Only a few pins were struck in the making of these photos.
Happy Triskaidekaphobia Day a/k/a Friday the Thirteenth. May even your thirteenth pin fall for you today.
Tag Archives: writing prompt
Photo finish Friday: “Happy Strike-a-deck-a-phobia Day”
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday
Photo finish Friday: “Mugged”
Out of the darkness it stared at him, mocking his every desire.
Bob. That’s what we’ll call him now: Bob. He doesn’t remember his name and he doesn’t remember much else — except for that sock monkey mug. He said it was a gift, but he doesn’t remember who gave it to him, only that one day he found in among his — well, you know — socks.
He said he tried giving it away. First to friends, though he can’t remember any of their names or where they live or what they do for a living. He then tried to sell it to a collectibles shops, but nobody wanted it. They didn’t even want to take it for free. If you could have seen how matted and grimy and foul-breathed Bob was when the police picked him standing on a corner of Central Street trying to give the mug away, you’d know why nobody wanted to take it from him. And the harder he tried to give it away, the less anybody wanted it.
Only when the officer agreed to take the mug from Bob, did Bob willingly, even politely, climb into the officer’s patrol car and the officer took him to the special intake center. And that’s how we wound up with Bob and his mug.
We tried on several occasions to get rid of the mug. All attempts failed. Either the mug mysteriously (magically?) reappeared, or when Bob noticed it was missing, he refused doing anything until it was returned. This despite him saying he wants rid of it. He says, “If I could, I would never see it again.”
But somehow Bob is linked to the mug and the mug to him. He says in the middle of the night it tells him things, such as the two handles aren’t handles and they aren’t ears either. They are arms the sock monkey controls and uses to strangle people.
We have asked him how he knows this and he says since the mug doesn’t really have any ears, it talks a lot without knowing what it is saying.
We asked Bob if the mug has told him the names of those it has killed and where the bodies might be found. Bob says not yet, but he is listening for any hint or clue the sock monkey might give him.
So, we all sit and wait. There aren’t as many of us now as there once were. We’re not sure where the others went. Bored and quit we think. Tired of waiting.
Did you hear that?
That low….
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday
“Holly’s Corner,” part 6
[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 5.]
by David E. Booker
Tricia slumped back in her booth seat. There was a slight frown on her face, which only served to make her look even more attractive. She was almost too pretty: blond hair, thin, big teeth, large blue eyes. The wrinkles made her look more human, more accessible, at least to a shlub like me.
“You’re right,” she said. She reached forward and fiddled with her paper napkin.
“Tell you what. I’ll eat the other half as is. As it was made by the chef.”
It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.
“I’m offering a compromise, which is what happens most often in life. Maybe not in politics.”
Her face wrinkled again. “You don’t know my family. They don’t compromise.”
“And you?”
She sighed and then shrugged. “Sometimes.”
Some things transcend genetics and even behavioral environment. They exist somewhere in between. Some habits fall from the family zeitgeist. Nature versus nurture was an old but simplistic dynamic.
“So, what do you want me for?” I asked.
“I want you to find a recipe.”
I stopped chewing on my sandwich. “The Colonel’s secret sauce?”
“That’s eleven herbs and spices. You’re mocking me.”
I guess I was. I had had a woman shake her rolling pin at me, driving me into the mud, and now I found out the woman was drunk and it was all over a recipe.
“You don’t understand….”
I hate that phrase, but let it go. Obviously, I was missing something. Or she was. I decided to spice up the second half of my sandwich. She saw what I was doing and stopped talking.
“You are obviously not the person for this case.”
“Possibly not,” I said, then took a bite of my sandwich. I didn’t have much money left and if this case didn’t pan out, I was going to have to look for 9 – 5 work, which was something I loathed. But a recipe? Had I stopped so low as I need to chase down some family heirloom the world had not heard of nor was likely even to?
She pushed up from stall seat, turned, and stomped out the door.
(To be continued.)
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Story by author
Photo finish Friday: “House about it?”
Boo to you, too.
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday
“Holly’s Corner,” part 5
[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 4.]
by David E. Booker
I felt a little heat come into my ears.
“How cute,” Tricia said, her eyesight back to normal.
“Glad I could entertain.”
I turned and walked up to bar to order a sandwich. Diving into the mud and straddling a 2×6 had left me wet and hungry. The wet part would have to resolve itself with time. The hunger part I could do something about.
“I’ll have a Ricky Ricardo,” I said. “Don’t tell Lucy.”
The young woman behind the counter had a rainbow of colors in her hair, and if perplexed could be a color, she had that one on her face.
I made my glass of tea and found where Tricia was sitting. It was in a booth that looked out one of the front windows. On the window was painted a pig carrying a rolling pin and words underneath about bacon being a salvation. Beyond the pig was the outside world, the sidewalk where I had taken my dive, and the rain that continued its drumming on the world. My client had had a front row seat to my brush with a rolling pin.
It was a cool, rainy day down at Holly’s Corner.
“That was my sister that threatened you.”
I didn’t bother correcting the second that. “She doesn’t look anything like you.”
“Well … technically she’s my step-sister. My dad remarried after my mom died.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tricia shrugged. I was two when mom died. Don’t remember much about her. My step-mom was the only mom I really knew, and she was okay … when she wasn’t drinking. And I’m afraid my sister has inherited her predilection.”
I raised an eyebrow slightly. I was impressed that Tricia knew what predilection meant and wasn’t afraid to use it.
My sandwich arrived. I had snagged a bottle of hot sauce from the small round table nearby. The sandwich was cut into two pieces. I lifted the top off one half and added some of the sauce. Tricia winced.
“Don’t like hot sauce?”
“You’re ruining the chef’s work.”
“The chef doesn’t put enough heat on my Ricky.”
Tricia slumped back in her booth seat. There was a slight frown on her face, which only served to make her look even more attractive. She was almost too pretty: blond hair, thin, big teeth, large blue eyes. The wrinkles made her look more human, more accessible, at least to a shlub like me.
“You’re right,” she said. She reached forward and fiddled with her paper napkin.
“Tell you what. I’ll eat the other half as is. As it was made by the chef.”
(To be continued.)
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Story by author
Photo finish Friday: “And the price?”
But what has he sold? And to whom?
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday
“Holly’s Corner,” part 4
[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version. Click Holly’s Corner below to get Parts 1 – 3.]
by David E. Booker
Rainy day down on the corner.
Plans were for me to meet my new client here. We had only talked on the phone. I had no idea what she looked like. I stood inside the doorway, dripping on the concrete floor. Holly’s had once been a bar called The Corner Lounge, then a used bookstore with a poster of Cormac McCarthy and the words “McCarthy for President” underneath it. Rumor had it that McCarthy used to visit The Corner Lounge when he lived in Knoxville. Now all that remained of the Lounge was a dark, curved wooden bar where you placed your food orders. McCarthy probably didn’t hang out here on the infrequent occasions he came back to town.
“Hey, are you looking for me?”
I pivoted. Water flew off the bill of my ball cap and hit a woman squarely in the eye. She flinched.
“Are you—?”
“Tricia,” she said as she rubbed her eye. “It’s usually the second date before I let the guy poke me in the eye.”
“Technically, it wasn’t a poke.” Another rivulet of rainwater ran off the bill of the cap. This one fell harmlessly to the floor.
“You going to argue with a client?”
“I haven’t introduced myself.”
“I saw the rolling pin woman through the window. I couldn’t help but laugh when you dived into the mud.”
I felt a little heat come into my ears.
“How cute,” Tricia said, her eyesight back to normal.
“Glad I could entertain.”
(To be continued.)
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, story, Story by author
Photo finish Friday: “Evening at Cades Cove”
Sunset in Cades Cove, Smoky Mountains National Park on September 19, 2015.
Gray clouds smoke the sky. /
Fiery orange exalts the horizon. /
Earth imbibes shadows.
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, Photo Finish Friday, poetry by author
Parts 1 – 3 of “Holly’s Corner”
[Writer’s note: What began as a writing prompt — photo and first paragraph — has become at least the start of a story. I will endeavor to add short sections to it, at lest as long as there is some interest. It might be a little rough in parts, but that’s because it is coming “hot off the press,” which could be part of the fun of it. In the meantime, you are free to jump off from any part of this story thus far and write your own version.]
by David E. Booker
Rainy day down on the corner.
She scowled and pointed something with a large barrel at me as she rounded the corner onto Central. Bolt into Holly’s or dive into the dead flowers beside a car parked in front the restaurant were my two choices.
The passenger side car window slid down.
The rain picked up in intensity. I could feel it tapping on my shoulders as if to catch my attention and say, “Now, stupid. Decide now … or be dead.”
The car was almost parallel with me. I caught a whiff of its acrid exhaust. The woman had her best angle; her cleanest shot. And that’s when I realized she was pointing a rolling pin at me. Mud and the petal from a dead flower splattered me in the face as I landed half on the sidewalk and half in the raised bordered flower bed. Considering where the board hit, my gait would never be the same.
“Hey, stupid,” the woman said, “get out of the dirt.”
“Mud,” I said, rolling over onto my side, then back.
A car horn blared, so I didn’t hear what the rolling pin woman said next. I think it was “get up,” which I was doing.
“That woman is a … (Another car horn blared as the car swerved around the stopped white car.) … she doesn’t deserve it. It’s my book!”
She was still pointing the rolling pin at me as drove on, probably because a police cruiser was easing up Central toward her position.
I brushed my hands together and only managed to smear the mud in one palm on the other. My pants were wet. So was my rain jacket and baseball cap. I brushed my hands down the sides of my jacket and then stepped inside Holly’s.
Plans were for me to meet my new client here. We had only talked on the phone. I had no idea what she looked like. I stood just inside the doorway,
(To be continued.)
Filed under 2015, photo by David E. Booker, story, Story by author
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