Slow Train

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SLOW TRAIN
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Dawn M Miller

A handful of hearts and the time of our lives
There’s something so wasted about it
The high in the sky where you promised we’d fly
and I had no reason to doubt it
But there’s a way and will to waste precious time
You win or you lose and to you that’s just fine
but no matter how many tears you deny,
a promise that’s broken is just a lie
And you made love a tear stain
You made love a closed lane
and you made a love a slow train
that leaves
and won't come back again
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Look! Dorothy’s On TV

Dorothy on TV

LOOK! DOROTHY’S ON TV
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Nick Allen

I’m supposed to pick one from three hidden behind a screen. Based entirely on their replies to my questions and whatever crumb of a hint the host drops.
Number 1 stammers that his s-s-s-star sign’s Leo then they say he’s run clean away.
Number 2 has a squeaky voice, like he’s a tin can that needs oiling.
Number 3 says he’s known round here for being a right scruff bag.
“Ah,” says the host. “It’s a no brainer.”
I’d rather stay on the shelf. Honestly, the more men I meet, the more I love my dog.

C’mon Toto! We’re going back to Kansas.

He’s Wandering Lonely As A Cloud This Week

 

Willy from Windmere

HE’S WANDERING LONELY AS A CLOUD THIS WEEK
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photograph ©Dale Rogerson

The good news is I am still avoiding the Grim Reaper
As I write I am comfortably caffeined in a Parisian coffee house
while GR has taken the train to the Lake District

He really does make work for himself,
still searching for me in a zillion wrong places
He hangs around a lot of mountains. This week’s is Skiddaw

He may well wish I’d been born in a different era
when Willy from Cockermouth was wandering about, overtalking his sister
Willy never said a single word where two hundred would do

That could have successfully bored me to death

 

Fit For A Prince

under-bridge

FIT FOR A PRINCE
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The Princess insisted Daddy would love to spend his seventieth doing jaegerbombs and posting selfies. His nephews argued for an E-Type Jag. An equerry pointed out the Prince already had three.

The Prince’s brothers suggested the usual: cognac and a porn movie.

The Queen rejected everything.

The family were dressed and driven to view her chosen gift.

“Your new permanent residence, son,” she said. “Grade 1 Listed. No renovation. By Royal Proclamation. Hope it’s not too modern for you.”

“Just what I wanted, Mummy,” lied the Prince, eyeballing her crown.

“Aren’t we just under a bridge though?” said the Princess.

Last Day For The Retreat Guide

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Last Day For The Retreat Guide
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © J S Brand

We’ve almost finished our tour and there’s gallons more thistleberry cordial. Please do have another.

So this is the Mindlessness Garden, where our installation’s single dense eye signifies waste in plain sight. Chef chose to add it because guests can be very careless with their garnishes. FYI, Chef never knowingly poisoned anybody.

Ah, you noticed the accessories. Our Head Housekeeper added those. She says dirty guests who leave debris and worse in and under the beds get tidier once she produces that funny little axe of hers. FYI, she was cleared of all charges.

Enjoy your lunch. Sleep well tonight.

Warning: Do Not Defrost

chess-eyes

WARNING: DO NOT DEFROST
100 fearsome words for Friday Fictioneers

Photoprompt © Jeff Arnold – thank you for the extraordinary picture, Jeff

Lynne had her own ideas about stepson Stephen’s hobbies on the outside.

His father refused to accompany her to the prison.

Years ago she’d been pleased to have the boy mistaken for her own child. Now she thanked God he wasn’t. The dead mother had obviously been fatally infected with the screw-up gene.

Bad bugs breed bad baby bugs.

At home Lynne avoided the cellar freezer. Dissection of dead birds was one thing. What Stephen had done was something else.

Stephen’s cell mate was teaching him to play chess. God help the guy if he made a wrong move.

To The Queen, A Daughter

rogers-skylightTO THE QUEEN, A DAUGHTER
100 words for Friday Fictioneers
Photoprompt © Roger Bultot

 

As soon as I gave him the glad news, he joyously commissioned the creation of a glittering dome.

Still learning the ways of my new country, I was delighted to feel the quickening in my belly, knowing I would soon have a companion of my heart for ever more. But I was mistaken in my optimism.

My King did not doubt the outcome would be a son, to sustain and perpetuate his ways. Accordingly I see the English servant on the terrace, the vile servant I so hate, his hand upon the shoulder of my petite fille. Leading her away.