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.