Sarah Potter Writes

Pursued by the Muses of prose, poetry, and music.

Monday Morning #Haiku 157 — Potter’s Pots

Yearly pilgrimage
Expedition to buy plants
A simple pleasure

Friday Fictioneers — She Needs Glasses

auto-aftermath

Genre: Humour
Word count: 100

~~SHE NEEDS GLASSES~~

That idiot human has just demolished my home and scattered my babies to the wind. I’ve lived here forever, festooning the wing mirror on the passenger side of the car with webs built to ensnare a bountiful roadkill of gnats and resist a driving speed of 70 mph.

The Idiot isn’t car-proud and only washes her steel beast once or twice a year, at which time I reel in the main lines of my webs and retreat to safety behind the mirror cover casing.

My size makes me easy to overlook, but a giant brick pillar is quite another matter.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: Image copyright © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Monday Morning #Haiku 155 & 156 — Dandelion/Grandpa

Dandelion clocks
exist to taunt gardeners
and thrill herbalists.

Grandpa wears a hat
for fear of losing his hair
in a puff of wind.

Friday Fictioneers — The Deal

Genre: Fiction
Word Count: 100

~~THE DEAL~~

When my name was Humphrey, I had Aspergers and lived in a room with closed curtains. My mother bought me pizza with carrot and jam topping every day.

When I became Jared, I still had Aspergers and lived in my room, but belonged to a worldwide community that appointed me their hacker-in-chief.

Now I’m in a strange room with bars on the windows and no curtains. A man says to me, “Humphrey, you have two options. Either you go to prison, or you work for us.”

“Will you bring me pizza with carrot and jam topping every day?” I ask.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: copyright © Sandra Crook

#Tanka 32 — Storm

Charcoal clouds from north…
garden locked in somnolence
awaits first raindrops.
Storm hits, its broadside attack
an act of demolition.

Friday Fictioneers — Unholy Epitaph

Genre: Dark humor
Word Count: 100

~~UNHOLY EPITAPH~~

hic iacet sepultus

DOMINIC SEAMUS HEGGARTY
a gardener who loved Nature minus Man.

Born in Islington, June 13th 1836
Died December 27th 1891

Bastard son of Michael de Humpe, VIIIth Earl of Stitchbury
 who cavorted with Molly Frimble, an unfortunate, and contracted the French disease and died most horribly of raging insanity,
thereby bestowing upon his beloved illegitimate son nothing of note other than an unconsecrated burial plot at the far end of his Estate,
for when his own time of passing came, alongside Molly,
dispatched to the afterlife by Lady Stitchbury in a fit of apoplexy.

requiescant in pace

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: copyright © Liz Young

 

Monday Morning #Haiku 154 — Cherry Blossom

Wedding photo shoot
Cherry blossom in churchyard
Nature obeys bride

Friday Fictioneers — Him with the Dog collar

Genre: Humour
Word count: 100

~~HIM WITH THE DOG COLLAR~~

Susanna thought her husband, the Reverend, the worst public speaker in the universe. Whenever he climbed into the pulpit, he underwent a personality change: those unfunny anecdotes, the sepulchral voice, and the platitudes.

To cure her boredom, Susanna thought not of God but of shoes. Even vicars’ wives like to dream about shoes, especially in Lent when temptation expands in proportion to self-denial. Sometimes her frustration spilled over into an angry confession, and the Reverend told her, “It’s the Devil who distracts you with shoes, my dear.”

True, she couldn’t wear her sandals anymore due to her feet turning cloven.

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: copyright © Magaly Guerrero

Monday Morning #Haiku 152 & 153 — Seagull at First Light

Prehistoric shrieks…
Nightmare of pterodactyl
just a herring gull.

Rude awakening…
Seagull in hobnail boots
stomps across flat roof.

Friday Fictioneers — Threat or Intention?

Genre: Realistic Fiction
Word count: 100

~~THREAT OR INTENTION?~~

Dear B,

This time, you’ve cheesed me off to the point of no return. You’ve stolen a chunk of my life, then upped sticks and left me to clear up the mess.

Well, here’s my plan. I’m going to flatten you, squeeze that last drop of life-blood from your veins, like tomato paste from a tube. For years you’ve treated me as a piece of furniture, an unpaid servant and plaything of no consequence. You promised me the world, but deprived me of the yeast to expand my horizons.

See this marble rolling pin.  

You’re dead.

Amen to that,

M

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: copyright © Dale Rogerson

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