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Another is from the O. Henry's short story, "The Gift of the Magi," which begins, "One dollar and eighty-seven cents."
Writing advice, publication opportunities, and thoughts on books, language, and life from Donna Volkenannt, winner of the Erma Bombeck Humor Award. Donna believes great stories begin in a writer's imagination and touch a reader's heart.
Humming a Bruno Mars song, he read an ad while nibbling a half-eaten pizza.
“HELP WANTED. Free: Housing. Meals. Training.”
After memorizing the address he cleaned up in a gas station restroom.
Later that day, the man in green asked, “How badly you want to join us?”
Remembering the song, Rudy answered, “I’d catch a grenade for ya.”
The Army recruiter extended a hand. “You’re just what we’re looking for.”
Last night a little after 7 p.m. the phone rang. It was my grandkiddos’ other grandmother, who lives close by.
From her voice I knew something was wrong.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“What happened?” I asked, thinking something happened to her mom--the kid’s great-grandmother--who is 90, and lives in a nursing home.
“A squirrel is stuck in my fireplace.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and repeated. “A squirrel in your fireplace?”
Michael, who was sitting nearby getting out his books to do homework, perked up immediately.
She said, “I called for someone to get it out but they want almost three-hundred dollars to come tonight or one hundred if I wait till tomorrow. Do you think Michael can bring his b-b-gun and shoot it?
"Michael's b-b-gun?" I asked, thinking I didn't hear her right.
Woa! Wait a minute. That wasn’t going to happen. First, you don’t shoot a gun in the house—not even a b.b. gun, but I didn’t want to make things worse by lecturing her on gun safety.
Instead, I asked her to hold on, and I gave the phone to Walt, squirrel hunter extraordinare.
It was déjà vu all over.
My niece Angie tried to help Walt catch the squirrel, which darted from the fireplace when Walt opened the door. The squirrel sprinted between Angie's legs and hid in the Christmas tree. The squirrel jumped from branch to branch, knocking down ornaments. My sister freaked out because it was her “Irish” tree--the one with several
Long story short: Walt caught the squirrel, but the little guy gave up a fight, biting Walt all he way out the door. As blood dripped from his hand, Walt squeezed, hoping the squirrel would stop biting. But the harder he squeezed, the harder the squirrel bit down. Walt survived, although at my sister's insistence he visited the ER to make sure he didn't get rabies. A few ornaments (thankfully none of the Waterfords) and the squirrel were not as lucky. For Christmas that year, my sister gave Walt a stuffed toy squirrel. It was the hit during the gift exchange.
Back to last night. Before he left the house, Walt found a pair of leather work gloves. He didn't want to get bit this time. Michael put on his hoodie, and when Cari heard what was going on, she rushed out of her bedroom and asked them to wait for her. Michael’s b-b gun, our dog Harley, and I all stayed home.
Less than an hour later, Walt and the grandkiddos came back. They were exicted and couldn't wait to tell me what happened. Walt had caught the squirrel in a towel and released him out the front door, unharmed. And this time Walt didn't shed any blood.
Not exactly a romantic Valentine's night, but definitely a squirrely one, and the makings of a good story.
Elsybeth42 at ElysabethsStories
Poetic Justice at tragiccreativity
Vicky Alvear Shecter from History with a Twist
Sara Katt at the Red Cat Society
Another of my followers, Melissa Ann Goodwin, is the featured blogger today over at WOW! with her inspiring Friday Speak Out on being a late blooming writer.
Cobwebs draped the front porch of the Black’s crumbling mansion. Mrs. Black wore an ebony formal and greeted her son Ben and his fiancé Abbey at the door.
Wearing an apron over his tuxedo, Mr. Black stood in the kitchen. “Welcome,” he said. “You like barbeque?”
“Don’t mind Dad,” Ben said. “Any excuse to play with fire.”
Abbey asked for her steak medium rare.
Smoke poured from the grill, and Abbey’s meat looked like a piece of coal. As she chewed, it was growing bigger by the minute.
“Like your steak?” Mr. Black asked.
Between bites, Abbey said, “Well done.”
For the Winter Flash Fiction Contest, she is accepting entries of: Short fiction, open theme (no porn or gore) 500 words or fewer. Free critique upon request. Enter online or by mail. Fee: $7 per entry or 3 for $20 (limit 3 entries). Prizes: First - $100, second - $50, and third - $25. Winning entry posted, winner profiled on website. Deadline: postmarked Feb. 10.
Here is the second installment of interviews with contributors who have stories in Mysteries of the Ozarks, Volume V , from Ozark Writers, I...