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Uncle Ken’s been different since his notorious Lockdown-Meltdown of 2020. He’s a real peach these days. Thoughtful and content. No more rants on misuse of tax dollars or declining work ethics. This Uncle Ken senses what is not apparent. He freely gives bear-hugs and is in high demand on family outings and holidays. He winks when I snap photos of him, his arm draped over the neck of his everpresent guardian, Haru the Dragon. The grown-ups scoff and roll their eyes, but I know he’s real. Haru tells me he will rain fire on the villains. I whisper their names. ~ By Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - August 2023 Photo Prompt
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 [photo courtesy of www.100wordstory.org] "Can't think of anything to write?" Howard looked over the author's shoulder, his beak brushing her earlobe—the one with the fake diamond stud. He’d eaten the real diamond on his last visit. He was tricky that way. Drawn to sparkly things. Lesson learned, the author wore knockoffs when Howard was home. "What's the July prompt?" He snuggled up, delicately pulling at the earring backing. “Well, oddly enough, it’s a photo of you,” she deflected his beak with a light karate chop, “Walter’s Saint Paddy’s Party, I think. You’re wearing green.” “Aaah.... Walter’s party. That night was quackers. There's your story!” ~ By Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - July 2023 Photo Prompt  [photo courtesy of www.100wordstory.org] The wind awoke as Dad gingerly carried the punk, its firey tip enhancing his coppery hair. “Light’er up,” we cried. Dad squatted to light the fuse while the breeze caressed and teased his graying sideburns and the low side-part above his ear. “Come on wind,” we urged. The wind billowed—speeding the flame along—to ignite the lift-charge of the Grand-Finale-Rocket. Against a starburst backdrop, a glorious gust disengaged the flap of Dad's hair, sealed into submission by a wad of pomade, and we broke out in song, “It’s a Grand Old Flag…” finally celebrating the release of the combover. ~ By Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100-Word Story - June 2023 Photo Prompt  Clara wasn’t sure how to sign a letter to a dead man. Not because she was at a loss for words; for she had written salutations in the past. It was the mechanics of it. The pencil-lead tip snapped off. My Dearest Bubba, I hope you enjoyed your last slice of my special key lime pie. I know Roberto, Nico and Bjorn certainly did. They all said it was a pie to die for, may they rest in peace. Here’s wishing you a happy afterlife! Yours Truly, Clara Santiago-Papadopoulos-Jorgensen-Delmont (Please forgive my use of your blue Bic at your end.) By Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - May 2023 Photo Prompt  [photo courtesy of www.100wordstory.org] The line of cars started alongside the makeshift tents. It snaked through abandoned fair ground concessions—dotted with wayward cups and haphazard propane tanks—and ended miles later beyond the stockyards. Ben fidgeted in the driver's seat. “This is fuckin’ madness,” he grumbled, “and you hacking up a lung.” I lifted my mask to pop another flavorless lozenge, choking back a cough as dry as the Sahara, and cracked my window. “Roll it up. Smells like shit out there,” Ben shifted his eyes to the adjacent cattle barn. Another cough. Another tear soaking my mask. I hadn’t smelled a thing in days. Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - March 2023 Photo Prompt  [photo courtesy of www.100wordstory.org] “A penny for your thoughts?” His voice was insistent. The edgy tone he used when he was on the brink. She thought about the things she wanted to say. How he was too controlling and turned every conversation into a monologue. What was wrong with the world. Wrong with her. How for years she’d dreamt of ways to end his reign of terror. How last month she started adding a special ingredient to his morning coffee—him contemplating why it was this particular brand tasted of almonds. Instead, she said, “I don’t deserve you, darling,” focusing on her cracked teacup. Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - February 2023 Photo Prompt  [photo courtesy of www.100wordstory.org] She prayed each night before laying her head upon her makeshift pillow, thanking the good Lord above for her blessings. It was the little things: A new start—free from the terror of physical abuse. Food in her belly, a bottle of water in the center console. A crisp new library card and a stack of books by her side. A rare parking space in a No-Tow-Zone and adjacent to a streetlight, to boot, where she could read until her eyelids grew heavy. The soft blanket of snow insulating her temporary home. Kindness of strangers. A new job on Monday. Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - January 2023 Photo Prompt  [photo courtesy of www.100wordstory.org] Though the windows were blackened and daylight shone through the skeletal remains of Sissy’s bedroom wall, we stayed in the burnt-out cabin. We scooped dirt and ash over Mama’s and Papa’s melted bodies and watched our food supply dwindle, so we ate less. We burned all the firewood, then fed dusty furniture, one broken bit at a time, into a fireplace that Santa would never visit again. He and eight tiny reindeer would sweep overhead, never looking back. We fashioned a pinecone wreath, lit the last candle, and sang happy birthday to Jesus while sharing the last can of peaches. Lisa H. Owens Just 100 Words 100 Word Story - December, 2022 Photo Prompt
 [Story Inspiration by Weird Christmas Vintage Card] Farmer Brown plopped his best laying hen upon Doc Kettle's check-in desk and muttered, "Sumpin's up wif Nellie. She's been a-laying scrambilt aigs." Doc escorted the pair to a small room housing a contraption he called "one of them newfangled X-Ray machines," and Farmer Brown was instructed to set the hen on a wide table, overshadowed by lenses and gadgets, so they could give the old gal a good once over. Doc instructed the distraught farmer to hold the hen still and then left the room. Nellie fretted as a series of clicks and whirrs ensued, until all was finally calm. Moments later, Doc Kettle walked in mumbling to himself and shaking his head, a flimsy sheet of something resembling a film negative clutched in one hand. "Gib it ta me straight, doc," the old farmer said with tears in his eyes. "It's just as I suspected," he said as he held the X-Ray high for the farmer to see. "Old Nellie appears to have a raging case of undigestable 'why did the chicken cross the road' jokes. The bad yolks should resolve over time." ~ Merry Christmas, 2023! Inspired by a Vintage Christmas Card  "That dude looks rufff," Baxter whispered. "He's dreadfully pale. Do you think he's dead?" "Grrrr, could be. His arms are stick thin. Look at his stone-cold grin. Do ya think he works for Bugs?" Dingo delicately scratched his ear then shook his entire body. "Ghost walk over your grave, Dingo?" "I dunno, Baxter. Dude just gives me the chills. He's been standing there for hours. I don't think he's so much as twitched. What diya think he's looking at?" "Beats me. Why is he naked? I bet he's freezing his balls off. Why even bother wearing the hat and scarf? That's just yapping weird," Dingo panted as he worked the ear. "What? Cha got mites or somethin' in the ear?" Baxter snapped at the air then panted. "It's starting to heat up." "You think he's carrying? Grrr, I dunno where he'd stash his piece. Maybe under the hat," growled Dingo then yipped, "Did he just move?" The duo watched the naked man slump a little. His hat shifting down over one fixated eye and one stick thin arm dropping down, nearly resting on the ground. "Look at his paws, Bax. He's missing a finger or two. Definitely the work of Bugs. Ya think he's a narc?" "Could be. I think I seen his brother here last winter. Same thing. Hat and scarf but his brother had a ugly sweater on. I think it had a picture of yer muther on the front, ya old dawg" Baxter howled at his joke, then spun and snapped at nothing. "Every get that feelin' somethin's behind ya?" then he plopped down on the slushy snow. Dingo sniffed the air and plopped down next to Baxter, "All the time, Bax. All the time. My muther's a class bitch. She wouldn't be caught dead on a cheap sweater," the pair squared off, snapping at each other like a couple of crocodiles. They simultaneously jumped and backed up a few paces when the man suddenly lurched forward, landing face first in the slush. "Yep. Dead as a doornail. Same thing happened with the bruther. Just dropped dead then melted. Bugs musta slipped some special meltin'-poison into his kibble. Good way to dispose of a body, if ya ask me, Bax." "I didn't ask ya, Ding." Baxter, the braver of the two crept up and bent to sniff at the dead man's hat which immediately toppled off of his melting misshapen head, which immediately rolled off his slowly disintegrating mid section, which in turn detached from his hefty bottom. Three naked severed body parts, one hat and one scarf spread generously across patchy ground. "Gee, Bax. He don't look so scary now. Hey goon, take this," growled Dingo as he lifted one leg to mark a spot on the back of the man's head. Baxter couldn't help himself. He sniffed the yellowing head, "Let this be a lesson. Ya don't mess with us. Tell ya friends," and lifted his leg taking his turn. "SQUIRREL," they both barked and plowing straight over the dead man's severed body, they skedaddled. Lisa H. Owens Just for Fun December, 2021  Step-1: Google: electrocution by power lines. Step-2: Gather up the necessary materials: two thick plastic trash bags, a cardbord box, a square shovel Steps-3 through 8:
Lisa H. Owens And this is how our Tuesday morning went... Richard was divorced (a finalist): Richard plunged one arm into the putrid mound of dirty clothes. He fished around for a while before extracting a crumpled pinstripe blazer. He sniffed the armpits, gagging a little, then dove in for the pants. He'd have to clean this shit up before his weekend with the kids. He was an old man: Bob groaned out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. He lifted his choppers from a glass of blue liquid, giving them a quick rinse, before shoving them in his mouth. He smoothed wisps of snowy hair and smiled at his reflection, "You still got it, you old dog." She put on a new dress: Sam passed by the posh window display—again—to marvel at the mannequin in iridescent silk. He wistfully touched the glass and imagined shedding his suit and tie. Slipping the gown over his head, allowing the fabric to slide down the full length of his body. To transform into a beautiful woman. They hardly ever visited their parents anymore: Though it was only an hour drive to their childhood home, they seldom visited. It was risky. The twins bypassed the house, driving deep into the woods to leave dead lilies on the boulder they'd used to mark their parent's shallow grave. It was an old dilapidated building: The doors were locked. Bob kicked the wall in frustration. The structure began to creak and rumble as centuries old stone and mortar crumbled leaving a dusty pile of rubble where the old pub once stood. Bob was pissed. He really wanted a beer. It was a cold day: Bob met with sleet and icy wind as he stepped into his backyard. He hunkered forward, cinching the strings on his hood as tight as they would go, enclosing his face entirely, until only one eye was exposed. Better. A cyclops warmed by his breath, he began to split logs. Sophie's health was deteriorating: Sophie lurched toward the bathroom mirror. She stuck out her tongue and said, "aahhh." Her mouth and tonsils were a mass of black oozing sores. She felt a tickle somewhere behind her eyeballs and sneezed. Her nose flew off, splatting on the marble countertop. This was certainly a new symptom. She didn't know what to say: All eyes were upon her. She had no earthly idea how to tactfully answer the question, so she used the old diversion tactic standby, "Knock, knock..." The mango was ripe and tasted sweet: Bob held the oddly shaped fruit to his nose and sniffed then plunged his teeth deeply into its waxy skin. His overextended front teeth, his SpongeBob teeth, scraped the rough surface of an elongated pit before he bit down to extract a mouthful of dripping stringy manna from heaven. It was dark in the basement: Bob shuffled down dusty steps, one arm fully extended as he swept the other in a continuous circle around head and glistening brow. Spiders. He heard the twang of multitudes of furry-legged creatures springing down ancient webs. His extended hand touched something sticky. He froze, waiting to be devoured. There were a lot of people on the subway platform: Bob was late. He perched on the edge of the platform willing the train to come. The crowd surged at the clickety-clack of the arriving train, neatly pitching Bob over the edge onto that precarious third rail. Lisa H. Owens Globe Soup's "Show, Don't Tell" Contest [50-Word Max] Richard was divorced chosen as a finalist. March, 2022  [picture-prompt on a Facebook writers' group] Dear Mr. Cl us, All work nd no pl y m kes Jack a dull boy. All work and no play m kes J ck dull boy. ll work nd no pl y m kes J ck dull boy. As you c n see, my letter " " is working about 25% of the time. ll I w nt for Christm s is a new typewriter. Sincerely, Mr. Torrence (Not an historical author... but a fictional author. It was fun anyway!) By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Writer's Group prompt. |
~Oh Brother Where Art Thou?~
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