Length: Under 500 words
Deadline: Sunday, May 31, 2020, 2am Central Standard Time
For this Flash Fiction Friday, I challenge you to write a short scene based on the prompt These Old Bones WITHOUT writing horror! It can be anything but something scary. Never fear, Halloween is only 155 days away...
Leave your entry in the comments, please. As always, the winner will get a badge and bragging rights!
3 comments:
Bob cast his home made trout fly to the middle of the lake while swirls and splashes were occurring in the small cove behind him. He knew trout were rising for some hatch of insects but his nephew, and his nephew's brood, were less than six feet away. The corona virus pandemic mandated, or rather Bob's wife mandated, that he keep his distance. As most fishermen know, a sure way to be successful on the water is to "match the hatch". Bob needed to get to the cove to see what the trout were gulping down. Asking teenagers to move while they are taking selfies with a beautiful lake background would have been a useless venture. Bob made a mental plan to get to the cove without too much of a disturbance. Wearing old sneakers, he couldn't walk in the water without thinking of wet feet for the two hour ride home. He couldn't take off his sneakers and socks because the shoreline was rife with small sharp stones. He had to maneuver between the four children to get to where he wanted to go. The opportunity arose when he saw a space open up so he quickly moved in that direction. His eyes were on the teens, the tip of his rod, his dangling hook, and on the spot he would need to be to possibly catch a trout. His eyes should have been on the path. Rolling stones gather no moss but stationary rocks along the lake shore do. When Bob's sneakers landed on what he thought was a nice flat stone perch to make a cast, he felt himself slipping. Trying to protect his rod from damage, he held it high while his body was going down. Right hand in the mud, left hand on a boulder, and with knees in the thorny shoreline plants, he hit the ground with a thud. Of course the older of the teens scooted to his aid, but there was nothing they could do. The fingers on his left hand felt like they were broken. The shin of his right leg must have also hit a stone. His pants were torn and there was blood visible through the hole. Bob's nephew told the kids to move away and offered aid and assistance to his red faced uncle. All Bob thought about was his fishing rod until he realized he couldn't move his pointing finger. Maintaining his composure, he answered the proverbial question of "are you all right?" with a smug look. Of course he was fine. The swelling of his finger and the black and blue bruise on his shin were nothing he would worry about. Being a septuagenarian made him very experienced in injuries. His final reply to stunned teens and the concerned nephew expressed his old age attitude. As he limped away he shouted "these old bones could take more pain than that. Watch out for the slippery rocks. If you need me, just call my cell"
Nice work, Bob! I'll see about getting you a badge.
Thank You Amren Ortega. At least I know of TWO people that read my composition. Should I brag??
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