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...
Springtime & Summertime Haikus
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.
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.
Let This be a Lesson
"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
Dear Mr. Claus... [just for fun!]
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.
(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?~
JUST FOR FUN!
An overactive imagination: not a bad thing
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