Some time ago, I presented myself with a challenge to write a fictional short story because I’d never written one before and I wanted to see if I could.
The result was rejected by at least three magazines and lost one contest, but I think it was a success.
I proved something to myself, which was enough.
Since Sue’s prompt today is “story,” now seems like a good time to post this one.
I guess it’s a tale about how some things change as years go by, and some things stay the same.
Fred Fatfellow was not fat.
He was a skinny kid.
For it was fact with a name like that,
run was what he did.
He ducked into the music hall,
and the bullies didn’t know.
All that they could do was call,
for the bullies were all slow.
Fred Fatfellow heard and sat,
toward string music he soon turned.
Said, “I can make a sound like that,
While thoughts in his head burned.
They’d called him a scaredy cat,
because he’d turned and run.
Fred Fatfellow wasn’t that.
He was up with the sun.
He thought of revenge, it’s true,
as he walked back to the hall.
He didn’t know just what he’d do,
but he knew he’d show them all.
The man in this picture is my mama’s daddy. The boy beside him called him Pappaw.
The boy grew up to be me.
The man didn’t have much longer to live, which brings me to my wish.
I grew up in a chicken house.
I don’t mean literally, of course, though when the wind is right I can smell five of them.
What I mean is, when I was a kid, I had it made. (more…)
I watched a lot of TV this weekend, and I feel now is a good time to give credit where credit is do. (more…)
They said it couldn’t be done, but it’s done. (more…)
I don’t know why, but I find it really difficult to sleep on a couch.
The story should have ended differently. (more…)