 Theme: HGH (Hitchhiker's Guide to History) The Haitian villagers traveled en masse; pit-stops dotting their path through South America. They camped in Del Rio under a squalid bridge, rationing bottled water. Holding out until the rescinding of Title 42 was the goal, when they’d cross the border together. ~ L. Owens, an author from Texas, has compassion for the weary travelers awaiting a fresh start in the U.S.A., but the atrocities committed along the Southern edge of her state are also concerning. She writes to appease voices in her head. L. Owens Rejected 5/5/2022 Created for "42 Stories" an anthology referencing The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Parameters: Theme: HGH (Hitchhiker's Guide to History - real or fictitious events) 42-Character Title 42-Word Story 42-Word Author Bio using a pseudonym
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 Theme: Mystery Sheriff shouted, “Rest assured! I’ll have my justice,” as he locked coworkers in an oversized cell, then stomped downstairs to retrieve forty-two DNA kits. The perp would rue the day he'd opened that paper pail. In three days, he’d have his thief. ~ Lisa H.O., an award-winning author residing in North Texas with two rescue dogs, always labels her leftover containers with a fine point Sharpie. It nips office drama in the bud. She began writing in earnest when she was 56 years old. Lisa H.O. Rejected 4/15/2022 Created for "42 Stories" an anthology referencing The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Parameters: Theme: Mystery 42-Character Title 42-Word Story 42-Word Author Bio using a pseudonym  Theme: Noir She took an endless drag of her Camel, snuffing it in day-old Lo Mein, before she spoke, “What’s this pansy bullshit? You got no respect for family, Mick.” Mick was flummoxed. He’d followed protocol, sending her husband to sleep with the fishes. ~ Bio: Lisa H.O., a fan of things going awry, adores the subtle humor in a good noir piece where things don’t work out as planned. She writes a variation of genres—keeping the stories relatable but weird. She reads them to her daughter. Lisa H.O. Rejected 1/2/2022 Created for "42 Stories" an anthology referencing The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Parameters: Theme: Noir 42-Character Title 42-Word Story 42-Word Author Bio using a pseudonym  Theme: Zombie “Jesus, Clyde, wipe your mouth. You have something right there,” Sunny’s words garbled through a hole in her neck as she touched one peeling finger to a spot where Clyde’s lip used to be. She daintily dabbed the speck of dried intestine. ~ Bio: Lisa Huff O. watched every season of “The Walking Dead,” but shunned “Fear the Walking Dead,” considering it to be overkill. She was an extra (Zombie #5) in the award-winning film, “Darkness,” her daughter created for her final Communication Studies class project. Lisa Huff O. Rejected 1/3/2022 Created for "42 Stories" an anthology referencing The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Parameters: Theme: Zombie 42-Character Title 42-Word Story 42-Word Author Bio using a pseudonym  Theme: Clown “It was like a goddamn bomb went off. Rubber noses, rainbow wigs and endless hankies everywhere. Bounce-House ended up in a tree. Happy birthday, Billy. Kid’s face is gonna be scarred for life.” “What happened?” “Fuckin’ trick candles blew everything to smithereens.” ~ Bio: L.H. Owens has a weird sense of humor. Her stories reflect recurring nightmares, beginning in third grade when an older kid told her about Frankenstein. L. H. uses humor to diffuse terror but doesn’t mind if readers share her sleepless nights. L. H. Owens Rejected 1/1/2022 Created for "42 Stories" an anthology referencing The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Parameters: Theme: Clown 42-Character Title 42-Word Story 42-Word Author Bio using a pseudonym  Bobloneous punched one mighty fist through the barricaded entryway, dropping low in a defensive stance. He couldn't get sloppy now. Not when the fruit of his labor was so close he could nearly taste it. He detected movement and roared, "SHOW THYSELF, YE WITLESS NIMROD," unsheathing his sword and rising to meet his foe. A door creaked and he waited patiently as the patter of stealthy footsteps drew near. His muscles tensed, ready to strike down his enemy. He heard a pathetic mewl and looked down to find a starving kitten staring up at him with startling blue eyes. The kitten rolled onto his back, a loud purr echoing throughout the silent chamber. Bobloneous bent and swooped the kitten up in one graceful motion. He placed the nearly weightless beast under his shirt collar, out of harm's way, while he cautiously proceeded through the dwelling, clearing rooms one-by-one. All empty. He scratched his head in bafflement. Then scratched in earnest. His neck was on fire. He freed the kitten from the confines of his linen undershirt, setting him gently on a rough-hewn table. His chest was a mass of hives. He clawed at his throat as it became increasingly difficult for him to breathe. Spittle flew from his blue lips, as in anguish, he dropped his sword and collapsed to the slate floor, murmuring, "Killed by a little pussy. Well played, Leonitus. Well played." Lisa H. Owens Created for a Creative Writing Prompt: Your hero dies in the dumbest way possible. January 10, 2022  [Seen on Twitter: 1962 - A man buying potatoes from a 24-hour service slot machine installed on King's Road, Chelsea,] Bob forgot his wife's birthday. He stumbled out of Lenny's Pub in a drunken panic, wondering what might still be open at half past eleven. He spied a box-like contraption on a distant corner. He'd never had a reason to pay any mind to it before. Being quite blind without his glasses, which he had lost in a hand of poker earlier in the evening, he took a chance and pulled out a handful of change. He fed every coin into the slot and heard a loud thud emanating from a hatch somewhere on the side of the box. He eased around the corner and grasped a rusty handle, gingerly lifting the door. An endless stream of potatoes poured out onto the sidewalk. Bob stuffed one potato in his coat pocket, shook his head and shuffled back toward Lenny's. He needed a drink to clear his head. A potato wouldn't be the worst gift he gotten for Matilda. There was that one time back in 1975 he'd won a set of pristine dentures in a hand of poker at Lenny's. He glanced over his shoulder before stepping down into the smoke filled darkness. The potatoes were still pouring from the open hatch. Lisa H. Owens Inspired by an Inner Circle Writers' Group photo prompt.  [photo by Julius Nielson] “Happy birthday to me,” Old Crusty hummed the little ditty as he gazed upward with milky eyes that had quit working properly 100 years earlier. At the ripe old age of 393, there was no one left to help him celebrate his birthday. No crab-cakes to share. What was the point of sticking around? Swimming alone. Avoiding the ocean’s surface. He was the leviathan. The one craggy fishermen aspired to catch—but then thanked God that they hadn’t caught—at the end of each day. Campfire stories would be embellished, the one that got away, as long as he was out there. In the deep blue sea, the conquest. He was lonely. Ready to move on. Even the remoras stopped hanging on him as the end of his life neared. He longed to join his friends in the afterlife. He’d lead a good life, only killing when he needed sustenance to survive, choosing only the fish who were the weaker stragglers. Never forcing his way into the schools or cruising the shallows, invoking fear along shorelines. Crusty silently sent out the signal, rolling over to float upside down, eyes fixated on the bottom of the sea. It would be a joyful reunion with his friends and family. He would celebrate his birthday and deathday with those he loved. He closed his eyes and waited for Neptune to carry him home. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by an Inner Circle Writers' Group prompt: This is a 393-years old Greenland Shark that was located in the Arctic Ocean. It's been wandering the ocean since 1627. It is the oldest living vertebrate known on the planet. The Robins' Series - Part-One Day-One "Cleverness" - Five-Day Fable Writing Challenge Shut Up & Write March Fable Writing Challenge: Day-One [Cleverness]Cleverness is a virtue; but there are times when acting clever is worse than acting simply. In ”The Fox and the Cat,” 19 both animals are chased by a pack of dogs but react in very different ways. The cat goes for the only trick she knows and runs up into a tree, while the fox, with all of his fancy tricks, gets caught because he tries to make it too complicated. Depending on how you look at the story, the moral could be “it is better to be a master of one, than a jack of all trades,” or “common sense is always worth more than cunning.” Whichever moral you draw from the fable, this story shows how you can get in trouble when you overthink a solution. Today we are going to write our own fable about the dangers of being too clever. What characters will fill your pages? What animal, inanimate object personified, or natural force screams “too clever” to you? *** "You aren't nearly as clever as you think you are," the Mrs. cajoled. "I am too clever," the Mr. exclaimed. "Prove it," the Mrs. challenged. "Build me a love-nest." "Well, that is almost too easy. Not a challenge at all. Like taking worms from a hatchling," the Mr. rolled his eyes at the simplicity of the so-called challenge. "Get cracking, then! I have the perfect spot in mind," the Mrs. instructed as she elongated one perfectly formed blush-colored wing toward the most gloriously lush weeping willow tree. "Aah. Just like you to pick the most challenging of all trees. Don't you worry your pretty little birdbrain, dear. I've gotcha covered," the Mr. grinned, as much as his little pecker allowed him to. He smiled even wider, dropping down into the garden to pluck a ball of fuzz off a dying dandelion. "The foundation is the most important part of any love-nest," he instructed his recent bride. "You just sit back and watch my little pecker do all the work, my little chickadee." The Mrs. chuckled under her breath as she began preening and smoothing her fluffy down. It was just like a man to always brag about his little pecker. She would sit back and allow him to impress her. Let his beak do all the work. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a 5-Day Shut Up & Write Fable Writing Challenge March, 2021 Day-One See: The Bird's Life part-two See: Never A Swan part-three The Robins' Series - Part-Two Day-Two "Kindness" - Five-Day Fable Writing Challenge Shut Up & Write March Fable Writing Challenge: Day-Two [Kindness]: “The Lion and the Mouse,” 14 one of Aesop’s Fables, is a wonderful little story about a lion who decides to let a little mouse walk free after the mouse accidentally wakes him. The lion’s kindness is repaid when the mouse comes to his rescue when he finds himself caught in a hunter’s trap. “No act of kindness is ever wasted” is a beautiful sentiment and deserves to be echoed in as many forms as possible. See Love-Nest (part-one) *** “You are the grumpiest of the grumpy-grumps,” the Mrs. grouched at the Mr. for the third time that particular morning. “Why is it that I spend all day on the nest, warming and protecting our precious eggs, while you are out galavanting with the Robins? Anytime I ask you to watch over the nest, I get all kinds of attitude,” she chirped. “It’s not attitude, my sweet buttercup,” the Mr. cheeped. “I may appear to be galavanting, but looks can be deceiving.” And so it went day after day after day. The Mr. stopping by every few hours to drop her a worm and a peck on the cheek, then soaring off to galavant in the sky with the male Robins, as the Mrs. sat patiently on four perfectly formed lightly speckled-blue eggs. She dreamed of the day when the hatchlings would finally chip their ways through the tough eggshells. Then, it would be the males’ turns to watch the young’uns as the females scouted for plump worms and chattered about the thoughtlessness of their mates. Luckily, for the Mrs. and her female cohorts, Robins did not mate for life. She would move on to greener trees come next spring. This was the cycle of the bird’s life. Choose a mate. Procreate for a season or two. Move on. The moving on part was all she longed for. The day finally arrived when peck-peck-peck could be detected by the Mrs.’ plump downy underbelly. She hopped up to observe, perching on the fork in the tree which housed the love-nest created for her by the Mr. on their honeymoon. As she waited patiently for her first brood to unveil themselves, she heard cackling and tweeting and one loud honk overhead as a flock began to swarm into Robins’ territory, circling above her love-nest in the lush weeping willow tree. She was on instant alert, puffing her chic-chick body to twice its normal size. She began using her big voice to warn off the flock of invaders. As a last resort, she would use the old ‘injured bird’ ruse to lead the oddly mixed variety of what appeared to be dull-feathered female birds, away from her new family. What was up with an invasion of females, anyway? She had never, under any circumstances, known this to happen. As they drew near, she noticed each female held an item in her beak or claw. She began to fret. Where was that good-for-nothing birdbrain when she needed him? She opened her beak to sound the ‘emergency squawk’ when she noticed her good-for-nothing Mr. flying in front of the flock, leading the quasi-vee formation. He had a big grin on his little pecker as he swooped in for a delicate landing on the edge of the love-nest. The female birds, one after the other, alighted on branches to deposit gifts. Worms and bugs and bits of fruit formed a pile in a fork in the tree. “What in the sky is all of this?” the Mrs. chirped as she ran one plush wing across her eyes to ensure she wasn’t dreaming. “What in the sky is all of this?” a mockingbird inquired. The goose honked loudly, “This is our thanks to you for allowing the Mr. to help us through the rough times.” The mockingbird chimed in, honking loudly, “This is our thanks to you for allowing the Mr. to help us through the rough times!” “Yes. The Mr. and his friends helped us, the abandoned mothers,” a sparrow tweeted. "The abandoned mothers," echoed the mockingbird. “They brought us food so we could stay on our nests. The male Robins volunteered to guard our hatchlings while we pay tribute to you and the other mothers for your sacrifices,” a chorus of tweets, chirps and the one honk replied. The Mrs. looked at the Mr. in a new light. Where she once saw recklessness, she now saw kindness. She would reconsider the moving on she had so been craving. Where was it written that Robins couldn’t mate for life? By Lisa H. Owens Day-Two [Kindness], Inspired by a Five-Day March, 2021 Shut Up & Write Five-Day Fable Writing Challenge See: Love-Nest part-one See: Never A Swan part-three The Robins' Series - Part-Three Day-Three "Dare to Dream" - Five-Day Fable Writing Challenge Shut Up & Write March Fable Writing Challenge: Day-Three [Dare to Dream]: Many of us can lose sight of our dreams as we grow into adulthood. It’s a shame that daily life can rob us of those aspirations, especially when we begin to forget we ever had those dreams in the first place. Today we are going to remind our readers to dream big. A modern fable that has this same theme is “The Salmon Who Dared to Leap Higher” 24 by Ahn Do-hyun. In this story a salmon dares to question his place in the cycle of life. Not only does he feel like he’s a little different from the other salmon around him, but he doesn’t just accept his fate: to grow up, swim upriver, and then spawn and die.It is a wonderful story that reminds you to resist the urge to blindly accept your lot in life, but to question your circumstances and dream for something better. *** Baby Robin’s eyelids fluttered and his feet twitched as he dozed. He was having a glorious dream. He lazily floated on a tepid pond surrounded by bulrushes and cat-tails, glancing down to find an unrecognizable graceful reflection staring back at him. A seemingly endless curved neck disappearing into a lithe body coated with sleek white feathers gazed—unblinking—into his black eyes. He was startled by his beauty, as he lazily paddled webbed feet to explore the flora and fauna edging the water. A more elegant and feminine version of himself kept pace, as together they dipped beaks into placid water, causing a light swell of ripples and dimples. Minnows and sunfish scattered in their wake. He felt powerful with a lovely mate by his side and the fish fleeing as they spotted two pairs of webbed feet stroking, keeping time as if dancing, overhead. With hooded eyes, he stretched out his neck to wrap and pull his mate in close for a little peck…then jerked back as a shadow-form swept down, jostling him. He was surrounded by ear-piercing chirps, perhaps the sound of crickets—very close—and bolted upright, now fully awake. Three hatchlings knocked and jolted baby Robin as they tussled and chirped in his ears, vying to get Mama’s attention. She was delicately perched on the rim of the love-nest with a fat squirmy worm dangling from her beak. Baby Robin stretched his neck forward—not long and elegant, as in his dream—instead short and stout. A solid blue-collar-bird’s neck. He joined his siblings (all four of them still pink, wrinkled and bald), as they tweeted with beaks open wide, ready to accept a meal from Mama. He may never become a swan (elegant, aloof and often alone) but he would always be happy with his band of Robin brothers by his side. Sometimes a dream was best left at that. Just a dream. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a 5-Day Shut Up & Write Fable Writing Challenge March, 2021 Day-Three [Dare to Dream] See: Love-Nest part-one See: The Bird's Life part-two Shut Up & Write Scene-Building Prompt Day 1: House By the Side of the Road - Three Takes
**** The Teenager: I hate mornings. No, let me rephrase. I hate school and walking to school, which happens to start in the morning. There’s that stupid house with it stupid green grass and sprinkler and dumb flowerbed. Yep. There’s old Ma and Pa Kettle just yapping away. God that house is an embarrassment with its old-people-paint and smell. “Fine, Mrs. Lieberwitz. How are you and the Mister?” Yes. That’s it. Give 'em your best smile. God, I hate mornings and walking and people with their morning energies. Just look at the two of them! Sitting together on that stupid porch swing, holding coffee or tea or whatever old people drink, just jabbering away. Hmm, looks like Mrs. Lieberwitz is doing all the jabbering. The Mister looks a little pale and grumpy. Weird. Must be Monday. Their dog…Skippy or Dippy…even looks irritated. “Yes, Mrs. Lieberwitz. It is a beautiful morning!” **** The Realtor: Sad when a beloved member of the community dies. Mr. Lieberwitz will be missed. Salt of the earth. A pillar of the community, and all that. I’m certain I heard he built their colonial house—well more of a craftsman—now that I am really looking. A blast from the past. Hmm. 1930’s, perhaps? Catchy phrase. I could use it in the listing. Fingers crossed. I wonder if Mrs. Lieberwitz plans to stay in the house? I think anyone would be lucky to land this listing if she decides to sell. I’m glad I thought to bring along some coffee and muffins. Get the conversation going. It is always a tough one. What to do about the house. Let’s see…Well-kept…no, Pristine craftsman style home with stout square columns and a cozy front porch, complete with a slatted wood swing. The swing could use a coat of paint; maybe white? The shutters too. That hunter green is so 1990. Greige would make the original glass-pane windows pop. The roof looks new. The siding too. Pretty catchy rhyme. I should write it down for the listing. That last hail storm did a number on all the homes with vinyl or aluminum. That has to be Hardie-board and they chose soft white paint...or maybe eggshell. That will up the price at least 15K. Well played Mr. Lieberwitz. Well played. Oh! And there goes the sprinkler system. Like clockwork. Look at that grass! St. Augustine? Those live oaks must’ve been here before the house was even built. They have to be…hmm…60 feet maybe? Someone has a green thumb. Daylilies for days. Pretty catchy! Better write it down. **** The Daughter: This is what coming home feels like. Anticipation as I spy the “City Limits” sign. Butterflies in my stomach as I turn on my street. Then I roll my windows down, and...aah…spring and the scent of newly mown grass. There’s my house, with the sprinkler on. We always did have the greenest yard. Oh! The green shutters aren’t green anymore. Grayish? Beige? I guess that would be called greige? Greige shutters on eggshell siding. Monochromatic color schemes are all the rage, but it somehow doesn’t seem as cozy now. My oak tree! Yep. Still there. The “D.B. + A.L.” carved on the trunk when we were in middle school, then exed-out once we got divorced. Childish, I know, but Dave was a real ass. He may be gone but at least my tree is still here. The flowers still look nice. Orange daylilies were always Daddy’s favorite. Oh! And my tiny hand-print forever encapsulated in the sidewalk. I still remember the man smoothing the concrete out to a glass-like perfection, then going over it again with a straw broom—to rough it up. I asked him why he messed it up when it was smooth and perfect and he told me it was so the surface wouldn’t be slick when it rained. Smooth things aren’t always perfect. Then Mama and Daddy let me put my hand in the square closest to the mailbox. The concrete felt cool and gritty. Not squishy, like I thought. “Now write your name just like Mama showed you,” Daddy said. And, using my right index finger, I did. It is still there under my hand-print, ANNA. All caps. I loved to write the capital letters. My hand is much bigger now. Time has certainly moved on. It looks like someone re-stained the porch and the swing is white. It is different but looks clean, somehow less cluttered. I wonder if the new family would mind too much if I cut two daylilies before I head to the cemetery. One to lay on each headstone. What do you think Skipper? Shall I knock on the front door (still Mama’s yellow) and ask? By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Shut Up & Write Scene Setting Challenge. September 2020 Shut Up & Write Scene-Building Prompt Day 2: Underground Gambling Game (For today’s exercise, take a moment to picture an illegal gambling game set in your favorite time period. Are you in love with the 1920s, or maybe you prefer medieval games of chance? Whichever is your favorite, today we’re going to bring that gambling scene alive and fill it with story potential.) Happy writing! She was a tall drink of water, see. Not like them other dames. She had class. Style. “What’ll it be sweet cheeks?” I says to her and she says, “Whiskey. Neat.” Whatta gal. I poured her two fingers of my finest and was over the moon when she says to me “What’s a gal to do for some kicks in this one-horse town?” and I says, “I can show you some fun, baby. Just gimme five,” and I nodded at Tiny Lou and went to get my coat. I can’t believe that angel done me wrong. Her and me, we walks down to Bad Jimmy’s and I gave the secret knock. (knock-knock-knock (pause) knock (pause) then two quick raps) Squints eyes me through the peephole and he says, “Who’s the skirt? She ain’t the fuzz is she?” and I says, “She’s with me. Don’t worry 'bout it.” He says, “You know the drill. I gotta pat her down. You know. New face and all.” *** I was offended at being called sweet cheeks, skirt, and dame but I kept smiling sweetly at Bricks while we waited. We’d been after this pile of goons for a while and Bricks was the key to the kingdom. I heard a jingle and a series of clicks as Squints turned numerous keys in numerous locks and then one final thud as he lifted a draw-bar. This door looked like it had seen better days; warped and splintered in places and spattered with rusty brown specks, crusty like dried blood. The stairwell was dimly lit and stank of smoke, booze, and the distinct tang of body odor. I sucked in my breath while the battered door slowly creaked open and Squints moved to pat me down. I batted my lashes at him and killed him with my brightest smile and he said, “Eeh. Gal couldn’t swat a fly,” and stepped aside. I took Bricks' arm and he led me into a cloud of smoke, so thick it had my eyes watering and left me gasping. The walls were cast in a yellow glow and there was a hum of excitement in the air as I took in the tables, laden with wads of cash, as sad-sacks hovered around and eyes were peeled to dice being cast while others sat on low chairs at a round table as cards were dealt. Some eyes exuded panic inside of faces drenched with sweat. Others looked serene in faces calm and smug. Lives would change with every cast of the die, with every ace dealt. Thugs were silhouetted by the golden light as they leaned on walls and eyeballed a wisp of a girl with smudges of mascara and sweat streaked rouge, as she squeezed by balancing a tray, heavy with amber liquid inside of chipped highball glasses. She couldn’t have been a day over 14 and it was apparent that she’d been bawling. I spied the distinct outline of a meaty hand-print, red on an otherwise stark cheek, as she glanced my way in passing. These meatheads were going down. Bricks was so gullible. So easily manipulated by the smile of a lady. I almost felt a twinge of guilt about what I had to do but then my eyes drifted to the girl, still making her way around the poker table, setting drinks down with arms shaky from the burden of her tray, that red hand-print glaring like a beacon. I leaned in, real close-like, and inhaled the masculine scent of cigar smoke mingled with the sickening sweetness of pomade, slick in Bricks' hair. I whispered, real gentle-like, "You were wrong about me, baby.” “Whatcha goin’ on about doll-face? What da ya mean, I was wrong?” “Wrong about me not being the fuzz.” I reached under the hem of my skirt, finding my thigh holster, and pulled my weapon just as the blood-spattered door imploded and my squad rushed in, weapons drawn. “Police! Freeze!” That door had seen its last day. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Shut Up & Write Scene Setting Challenge September 2020  Day 1 - June Image Challenge: The hill held so many childhood memories. Stargazing with his Gran was the best. She’d known more about the stars than anyone else he knew. It was too bad his folks had kept him away till after she’d passed. He would have preferred a happier reunion than today’s stilted wake, but Gran would have liked having the family back together again. What can I say about Gran? She was the only one in the family who honestly did not give a flying fuck (Pardon my French but Gran would approve.) what anyone thought. She marched to the beat of an outrageous drummer. I really got Gran. She really got me. She always said we were the sane ones in the family. Wouldn't anyone in their right mind want to slip out of bed at midnight, tiptoeing down the stairs, avoiding that one squeaky step, to gaze at the midnight stars? Up the hill we would climb. I would sit on my swing, hanging from the branch of a centuries-old oak tree. "Push me Gran! Higher! Higher!" and Gran would push. Higher and higher. Closer and closer to the stars. When I got older, I didn't want to swing anymore but we went to the hill at midnight anyway. Gran always said the stars are the windows to the universe. If we keep looking through those windows long enough, we might just see someone looking back at us. I will say the words to the group of faces, haughty and staunch, belonging to judgmental relatives seated on the church pews. Gran would want me to say them. "I will always love and miss Gran. She was the heart of this family and you will miss the heart, now that it is gone. Gran loved you, unconditionally. Shame on all of you," I dabbed at a tear rolling down my cheek. Fuck 'em all. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-1 (Click to Read Day 2)  Day 2 - June Image Challenge: Where am I? In the pitch black your skin can sense cold air, your bare feet inform you of the smooth tile beneath you, and your ears pick up an eerie and foreboding dripping sound. Then light floods the cell. Blinking, your eyes slowly adjusting, you see something unbelievable on the other side of a glass wall. *** I hear a beep. I feel a drip. I hear a beep. I feel a drip. I hear a beep. I feel a drip. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. BEEP. DRIP. BEEP. DRIP. BEEPDRIPBEEPDRIPBEEPDRI… "MAKE IT STOP!" I shout but the words won't leave my mouth. I access the mental calendar inside my brain. 29 mental tick-marks in groupings of five, reminiscent of what you might see on a prison wall. Drawn on. A finger using dripping blood. I add another mental tick to the four marks on the end of my mental tally, a diagonal line drawn across the grouping of four, begging for that line to complete its pattern. Day 30. Where am I? I sense my body, prone and heavy. I attempt to move an arm, a leg, then finally focus on just one toe. My big toe. Nothing. I hear a buzz. Like a hive of angry bees. Then I drift. Beep. Drip. Beep Drip. Day 31. I add a solo tick-mark adjacent to the last grouping of five. I attempt the movements. Arms. Legs. Big toes. Nothing. Then the buzzing begins. The buzzing gets closer. Above me? The buzz begins to take on a pattern. A pattern familiar but I am still locked inside my brain. Voices. I drift. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. Day 32. I make the mental tick. I go through the ritual. Arms. Legs. Big toe. Big toe! A flicker of movement, trying in earnest now. The big toe moves, the smaller toes follow suit. The buzzing takes on a faster, higher fluctuation. Closer than usual. Excited buzzing. I feel a whisper of breath on my face followed by a soft peck on my forehead, gentle like a butterfly kiss. I become hyper-aware of eyelids as I feel them flutter, shafts of light. I drift. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. Day 33. Mental tick-mark. Arms. Legs. Legs and all ten toes! Sweet movement; my eyelids flutter. Buzzing turns to voices. Voices turn to one voice. A voice familiar. I think of rain. Walking in the rain while this voice whispers words of love in my ear. I mentally push using all of my strength. Shoulders pushing arms pushing hands through a fragile barrier, smooth...glass-like. It feels like swimming up and up from a dark pit toward a glow. If I could just push a little harder now. Eyelids! Open! A face hovering just inches above my face. Beep. Drip. Beep. Drip. I can hear and see it all so clearly now. Lying in a bed. Tubes and machines all around me. "Darling, welcome back," a voice so tender; a kiss so gentle on my forehead. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-2 (Click to read Day 3)  Day 3 - June Image Challenge: Her feet ached and her backpack cut into her shoulders, but the mountain air lifted her spirits like no other could. She’d hiked every other trail in the range but this one. Today she was finally going to finish what she started with her mom so many years ago. (*warning - triggering subject matter) Mama and I had a special bond. It was a kind of bond prisoners of war might form. Bound together as a tight-knit unit. Us against them, so to speak. Holding up under trauma and fear and suffering. Some call it the Stockholm Syndrome. It happens when the victim begins to feel thankful, grateful, in awe of the fact that the captor once again spared them. Another day of sweet life. Allowed to live one more minute...or hour...or day. Soon the victim begins to associate with the captor. Finds empathy and sometimes love for the captor. When you marry a monster, it is a slow process. It might be angry words followed by a push. Upon seeing that my mama stayed, next time was worse. A slap. She stayed. A punch. She stayed. Over time, she thought she deserved it. I learned (in therapy) that we teach others how to treat us, letting them know just how far they can go. If you let things go too far, there is no turning back. It becomes impossible to leave. Trauma-bonded. After Daddy passed, Mama fell in love with the monster. He was a beautiful monster. Covert, he had us all fooled. Terms of endearment, (sweetheart, my love, darling) a public persona but I saw what happened at night. I was too young to intervene. The contrasts were glaring. Daddy was a gentle soul who loved nature. The monster was an evil presence who loved himself. But mama finally got out, God love her. She finally found peace and rest. Eternal rest. I will make this final journey for Mama. It is what she would want. I carry my load, heavy on my back. I hear my breath, heavy in my ears. I feel my heartbeat, heavy in my chest. I learned (in therapy) to let those emotions out. Scream, if you must. I will sprinkle Mama's ashes...holding the urn up high...letting the wind decide which way they should blow. They will mingle and rest with the ashes of Daddy. This was our happy place once upon a time. Then I will let the hills echo my scream. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-3 (Click to read Day 4)  Day 4 - June Image Challenge: The black & white armies are locked in a desperate contest of will, patience, and wit! Will either end up on top, or will they both wither and die from their conflict? Players: Black Team: (B) Strengths: 16 Powerful opponents. Highly skilled wordsmiths. Not easily flustered. Quick on the comebacks. Not afraid to get dirty. Weaknesses: Tendency to say the first thing that pops into their heads. Hot tempered. Can be a little prickly (pun intended). Fights among themselves. White Team (W): Strengths: 16 Formidable opponents. Never-give-up attitude. Quick recall skills. Can take an insult with ease. Dry sense of humor (pun intended). Weaknesses: Fights Dirty. Sore losers. Easily distracted. Rules: No hitting below the pads, piths or trunks. No "yo pollinator" insults. No "yo host" insults. No back-stabbing. No use of needles. No pruning, weeding, fertilizing or over-watering. No repetition of insults. Response time: 10 seconds Let the game begin! B: Dried up fuzzball. W: Too tall columnar. B: Sticker. W: Prick. B: Fusarium rot! W: Stem rot! B: Mammillaria. W: Opuntia. B: Soft Rot. W: Root Knot. B: Jerk! W: Whiner! B: Scab. W: Overwatered! B: Overrated! W: Dry Rot. B: Sunscald. W: Withered. B: Flowerless. W: Imbecile! B: Juvenile! W: Psychoactive. B: Hallucinogenic. W: Botanical. B: Succulent. W: Pawn! B: Rook! W: Weak areoles! B: Cracked tubercules! W: Yo host is a Carnegiea Gigantea! B: Yo pollinator's a WASP! FOUL PLAY! Referee Determination: Use of simultaneous "yo pollinator/yo host" insults thus hitting below the truck. Conclusion: Draw Now shake limbs and apologize! By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-4 (Click to read Day 5)  Day 5 - June Image Challenge: All of her worries about almost dropping her coffee onto this nearby stranger evaporated the moment she locked eyes with him—never mind the out-of-place top hat he was wearing. I picked up my black cap and gown for the upcoming graduation ceremony. Zippity-do-dah! Goodbye Oklahoma and ramen noodles. Just one more thing to do before packing my bags and gassing up the clunker, the second unreliable car I'd owned in my four years of college. He (the clunker) was of mammoth proportions and white with ocean blue vinyl seating and an eight-track tape deck. A salty fellow (literally, as his undercarriage was covered in road-salt induced rust speckles), he reminded me of Moby Dick, so he became Moby: the beached white whale. I'd pack Moby to the gills; he'd be ready and waiting for a quick getaway. Then I would walk the aisle (covered in the black cap and gown), simultaneously shaking the dean's hand with my right hand while the left grabbed my diploma, then waved an elaborate adios to college and hola to a career job and sweet-sweet moola. I was wrong. Things didn't go exactly as planned. Elementary school teachers were a dime a dozen back then, so I pursued a job inspired by my Aunt Sue’s career, a flight attendant position with Delta Airlines. It was a three-month process to finally get an interview and a job offer before heading to Atlanta for a month of training. After a second graduation ceremony, this time decked out in high heels and a navy blue suit that proudly sported a set of gold Delta wings, I chose a base-city about as far removed from Oklahoma as I could—without falling off into the ocean. That is how I discovered the magical city of Boston in 1984. I found a tiny-but-still-expensive basement apartment on Commonwealth Avenue ("Comm Ave.") and rode the subway (the "T") to Logan Airport on a regular basis. Having moved around a lot growing up, always in southern states (Is Oklahoma southern?), I found everything about this historical port city fascinating: the brownstone apartments in Beacon Hill, the Italian food in the North End, the Red Sox and Fenway Park (much smaller than I thought), Faneuil Hall with its shops and restaurants, the Friday/Saturday Haymarket, and the Freedom Trail, to name a few. One thing I noticed as I began to adjust to life in the big city, probably because I struggled with it on a daily basis, was the Boston accent. They just didn't pronounce their "r's" the same way that I did. It was challenging for me to understand, so I began to stalk conversations going on around me as I rode the T to and from work. I wanted to talk the talk and walk the walk, hoping to someday fit in. I wanted to feel like I belonged. As I watched and listened, I saw something intriguing. The first time I noticed him on the T, he was seated in the corner wearing a tattered top hat. He had his right arm draped over the back of the bench-like seat, typical of subway cars, deep in conversation with an empty seat. The man was having an entire conversation, experiencing every range of emotion, with an invisible person on a full train (standing room only), where every seat was occupied, except the one to the right of him. The one occupied by the friend. They laughed. They cried. They hollered. They smirked. They blustered. They became furious; but then laughed some more, until they fell asleep. At least I think the friend was sleeping; but he could have been faking it. I began to notice this out-of-sorts-man-in-the-top-hat and his friend in other places around the city. He seemed to be a regular and the locals would greet him (always Joseph; never Joe), making sure to also ask how Charlie was getting along. After conferring with Charlie-the-friend, the answer was always the same, "Aye ya know Chahlie. He's fayah ta middlin." Charlie, Joseph and I seemed to be on the same schedule. I was rigid that way. A creature of habit. On my morning jogs, he strolled alongside the Charles River in his tattered top hat, his right arm resting on the shoulder of Charlie. I had to wonder if his right arm was stuck at that unnatural angle...the result of an accident or some sort of odd arthritis...maybe? Didn't the man's right arm get tired? Was Charlie really there? If so, that guy was a really good listener. I had never even heard him utter a single sound. Each morning, as I approached them jogging at my slow-but-steady pace (like the fabled tortoise), I wanted to stop to ask about Charlie and the arm situation; but they were typically engrossed in a conversation. This particular morning, it was an argument about Larry Bird and the Celtics. After months of seeing the two together, I wanted to start up a conversation with them but always chickened out at the last moment. I gave them a wide berth as I jogged around, never so much as slowing down. This went on for a while until one morning I thought, This is ridiculous. Just say hello! As I drew near, I mumbled a good morning of sorts; and was taken aback, as with a flourish, Joseph swept off his top hat. Then, with an elegant bow and affected British accent said, "G'day my lady." It was weird that his right arm remained airborne through the entire gesture, draped over the ever-present Charlie. I stopped just in front of the duo. I mustered up the nerve to finally ask the question that had been weighing on my mind. I really wanted to know about the arm. How did he keep it perpetually hovering—airborne—all day long? Every day of the year. I had to know! When I began to speak though, all that would come out was, "Erm, how's Charlie?" The man looked to his right, for a minute or two, conferring with Charlie. After a few "Ya dahn't say's!" and "Is that a fact's?" Joseph nodded and placed the scuffed hat atop his balding head (using his left hand, of course), and chuckled, "Aye ya know Chahlie. He reckins he's fayah ta middlin." It was nice to be home. Finally, one of the locals wise to the quirkiness of the mysterious Joseph and his silent friend, Charlie. By Lisa H. Owens Shut Up & Write photo prompt - Day-5 Premise inspired by a true story Published on Short Story Town June 28, 2021 [Reddit Writing Prompt] Earth only has seasons because it is tilted on its axis. An alien race from a planet without seasons lands on Earth and begins their invasion. What they don’t realize is, they have landed in Russia and winter is coming. Always-Morning Sound effects: Bloop blop beep (clicks, whirs, and dings). Analysis: "Slowing and approaching third rock from the sun, Sentinel. Just as we suspected, Sir, the parallels are off. A slight tilt is detected." Orders: "You know what to do, son. Straighten 'er up." *** "So that is how Earth came to be the only planet that sits straight as an arrow in the sky and why it is always springtime and always morning." "GRANDPA, GRANDPA! Tell the part how the Russian army kicked the alien's lower-waste-disposal-units." "That is a long story. I will tell you that one another time. Now don't forget to brush your nutrition-grinding-implements before entering your cellular-restoration-chamber.” “And no stalling. I am wise to your ‘Can I have a receptacle of liquid-anti-dehydration-substance before shut-down’ tactics." "Now close your visual orbs and I will see you in the always-morning!" By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Writing Prompt] You're walking down the street when someone suddenly yells, "That's it! I can't do this any longer," and takes off his wig. Everyone stops and one by one, does the same. Turns out, everyone is bald...except you. "Erm, asswipe. Hello! Is this thing on?" I tapped my invisible mic and looked around to see why Snead wasn't laughing at my off-color joke. He was standing at attention, a slack-jawed expression on his face but the weird thing was...his head was completely bald and shaped like a perfect cue ball. I froze in place and then began a slow pirouette as I took in the scene unfolding before my eyes. The sidewalk was littered with wigs and people with blank stares and slack-jawed expressions, eerily similar to Snead’s. I noticed a small trickle of drool slowly rolling down his chin and a little spot of mustard just above his lip. We were just walking back to the office after a quick sandwich at Sal's. All faces in succession turned my way, reminiscent of the Rockettes as they performed their perfect stagger-kick move. I looked down at the ground too afraid to make eye contact with any of these bald and drooling humans. Were they human? I allowed my eyes to quickly shift to the left where my coworker Snead, who’d been my best friend since third grade, was standing and noticed beads of perspiration on his scalp. Seemed to me like a human reaction to stress or maybe the sweltering heat of the summer day. The thing that stood out to me the most though, was a tiny tattoo visible just above his right ear. It looked like a series of numbers but I could not be sure. I side-stepped a bit to my left in order to get a closer look, noticing I could feel a heat radiating upward from the sidewalk as I drew near, and then took a big step back as the reality of the tattoo set in. It was a series of numbers, alright...a series of three. Numbers that were what I considered to be the stuff that horror movies were made of. The numbers 666, what some people called the “mark of the beast”. I, being an agnostic, really didn't have an opinion on this one way or the other. The blank stare left the eyes of my friend and of the frozen people all around me as they bent down to the sidewalks to retrieve the fallen wigs, placing them atop their bald heads neatly covering the devil's numbers. The wigs looked askew and I berated myself for not noticing the obvious shellacked appearance of the false hair before. Snead clapped me on the back in a hearty manner and asked, "Will you join us? We are many and time is short." I briefly thought this over and realized I had floated through life never committing to anything in my 35 years on this earth. I’d never even noticed that my best friend had transformed into some sort of devil worshiper—communicating with Satan through…maybe telepathy. What did I really believe in? I didn't believe in marriage. I didn't believe in a god. I didn't even believe that smoking was bad for one's health. I was a true passive passing through this life unnoticed. What did I have to lose? I slowly reached into my man satchel extracting the crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter. Lighting up my third smoke of the day; I inhaled then exhaled the sweet tobacco that my body craved and smiled my crooked smile. "Sure. I am with you, my friend. Like you said, time is short. What...besides my hair...do I have to lose?" By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Writing Prompt] Bored with Heaven's docile wildlife, Steve Irwin rounds up a camera crew and leads an expedition to observe and study the native species of Hell... It sure is peaceful here. Sounds of harps and choirs of angels singing with accolades to a higher power and lions lying down with the lambs and doves carrying the branches of olive trees. Peaceful. Crazy. Peaceful. TOO. DAMN. PEACEFUL. I feel a knife-like pain. It resonates through my being. My heart! It feels like it is on fire. What is this pain? It seems so familiar, yet I have no memories of the before. I have always been here, have I not? Always, I have been here, mate. My winged arm swings to clap a hand over my mouth. Mate. So familiar. Mate. Friend. Memories of a friend. Memories of a family. A daughter. A son. Did they follow in my footsteps? A wife. My soulmate. Memories of a previous life and how I loved all the creatures, but especially the ones with a bad rap. The ones mostly misunderstood; a saltwater crocodile named Bindi and a Staffordshire Bull Terrier (pit bull) named Sui. Even one of the Ocean’s Deadliest, a stingray...although that did not end so well. I begin to remember the end... ...My heart stabs with pain. A sharp barb puncturing and ripping across my skin, laying my heart muscle bare. "Hang on. Hang on for your family," a plea from my cameraman, my best mate. The memory floods back in a mighty surge. A monster with a tail. A tail with a barb. A barb ripping open a heart. My heart. Taking a life. My life. My family, left behind, devastated by this loss. Revenge. The word is familiar. Revenge. A word with little credence. Revenge. I will shed my wings and drop into the abyss. Will I have my revenge on this stingray demon? Willingly, I leave this paradise in search of a barb-tailed behemoth. Once smooth in the sea; now smooth in the lake of fire. Will I punish or will I forgive this man-killer, abducting him from his lake of fire only to find him the perfect celestial body of water in which to live out eternity? It is anyone’s guess...crikey! Who is with me? Who will be my cameraman? By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Simple Writing Prompt] Hell Actually Freezes Over Hell actually freezes over and I found myself doing the things I said I would only do when Hell freezes over:
By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt Prompt: Adjective/Noun - Write the first six sentences of a story using: "Cottaged Quarantine" Stay at home...shelter in place...words on the nightly news. Wear a mask and quarantine yourself, if you develop a dry cough. Who hasn't coughed a cough that seemed dry in the past five months? I clap my hand over my mouth, stifling the dry cough, plaguing me for days now. Did anyone hear? The thoughts of being alone...a cottaged quarantine of sorts...for endless days, makes it hard for me to breathe. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Shut Up & Write Prompt [Reddit Writing Prompt ] You're a college professor and grades for the semester have just been posted. One disgruntled failing student comes to you with an archaic copy of the school's bylaws and a pair of weapons. They're invoking a rule from the time of the university's founding allowing them to “pass” through trial by combat. I glanced down at the papers Ms. Fox had placed in my hands. It was a printed screenshot of the archaic bylaw from a book I had only seen once in all the years of my professorship at this historic liberal arts college. It had been a long time since I had read it, so I quickly scanned the perfect calligraphy, grasping the meaning while looking for grammatical errors...out of habit. I had a masters in English Literature and been teaching writing courses at varying levels for just over three decades. It was flawless in grammar and flawless in the explanation of a tradition that seemed medieval at best. “We fight our battles with words in this era, Ms. Fox, so, as stated in the code—If you will look here on the page” (I drew attention to the code duello), “the challenged party has the choice of weapons. I choose words as my weapon. I would like you to hand-write a 2000-word essay titled, The Origin and Decline of the Duel, summarizing its influence on the formation of early America. I will do the same. We will meet back here in my office at dawn to submit our essays to Chancellor Wright. It will be an anonymous submission, judged only on the merit of the writing.” Ms. Fox's shoulders slumped, and she shuffled from one foot to the other while staring down at the floor. She knew she was failing Introduction to English Composition, and I doubt she saw this coming. “What happens if I lose?” she hesitantly inquired. “You will receive the F that has been a result of your lack of motivation and effort. You also were absent many times and failed to hand in assignments. I would be willing to reconsider the F, however, if you will take on some extra credit writing assignments and we will move forward from there. The ball is in your court now Ms. Fox, and I truly hope you succeed.” I was excited to get home to begin my essay. The last time I had been met with this challenge, the failing student went on to graduate with honors and became a Pulitzer Prize winning author. I knew from the couple of hastily typed assignments that had actually been turned in, Ms. Fox held that kind of talent. She just didn't know it...yet. As Ms. Fox turned to leave, I said, “Oh. One more thing. It must be legible, and it must be written in cursive.” This was my ace-in-the-hole. We all knew that Millennials didn't know how to write in cursive. By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt [Reddit Simple Writing Prompt] You just ate the world's last Dorito, just to spite your sister. I was tense and could feel a steady stream of sweat rolling slowly down my back. Adjusting my position for what seemed like the hundredth time in an attempt to relieve the numbness beginning in my toes and working its way slowly up my calves, I glanced quickly at my phone to see if it was time yet. The bright glare of the screen briefly blinded me, so I was left with little wavering sunbursts dancing behind my eyelids. I was able to establish that it was indeed go time and my pulse began to race as I slowly arose from the fetal position to a slumped shouldered stance, my posture the result of hiding behind a stack of cleaning supplies and mop buckets in the janitor's closet for hours at a time over the past week. I cracked the door and listened for the footsteps of the nightly security guard. He was fat and kind of lazy and I had been watching and memorizing his routine...learning his patterns night after night. This was not my first attempt to execute the plan. The other times had been met with close calls and I'd had to abort my mission, tucking in tight behind bleach and brooms and a large industrial floor buffer, until my next chance. This time I felt ready. If my calculations were correct, this caricature of the quintessential bumbling deputy would be heading for the dumper right about now. I listened and this creature of habit, true to form, was plodding down a distant hallway. I heard...or rather felt the vibration his oversized body made each time he placed one foot in front of the other and he was starting to make that incessant humming sound again. Was it the beginning of a song or just the happy response of his body as he neared his nightly date with the toilet bowl? Either way, I knew I would have about fifteen minutes to get it done. I stealthily pushed the closet door outward, and leaving it open a sliver just in case, sprinted toward the lab. My bare feet were silent as they met with the linoleum floor. The lab was locked and as I drew near, I pulled out the most recent crumpled sheet of paper that held the door code. It was changed on a regular basis but fortunately I had discovered some, let's say, sensitive information regarding one of the lab technicians and a certain fetish this creep had, so I’d exhorted this knowledge to my advantage. He slipped the crumpled code beneath the door of my cozy temporary home every morning. I held the scrap of paper under the light of my phone and punched in one number at a time: Six●Nine●Six●Nine. Well at least someone in this group of scientists and culinary experts had a sense of humor. The door beeped once as a green light flashed. I quickly glanced behind me with a sense of dread. I expected Deputy Dumper to be standing behind me; but the hall was still empty. I had come so close on the previous attempts only to be forced back into the safety of the janitorial closet at the last second; but this might be the one. I could feel it in my bones and in the deep rumbling hunger of my stomach. I tiptoed into the inner sanctum. It was messy. Not at all what I had expected. It seemed to be one large break area with varying degrees of coagulated coffee in mugs and empty water bottles strewn about haphazardly; while on spotlessly clean counter-tops, I found six evenly spaced petri-like dishes containing dusty orange crumbs. A clipboard with carefully penned notes hung in front of each dish:
*** After a tragic accident involving a deep-fat-fryer, a top-secret area of Frito-Lay Headquarters burned to the ground, leaving the world in a state of shock and disbelief, as the news spread like wildfire that the recipe to one of the world's most tantalizing and tasty snacks had been lost in that inferno. It eventually surfaced that it was indeed the Nacho Cheese Dorito recipe that had been forever engulfed in the fiery flames. After the news, citizens around the world stormed local grocery and convenience stores grabbing everything Frito-Lay off the shelves. It was 24 hours fraught with violence and destruction, known as the "Dorito Riots." The people lucky enough to grab a few bags of the precious Doritos and escape the angry mobs, sold them at a tremendous profit from the back-end of unmarked panel-vans and behind dumpsters until all the chips were just...gone. A rumor had been circulating regarding a secret kitchen-lab where the last known Nacho Cheese Dorito was being studied and tasted as scientists (along with top chefs) tried to replicate the recipe of the endangered chip. My sister and I had an ongoing bet that some day, one of us would find and sneak into the secret facility to devour that protected chip. It was silly; I know, but we were insanely competitive so as time went by, it became the sole purpose of our lives. Clues to the actual existence of this facility were becoming few and far between and it looked like I had reached a dead end; but finally after even more research, wasted weekend trips, and bribes, I found it tucked away in a tiny town in the Deep-Deep South, where fried and crispy delicious snacks were a dietary staple. *** So here I stood, after a week's worth of failed attempts, getting ready to realize my dream of winning the bet and owning my sister as my personal go-fer for life. As I passed the counter-tops, I noticed a glass case containing a solitary chip. It was set high in a little niche cut into the wall and there were hand written affirmations like: "Never Give Up!" And, "Make Every Day a Great Day!" And, "It's Up to You!" And one out of place, "Stop eating my yogurt, Bob!" hanging on thumbtacks around the back-lit orange triangle. I rolled my eyes (Bob sounded like a total tool) and reached up to open the little glass door on the front of the case. This seemed too easy. Like taking candy from a baby. I guessed the challenges were finding the hidden lab, getting past Deputy What's-His-Name, and gaining access to the four-digit code to allow entry into this room. Just as I lifted the chip off the velvet cushion it rested upon, all hell broke loose. Alarms began blaring and lights began flashing. I pulled out my phone and furiously began typing, then took a selfie of my face with the Last Nacho Cheese Dorito on Earth inches from my open mouth. I hit "send" just as the heavy and labored footsteps of a fat-man-running drew near. I did the only logical thing...dropped the chip into my mouth and savored the perfect proprietary blend of ingredients that were the Nacho Cheese Dorito. I was just dusting orange crumbs off of my chin when the door flew open and an electric shock went through my body. I dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Deputy Fats, taser in hand, was on his phone shouting "CODE ORANGE! CODE ORANGE!" and the last thing I remember was wondering what the penalty would be for eating the very last Nacho Cheese Dorito on the planet. Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, my sister would soon be opening the text with my face, the coveted triangular chip, and the triumphant words, "I WIN!" By Lisa H. Owens Inspired by a Reddit writing prompt. Query sent to Frito-Lay regarding collaboration on YA novella 2/9/2021 *(Update on Query) I received this response from Frito-Lay 3/8/2021 : Hi Lisa, Thank you for contacting us. We truly appreciate our fans and are flattered that you would want to share your idea with us. Please know I will forward your feedback to our internal teams for future consideration. Thanks again for reaching out to us! Best regards, Mindy PepsiCo Consumer Relations |