W.C. Quick's Blog: The Eternal Campout
June 25, 2015
The Flash And The Thunder by WC Quick
http://www.amazon.com/Flash-Thunder-W...
Fiction with a hint of Fantasy, Short Story
Excerpt
All Rights Reserved
She was hard to trick, especially when it concerned a ball. If he teased too long she would tackle him for it. He feigned tossing the ball back over the hedge, flinging side arm instead, up the row towards Mrs. Napier’s yard. The ball struck the steel pole of the clothesline and ricocheted back across their yard and into the Prather’s. “No girl….”
Too late, Honey Bug ran into the lifeless dirt patch and junk pile owned by the Prather’s, disappearing behind the rusty tool shed after the ball. Thomas ran after her. “Come back, forget the ball. We shouldn’t be over here.”
There were incidents, “accidents happen” the stony faced, old man claimed, befalling those wandering onto Gunther Prather’s property. All the bolts were removed from the swing set in the Wahl’s yard after a journey to retrieve an errant rubber ball. Young Bubba was laid low by the cross bar, landing on his shoulder. His right ear needed 10 stitches.
Thomas envisioned the swing set falling as he followed her, rounding the shed entrance and a rusting pile of short cut steel pipe that spilled out of a box by the door. He slipped on one of the tubes and rolled onto the muddy ground.
Honey Bug had the ball but was pawing the ground and whining under an awning connecting two steel cargo containers the Prather’s used as a workshop.
Thomas stood up brushing dead grass and blobs of icy mud off his knees and elbows. The covered space smelled funny, like burnt hamburger and sulfur.
“We need to go, girl.”
He reached for her collar but froze when he saw the splayed carcass of a cat nailed to the plywood door. He had seen rabbits skinned and dressed for cooking, the exposed red and pink flesh, white bone and cartilage contrasting at the joints. This was not a rabbit. The dark brown and white fur stretched back to form a grimace at her muzzle. Her cloudy yellow eyes were fixed upon some point in the heavens. It was Gigi.
Fiction with a hint of Fantasy, Short Story
Excerpt
All Rights Reserved
She was hard to trick, especially when it concerned a ball. If he teased too long she would tackle him for it. He feigned tossing the ball back over the hedge, flinging side arm instead, up the row towards Mrs. Napier’s yard. The ball struck the steel pole of the clothesline and ricocheted back across their yard and into the Prather’s. “No girl….”
Too late, Honey Bug ran into the lifeless dirt patch and junk pile owned by the Prather’s, disappearing behind the rusty tool shed after the ball. Thomas ran after her. “Come back, forget the ball. We shouldn’t be over here.”
There were incidents, “accidents happen” the stony faced, old man claimed, befalling those wandering onto Gunther Prather’s property. All the bolts were removed from the swing set in the Wahl’s yard after a journey to retrieve an errant rubber ball. Young Bubba was laid low by the cross bar, landing on his shoulder. His right ear needed 10 stitches.
Thomas envisioned the swing set falling as he followed her, rounding the shed entrance and a rusting pile of short cut steel pipe that spilled out of a box by the door. He slipped on one of the tubes and rolled onto the muddy ground.
Honey Bug had the ball but was pawing the ground and whining under an awning connecting two steel cargo containers the Prather’s used as a workshop.
Thomas stood up brushing dead grass and blobs of icy mud off his knees and elbows. The covered space smelled funny, like burnt hamburger and sulfur.
“We need to go, girl.”
He reached for her collar but froze when he saw the splayed carcass of a cat nailed to the plywood door. He had seen rabbits skinned and dressed for cooking, the exposed red and pink flesh, white bone and cartilage contrasting at the joints. This was not a rabbit. The dark brown and white fur stretched back to form a grimace at her muzzle. Her cloudy yellow eyes were fixed upon some point in the heavens. It was Gigi.
The Eternal Campout
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