Clot Bey in Egyptian army uniform teaching the first modern Anatomy lesson at Abu-Zaabal, Egypt in 20 June 1829. Public domain.
Food for Thought – 157 Words
“Broccoli,” the student declared, gesturing toward the skeleton hanging from a wooden rack.
“Broccoli? You’re claiming broccoli killed this man?”
“Yes. That was my brother. He always told our mother if she made him eat his broccoli, he’d die. Last week he finally tried a piece to appease her and keeled over dead, instantly nothing but bones.”
The master physician raised his eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. “Interesting. Tell me then, how did the Moor on the table die?”
“Oh, that’s no Moor,” insisted the student. “That’s my neighbor, Rasheed.”
Both eyebrows shot up now. “Rasheed was not dark-skinned!”
“I know,” the student replied. “He overimbibed.”
“Overimbibed? You think this skin discoloration was the result of alcohol?”
“No. Sweets. His wife told me he ate an entire cake last night. She’d warned him too much would kill him. Guess she was right. What we have here is a clear case of death by chocolate.”
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Join us at Flash Friday Fiction to read superb short (really short) stories and perhaps pen one of your own!
“It’s lonely at the top”, they say. Oh yeah? Try being stuck out here on a damn lake in the middle of nowhere. Sure, they do their duty by me, occasionally coming out to reattach my arms or give me a new nose. No more carrots, though – the deer snatch them. Too bad; this current ‘nose’ hurts like a mother. And what’s with the evergreens on my head? I can’t tell if they’re crowning me with laurel or just giving me a really bad comb over.
Either way, I wish they’d stay. Frosty doesn’t know how good he had it, surrounded by kids all day.
I’d give anything to be able to follow these tracks, to head out and see where they lead. Instead I stand here, sentinel to nothing with no hope except to wait for the sun to melt me down. At least swimming with the fishes ain’t so bad.
I’m not alone then.
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We’re into Year 2 over at Flash Friday Fiction, and this year the word count remains fixed at 150 words, +/- 10. Come join us!
Sandy Straits Fisherman, ca 1920. Australian public domain image.
Toeing The Line
Margaret Locke (@Margaret_Locke)
152 words
Mama always was tellin’ us to warsh up, but we never did listen much. What was the point? We was just gonna get dirty again anyway.
Besides, Uncle Lester knew the trick fer catchin’ the biggest fish, an’ it was this – stinky feet. “Don’t tell no one,” he said, “otherwise they’ll be eatin’ our dinner. The stinkier the toes the better, because them fish, their noses ain’t so good below the water. You gotta have good an’ smelly ones ‘fore they’ll come up for a nibble.”
I tried to do him one better by keepin’ all of me filthy, just in case. I’m thinkin’ he had a special odor all his own, though, ‘cuz he managed to catch the biggest fish anybody’d ever seen.
Maggie laughs at me with my dirty shirt an’ grubby knees. But this here fish in my hand tells me I’m eatin’ tonight – an’ she ain’t.
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Join us over at Flash Friday Fiction! Fun, good times, and, well, some pretty spectacular writing!
Dragon of Halong Bay (Vietnam). Photo by Logga Wiggler.
The Last of the Dragons
Margaret Locke (@Margaret Locke)
350 words
I have walked with dragons for a thousand years.
It was they who bore me to Avalon, though they knew no mortal magic could heal me. It was they who brought me to Glastonbury, where my bones rest beneath the Tor.
My spirit is not there.
It is not with the Lady of the Lake. It is not in Camelot, not at Camlann. Mordred and Morgan are just shades of my past, Guinevere and Lancelot mere echoes of betrayal. Percival, Galahad, Gawain, all markers of duty, honor, loyalty, all lie now under the cold ground.
And Merlin. Ah, Merlin. My master and my servant. My mentor and my maker. He, too, is lost to me, taken by the greatest of all forces – time.
These names, these places, these events long past are etched across my heart, seared into it as if by dragon flame itself.
I have borne witness to centuries of human history, to more wars than I care to count. Crusades. Revolutions. Civil wars. World Wars. I’ve stood as a shadow alongside Richard the Lion-Hearted, Henry VIII, Wellington, Churchill. I’ve watched the bodies pile higher and higher, grown weary of the carnage and catastrophe, the never-ending cycle of rage and retribution.
Where is the peace for which I fought? Evaporated into the mist, an ideal rarely achieved, never maintained.
We have learned nothing. For every Shakespeare there is a Stalin, for every hero a Hitler, for every Mother Theresa a Mengele.
I am Odysseus on an endless journey. I am Sisyphus, forever pushing against a destiny I cannot escape, trapped between promise and purgatory.
People claim dragons are myths. This disbelief slew the great beasts with more ease than any sword. They claim I am a myth. They are wrong.
The dragons know my name. I am Arthur Pendragon. The Once and Future King. A beacon of hope in a world of darkness. A symbol of salvation, yet I cannot save myself.
I am the last Dragon. Believe in me, so that I may return. So that I may, at last, bring eternal peace. And find it.
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But wait! It’s not Friday, you say? Well, this week is a special week over at Flash Friday Fiction: it’s the one-year Flashversary of this fabulous fiction-writing contest, and in celebration we’ve been given a full five days to craft a 350 word (no more, no fewer) story sparked by the photo prompt. (I wrote mine in two, because I needed to stop obsessing over this idea so that I can actually get other writing work accomplished.)
As always, I would love feedback – and invite you to give it a whirl yourself!
Miss Robertson’s School Room (1913). Public Domain photo. National Archives Bureau of Indian Affairs.
Schoolroom Secrets
Tyee watches me as I re-enter the classroom, shivering from the cold outside. He’s always watching me. He holds the book in his hands, those same hands that had held me the evening before, out in the barn. We’d prayed Daddy wouldn’t find us. He hadn’t; our friend Moki had whistled a warning, letting us make our escape. Moki smiles now, too, avoiding my eyes, pretending to read.
Miss Robertson notices my lack of movement. “Is there something you need, Izusa?”
My eyes lock with Tyee’s again, and a shy smile creeps across my face. “No, ma’am,” I reply. My heart is warm.
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Yes, even in the midst of recovering from Thanksgiving indulgences and perusing Black Friday deals I found time to craft a quick story – and it was supposed to be quick, with only being allowed 100 words with which to work (+/-5). There’s still time for you to enter at Flash Friday Fiction, but even if you leave the story scribbling to me, I’d love to hear your feedback!
