Today is Wednesday/Friday and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has provided the Friday Fictioneer’s gang with a picture taken by Jean L. Hays. I’ve always loved the prairie and tried to prove it with my 100-word story. Sorry, my muse went on the dark side.
The spicey smell of sagebrush, prairie grass warmed by the sun, and the scent of earth soaking up rain never grow old.
Howling wolves and yip-yipping coyotes don’t bother me one stitch. Shows things are still alive out on the plains.
My music? Prairie dog barks, the thrum of sage-grouse, and the flute-like whistle of meadowlarks. Don’t even mind the skritch of mice pilfering breadcrumbs.
It’s people I can’t abide. Asking fool questions when they knock on the door.
That’s why I built me a bunker. Sometimes it’s over-crowded but then one dies and the others can spread out a bit.
As far as Baylor was concerned Malone’s Magical Circus had lost its magic. It was bad enough that Sword Swallowing Swealwe, Fire Eating Paowl and Te-Te the Fat Lady were forced to live together in one car that now reeked of honed steel, charred flesh and donuts. But people had a say, could leave if they liked. The animals troubled Baylor. Thelma – Elephant – Bleeding ankles. Bobo – Orangutan – Open sores on his chest. Giselle – Giraffe – Neck bent, wedged inside her crate. Baylor looked across the prairie, hummed It’s now or never, hefted the bolt cutters, started with Thelma. She never looked back.
Up From the Ashes 