This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
Joey Johnson was a carefree lad, just 20 years of age with the world at his feet, Joey was training to be a police officer. 6′ tall, with a shock of thick curly brown hair, cut short to comply with police recommendations, he had sharp blue eyes that didn’t miss much. He enjoyed his training and his future prospects looked good until one fateful, unforgettable night that altered his life irrevocably. Joey was on the way home late, after a busy night, suddenly a man loomed up out of the shadows and shouted, ‘This is for your ******* interference.’ Joey vaguely saw a large man wearing a mask with a hoodie pulled up over his head. The man quickly tipped a bottle of liquid that splashed over his head and face, temporarily blinding him. There was a fierce burning sensation that quickly got worse, his face felt as if it was on fire.
The acid attack was horrific, Joey screamed, penetratingly loud, as pain raced through his head. Skin was burnt to shreds from the structure of his face, Joey’s crowning glory, his hair, was burnt off in seconds. He passed out and was raced to the burns unit at the local general hospital. By a miracle his sight was saved, although his tear ducts had dried up and he would never cry again. One year later after many operations by plastic surgeons some semblance of normality returned. Joey refused to be seen in public and became a recluse. He left our town and disappeared, it was rumoured he had joined some gypsies and was travelling the countryside by caravan. One day Lisa, our daughter, came home from school very excited, “Daddy the circus has come to town!” Saturday night we had the best seats in the big top and Lisa was laughing merrily at the antics of Joey the clown. He came to speak to her and Lisa asked “Why did you become a clown Joey?”
His painted smile never altered, the smile that was the gateway and the keeper of the impossible tears of a clown.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
The sharp taste of citrus can be something to savour.
Add a chilli or two to a steaming pot,
Then the taste buds shout loud,
HOT!~HOT!~HOT!
In American English, “chili” is the most common spelling for the spicy peppers as well as the stew and hotdog topping. In British English the preferred spelling is “chilli.” In Spanish speaking countries and regions of the US, “chile” is the most common variant.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
The press conference was well attended, with representatives from several of the national newspapers and a few reporters from regional papers.
There was a presentation of sketches and photographs on display of a substantial rocky landmass located in a sunlit sapphire sea. There was a large indentation in the centre that was a natural lake with a channel leading to a bay that formed a natural harbour.
‘First things first Ladies and Gentlemen of the press. My name is Captain Prisco, I own that super-yacht moored in the harbour. We have just returned from the Indian Ocean, where my island is located.’
Mike Molloy, an ebullient Irish reporter employed by the Daily Torment, a national tabloid newspaper. ‘You are referring to this discovery as your island Captain? How can you lay claim to an island for yourself. Surely you should be claiming it for the nation?’
‘My friend I have discovered this paradisiacal island, exactly 101 miles off the coast of Tango, located in the South Pacific Ocean. Even now as we speak, several members of my crew are in residence guarding my property. I have laid claim to this new land and I propose to sell shares to anyone interested in the future development of my island.’
There was a sudden loud general hubbub as questions were fired at Captain Prisco, a short, stocky man with a shock of sandy coloured hair.
A large familiar-looking man raised his hand and shouted.
‘Peter Swinburne, from the Daily Scare. Supposing you are overruled by the government of Tango and the island is confiscated. How do your investors know they will be able to get their money back?’
‘Mr Swinburne, my word is my bond and I guarantee to refund all monies that will have been invested in my property. I have the financial backing of a leading worldwide firm in the futures investment industry. This will be a first class investment with the minimum of risk. I have been assured by a member of the Tangoan government that this new island is just outside their territorial boundaries and is open for development. I have agreed to allow the Tangoan government a full half share of any future profits.’
Another voice shouted a question, this time it was a lady reporter. ‘Geraldine South, from the Seaview Independent local paper. I would like to know how much of these future profits will be invested locally in these Isles.’
Captain Prisco smiled and replied. ‘There is no question that this government will receive substantial funds in exchange for protection from marauding pirates and gangsters. I have been assured this is possible and a feasibility study is underway as we speak. Of course the bulk of our trade will be with tourists and businesses from here. Holidaymakers will flock there, the ultra-wealthy will build their homes there.’
A tall distinguished looking man then stepped up and said,
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I have to bring this press conference to a close now. I am a lawyer representing Captain Prisco, I would appreciate it, if all further questions could be directed to my office. I propose to leave a pile of my address cards at the back of this hall.
The next few weeks were exciting as far as Captain Prisco was concerned. Money was flooding in from interested investors as speculators queued to get a piece of the action. The funds were quickly channeled into building projects and advertising.
The news came through as Captain Prisco had a meeting scheduled with the press to announce a public naming ceremony of his new island. The island was to be named Jacopo island after his son and would be officially recognised by all concerned.
Reports came in of the power and devastation caused by a fierce hurricane in the South Pacific Ocean. Weather forecasters had named this powerful storm, Hurricane Esmeralda, a name that would forever be indelibly imprinted on the mind of Captain Prisco
Within days the Captain and his crew were travelling at full speed towards the Tango islands in the South Pacific following a spate of reports of the devastation and the loss of life caused by the hurricane, there was a lack of news after a while due to the power lines that had been severely damaged by the storm.
Several days later they reached the island’s coordinates. When they reached the location of Jacopo Island, to the horror and surprise of the Captain there wasn’t any sign of his island.
Captain Prisco screamed to his first mate, ‘Barnacle, where’s the island?’
‘I dunno Captain, it should be right in front of us.’
‘Have you got the right coordinates man?’
‘Yessir! Positively Sir.’
It took a few seconds for the dreadful realisation that Jacopo Island was gone and would never be seen again. Washed away and destroyed by Hurricane Esmeralda, the island was now at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
The Captain took this discovery surprisingly philosophically.
‘Well life’s a gamble, they say things come and go, Nature provides and Nature takes away. C’mon Barnacle, let’s head for Tango, I need to cash in my chips.’
(This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.)
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
A new alcoholic drink was tested by a group of consumers with extremely vivid imaginations. They were asked to savour the delights of Space Juice and report on the taste and the effect.
The following are the reflections of one man who was to become an accomplished author.
‘We came upon a fast flowing river with water that powered a water mill. Forceful water that dashed and tumbled over moss covered purple rocks. We followed the odours of fresh baked bread mingling with the delicious smell of deep fried fish with a version of cheese and rough red wine. A structure made of a synthetic substance housed the strangers. There was a notice pinned to the door in what appeared as hieroglyphics, the nearest recognisable translation would be ‘Space Juice’
This discovery was made in a dense unexplored rainforest. We knew we had found the survivors of a spacecraft that had crash landed.
The mission had been going to plan. After a smooth takeoff there had been a collision on the way through the asteroid belt. A tiny rock had pierced the fuel tank and a portion of the fuel had drained away, the ship crash landed in the jungle having run out of space juice and the surviving members of the crew were to spend 10 years in the jungle.
Space Juice is a stimulant that will take you on a journey out of this Covid diseased, lockdown world.’
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
The airplane design was inspired and modelled on birds
Airplanes have wings, just like birds. They also have a light skeleton (or framework) to decrease their weight, and they have a streamlined shape to decrease drag. The big difference is that airplanes do not flap their wings.
The airframe of birds is composed of a body, a skeleton and a variety of multi coloured feathers
Hawks cannibalize smaller birds
Humanity eats their flesh and eggs and uses their feathers for decoration.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
The man walked into a village in India. The people were hungry and destitute, living from day-to-day, hand-to-mouth. The villagers attempted to grow a few vegetables to put food in the mouths of their children. The monsoon was late this year, everyone was desperate for a drink and the crops were drying.
He was so shocked at the contrast between his comfortable lifestyle and this blatant poverty he couldn’t sleep at night. His thoughts swirled around the sheer magnitude of the unfairness of life.
Finally he resorted to asking for the opinions of a philosopher on the moral aspects of these shocking circumstances.
This was the reply…..
‘They know nothing of your lifestyle, they grew up to endure their circumstances. They’re absolutely in total ignorance of anything different. For your own and their sanity you must allow them to live.’
‘You mean, I should ignore their ignorance of a better life and do nothing?’
The man became a famous writer, drawing attention to this sad unfairness and many other anomalies in life.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
James Sherwood was a retired self-made entrepreneur. A giant of man, 6′ 6″ in height with a broad pair of shoulders, he wasn’t a man who suffered fools gladly, he looked rather striking with his long dark hair and shrewd blue eyes. Happily married to the beautiful Eva for 19 extremely happy years, they were a well respected couple, who fitted in well with the inhabitants of the local village. Eva was resigned to the fact that James was an inveterate gambler, particularly now he’d retired, he was subject to periods of extreme boredom.
Once a month James would fly to Scotland, in his private single engine plane to take part in a game of cards with his high-rolling cronies.
He knew this would be an unusual night, he just couldn’t go wrong. Hand after hand went his way and he’d cleaned out all of his friends except Donald who kept on playing long after the others had dropped out. Donald was a stubborn fellow who was also an entrepreneur and he hated to lose.
The tension was electric when it came to what was to be the final hand of the session. Donald was cleaned out halfway through the hand, but he refused to give in.
James grinned and said. ‘That’s it Donald; you’ve lost this one, l’m on a roll today.’
‘Wait, James, I’m not finished yet!’
‘What do you mean? You haven’t any money left!’
Donald ran his hand through his thick blonde hair and replied,
‘OK buddy, I’m not done yet! I bet you all the money on the table against my C130 Hercules aeroplane parked on the airport runway.’
There was a sudden silence in the room as the implications of this became clear. James nodded and heaped the cash in a pile in the centre of the table, Donald threw the keys to the Hercules on top. The atmosphere was tense as the last hand was played out.
There was a gasp as the last card was played and James took the hand.
Donald went white and accepted the outcome, although he hated to lose, he gritted his teeth and said, ‘James, buddy, you’ll have to give me a lift home.’
Much later James arrived home and shouted to Eva.
‘Sorry I’m late! I’ve brought you a Hercules home.’
Without looking at James, she replied.
‘Yes! I saw you arrive but I don’t like the propellers.’
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
Captain Peter Rochester was a tall man with medium length hair that looked as if it retained its youthful looks with the aid of a proprietary hair dye. Retirement had come as an unwelcome shock since he’d retired from the Air Force. Still a relatively young man he received a good pension. Rosa, his wife was a retired fashion model. Still as glamorous as ever, in a mature way, Rosa still worked infrequently on a self employed basis. They were comfortably off and the future looked secure. Then the advert below appeared in his trade paper and his fertile brain came up with some ideas to alleviate the interminable boredom he was currently experiencing.
Twin Engine Turbine for Sale
‘Select from the twin engine turbine aircraft for sale manufacturers below to view aircraft designations by model. These twin engine turbine aircraft for sale are available immediately.’
‘Rosa, this looks interesting, we can set up in business as couriers and make some money if we look into this.’
Rosa smiled and nodded, ‘OK Pete!’ she replied, ‘I suspect you’ll need me to do the paperwork.’
Several days later, after the financial matters had been settled, Captain Peter arranged to rent a hangar to house the aircraft at a tiny local airfield.
Captain Peter was in his element as he flew above the countryside enjoying the view of the fields and villages spread out below. Suddenly with an almighty bang, an object collided with his left hand engine and a fire broke out.
He radioed the local Air Traffic Control, and gave them his position. ‘I’ve been hit by what looks like a rogue drone! I’m going to crash-land in the fields below. My left engine is hit and I’m flying using my twin right engine.’
Suddenly his engine failed altogether and the aircraft crash landed.
There was a deathly silence over the burning aircraft as Captain Peter Rochester breathed his last breath.
This is a response to a Flash Fiction prompt from ‘Putting My Feet In the Dirt’, Writing Prompts hosted by ‘M’. Which can be found by following the link below..
It was a damp Autumn day on the moors. Billy and I lived next door to each other in a row of workers’ cottages on a fifty acre farm. Billy was a shortish lad, about 4’ 10” tall with a shock of brown hair and brown eyes to match. He had a stocky muscular build that he used to good effect when he indulged in his favourite sport of boxing. In contrast, I was a comparatively lanky lad at 5’5”. I was always described as a bookworm, avidly reading every word that came my way, even on the sides of sweet wrappers and popcorn bags.
There was a dense mist on the moors on this particular day, the smell of damp grass was swirling around and visibility was limited to about three feet in all directions. We wandered through a small wooded copse in the bottom of a shallow valley where we came upon four unusual sheep, huddled together for warmth.
Billy said, ’Look Walt! Those are funny looking sheep, they’re bright yellow with frothy woolly coats. I wonder where they’ve come from?’
I nodded and made to get closer to them but they ambled away into the trees as I approached. ‘I’ve never seen any sheep like this before Billy; we’ll have to tell the farmer.’
‘You’re right there Walt! Let’s continue on our way and follow our noses. These trees are a rookery, that’s why there is so much noise from the roosting birds. I have never heard of rooks daring to interfere with sheep and these four look quite healthy.’
We continued to ramble across the moors and unusually we took a trail that led to some rocky stone walls that were boundary markers. To our surprise, we met an elderly man, wearing an old fashioned overcoat tied around the middle with a piece of string. He carried a long stick with a crooked handle and he was wearing a floppy hat. He was seated on a wall and he appeared to be consulting a map which was in danger of taking off with the wind.
‘Hallo lads!’ he said, ‘I’m Gabriel and I’m trying to locate four of my prize sheep, these are a special breed of Bourbon blondies that wandered away from the flock this morning.’
At this point a large sheepdog bounded into view and Gabriel gave him a pat on the head. ‘I’ve been trying to figure out where I am from this map, but I can’t make head or tail of it.’
Billy said, ‘We saw four yellow sheep in a copse just a couple of miles away back there. We can take you there if you like.’
‘Don’t worry, Bruce and I will find them. Thanks lads.’
It was then I noticed the map he was studying was a map of France but I didn’t like to mention it.
Next day the farmer searched high and low for the shepherd with the odd sheep but they were never seen again.
johnandmargaret1607 