Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Grandpa’s Fish Pond #amwriting #flashfiction #fiction 


Thanks too Roger Shipp for hosting FFftPP.

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Credit: Sora Sangano – http://www.unsplash.com

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Phallon watched the fish swim in the pond his Grandpa had installed in his backyard. He enjoyed visiting his Grandpa each Saturday. Grandpa had put the pond in because young Phallon loved the fish so much as a toddler; ‘fishes’ had been his first word. 

Now he sat with Grandpa who asked him about school and of course the girls in his school. Uncomfortable, Phallon wished Grandpa didn’t ask him about that. 

Grandpa simply laughed,”Phallon, I’m only teasing you. It’s good you have friends who are girls and that there are girls you like. This Jennifer, have you asked her out?”

Phallon’s face turned red, “Yeah we’ve gone to a movie together and bowling. I want her to be my girlfriend but her parents say she’s too young to have a boyfriend.” 

Grandpa nodded a smile on his face, “You’ll find the right one when you’re older. When I saw your Grandma the first time, my heart lept out of my chest. I wonder if I will ever meet that right girl of yours and see you marry her?” 

Phallon felt uncomfortable again, “Why wouldn’t you be there Grandpa? You’re only eighty-one?” 

Grandpa patted Phallon’s hand then squeezed it, “You know, my boy, I’ve been sick a long time. It’s a battle I’ve mostly conquered, but my strength is waning these days.When you get married someday, think of your old Grandpa, okay?” Phallon nodded feeling a lump in his throat.

Two-years later Grandpa succumbed. Phallon was sixteen and felt raw inside. He returned to the fish pond in Grandpa’s  back yard. He noticed the fishes were floating and the reality of life made tears wet his cheeks. In the mess of the last two weeks including Grandpa’s funeral, no one had remembered to feed the fish. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved. 

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Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer: Planting Seeds #amwriting #flashfiction #gardening


Thanks to Priceless Joy for hosting FFftAW.

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The Storyteller’s Abode – Louise

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Gertrude is a beautiful child with chubby round cheeks. Her hair is the white-blond children get from being in the sun. She is three and likes to show you how old she is with her fingers.

I came to visit her Grandma from my farm, and walking to her Grandma’s door, I spied Gertrude hunched over in the garden. She has her Grandma’s big floppy hat on to keep the sun out of her eyes. 

Gertrude carefully picks beans. She has a look of concentration on her face and she giggles when she finds the right bean to pick.

Her Grandma notices me outside and comes out to greet me. We both gaze at Gertrude picking beans and hear her every laugh every once in a while.

“I told her not to pick the really fat ones,” Gertrude’s Grandma Joyce says to me. “She’s so careful about which beans she picks now. She’s only made it a quarter way down the first row.”

I laugh and wave to Gertrude’s Grandpa, Arthur, digging in the large garden.

“Your planting seeds,” I tell Joyce. 

“Seeds?” 

“Yes, in your granddaughter. Maybe, she’ll grow up and garden too.” 

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©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.

3Line Tales:  Dogs and Death Flowers.


Thank you to Sonya from 100 Words or Less for hosting this week’s prompt.

Kazuend

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 1. My dog used to burry her nose in flowers, when she walked outside in Spring and Summer; it was the loveliest moment to witness her absorbing the scent of flowers with her sharp sense of smell; the flowers must have smelled pleasing to her, a fragerent blossom she adored, because the dog would leave her nose buried in the flowers for longer then was necessary to simply check-out a smell; she loved how flowers smelt.

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2. A unique talent this dog had was helping me choose the perfect perfume; whenever I received a new magazine in the mail, I would open the flap of the perfumed pages and hold them out for her to smell one page at a time; it got to the point where the dog would expect to do this every time a new fashion magazine came; she could tell if the magazine was one for her to smell and decide if a perfume smelt heavenly, disgusting, or somewhere inbetween; if she liked the scent she would sniff the page, smelling the scent for a while before walking away; if the scent was bad she would smell the page and sneeze a few times right away; and if the scent was only okay, she would smell it, wait a while and then sneeze once; true enough, the scents she sneezed at were never scents I purchased or liked.

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3. I’m not sure what kind of flowers these are, they are beautiful and ugly; they speak of springs presence, of hope, and renewal, but I’ve always had this issue with little white flowers, inherited from my Mother; flowers that remind me carnationd, which are small are similar to these flowers pictured, remind me of death; Grandpa Wilson had them on his casket when I was eight-years-old and when my Dad would bring these flowers home for my Mom, she’d sigh and say, “death flowers;” years later, Dad took the hint and now he brings Mom roses on special occasions.

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©Mandibelle16.(2016) All Rights Reserved.