For Remembrance Sunday.
Poppy diffusion,
symbolic of war and peace.
Battlefield red
through to elegant maroon,
not a white petal in sight.
For Remembrance Sunday.
Poppy diffusion,
symbolic of war and peace.
Battlefield red
through to elegant maroon,
not a white petal in sight.

“You are a naughty, broken car and I’m going to tip you in the rubbish.”
“Ben, for heaven’s sake stop chucking things at the bin. You’re giving me a headache.”
“Come on, digger-crane-Cadillac, let’s scoop this old rust-bucket into the crusher. Wham-bang, wham-bang.”
“Lunch is ready.”
“Oh, but Mu-u-u-um, I’m playing with my cars.”
“Your soup will get cold.”
“In a minute. I’m just–“
“It’s petrol soup with tyre crôutons, followed by car-wax pudding.”
“Yummy stuff. Broom, broom, br-oo-oo-m. On my way up the motorway. Overtaking a police car–“
Skid. Crash. Silence.
Boy-racer in head-on collision with wall. Dial Emergency Services.
#
Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo prompt image (c) Jean L. Hays
At first glance, when I saw this tin dish atop a tree-stump in the woods, it played tricks upon my eyes and I mistook it for an impressive piece of fungi. It has obviously been there for some time as the ivy is doing its tenacious best to bind it to the stump until the last piece of rust has crumbled to red dust.
I wonder who put the dish there in the first place. A forgetful camper, perhaps? Or someone kind enough to leave the birds a bath? Maybe a litter lout? Who knows?
Whatever the answer to these questions, I’m glad to note that Nature is winning the battle with this particular piece of junk.