retired. It held secrets that could destroy many careers.”


“The old MI5 building, Sir?” said the reporter.


“Yes, many a clandestine operation were headquartered there.”


“It’s a clinic now Sir. Easy access to the building now. I bet there was a lot of security in your time there, right Sir?”


“Actually, there was hardly any security when I worked there. It was just “Hello George” when I entered. When I returned from my trips it was always something like, “Welcome back, George.”


“No x-ray machines, Sir?”


“No, nothing of the sort really.”


“You keep busy in your retirement Sir? Do a lot of reading and that sort of thing.”


“Yes, reading for sure. I do find the time to even write a bit.”


“Here you are Sir. Have a good visit. If you decide to write a little bit you be sure and let me know. Ok mate?”

	


	





	

		
		
Irma
	


	
	
	

		
This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.


Note:


I live 85 miles northwest of Orland, Florida. Irma is taking dead aim at us. Being inland we do not have to worry about storm surge, but winds will be a major concern. We are taking all precautions.




In his mind, he could not picture what this area would look like if their predictions came through. It was so peaceful now.


“Wind gust up to 135 miles per hour, with sustained winds of 90 miles per hour. Residents are ordered to leave the area immediately. Not tomorrow, not in a couple of hours, but NOW”, the governor’s statement blasted from the television.


He had already made up his mind to stay. He was too old he told himself to just up and move. To where he asked himself? No family reached out with welcome arms offering refuge.


The only highway into the island was now shut off by the State Police. The passing police cruiser warned that if he stayed they would not be able to rescue him.


*****            *****     *****


“This is Troy Bridges, television 5 news reporting. One of the victims of recent hurricane Irma was found in front of his television today. Apparently, he made no attempt to leave the area. Efforts are underway to contact family members.”


 

	


	





	

		
		
The Walking Stick
	


	
	
	

		
This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.


He had attended the hiking course just last week. It was part of his plan to get more active this year. The instructor had supplied maps of some nearby trails. Along with the maps he was told he should buy a compass, a walking stick, and a small light backpack.159-06-june-5th-2016


He had dressed warmly for his early morning walk. It was still quite cold when he began his walk at around 8 a.m. The rolling hills around this part of the state were still wet from some overnight rain showers.


He slipped his new backpack on which contained a small tube of insect repellant, some lip balm, and breakfast bars. He slipped the leather band on his brand new walking stick around his wrist.


He found the first trail making, which was a blue painted arrow on a tree after about a half mile.


For the next forty-five minutes the ground covering became very thick and even using his new walking stick he still stumble a few times. Twenty minutes later in deep brush and not ever finding another trail marking he admitted to himself he was in deep trouble.


Turing around he pushed his walking stick in the ground and he felt it hit something that felt unusual. Looking down he saw that his walking stick had gone right through the right eye socket of a half buried skull.


 

	


	





	

		
		
Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Open Topic
	


	
	
	

		
In response to Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Open Topic.


We writers, as we work our way deeper into our craft, learn to drop more and more personal clues. Like burglars who secretly wish to be caught, we leave our fingerprints on broken locks, our voiceprints in bugged rooms, our footprints in the wet concrete.


Ross MacDonald


Photo taken in Frankfort Michigan on a trip to my high school reunion.


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Photo Credit === Danny James