T-shirts and Tape

Photo via Morguefile.com

T-shirts and Tape

by PR Henriksen

For most it would be sad when your life comes down to a junk drawer, poured into a box, that you should've thrown out months ago. A few memories, and a lot of things that could be misconstrued or possibly used against you in a court of law. For Marlena it was good times and business-success-as-usual.

A Fine Summer Day

MorgueFile

A Fine Summer Day

By PR Henriksen

I sat drinking me single malt whisky taking wee breaks to exercise me bagpipes whilst the rather short, pointy-eared lad played golf in the glorious, green glen.

He was wee. And by wee, I mean tiny. Standing straight up, the wee lad came almost up to the base of the ears of a hare, who also stood by to watch him play. The lad was trying to play a round of golf with a rock and a fossilized thistle. He claimed to be some sort of Highland monarch, but when he missed a shot and his wee rock landed with a mighty raucous splash in the loch, he let loose a string of Gaelic insults the likes of which caused the local forest to quake.

I took another swig, contemplating on if he was one of the Sleagh Maith or their opposite. Upon experiencing his extensive range of perfectly ancient Gaelic invectives, I couldn't exactly call him good.

"And Monarchs have castles, clans, and properly displayed tartans Lad!"

He stared at me long enough for me to register the sparkling mischief in his wee bonnie blue eyes, then he turned abruptly and lifted his wee kilt to the heavens. Which exposed me to his eye-stunning white buttocks, and his natural born club and balls.

I slapped my knee and laughed until my sides were ready to split. He turned back to face me, laughing hisself into a tizzy as well and took a bow. Then looking quite serious, he said, "Play it again Dougal!", and I put me drinking glass down, picked up me pipes, and started again.

Truly a more magnificent summer day could not've happened by accident, alcohol, nor amiable gnome.

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I hope you're having a great Friday. I have been trying to stay away from social media and work on my Southwest Killer-Thriller which I will begin editing in a few weeks. But I couldn't pass up Eight Ladies "Scottish Chronicles" for Friday writing sprints. My mind apparently needed a shot and a Highland break. Feel free to try your hand at this weeks words and have some fun! :D

For being Scottish day, the darn random generator should have known that Scotch is from Scotland and Whisky/bourbon is from the USA. Sorry for the confusion. :D

Today's Random Words:

Whisky                 loch                       glen                       bagpipe

Castle                   golf                        highlands            green   

Monarch              rock                       fossil                     hare

Gaelic                   tartan                    clan                        forest

Super Puppy Love

Picture from Morgue File

Since when did my expensive, custom, titanium-vibranium arrows become puppy playthings? Oh, yeah, since I found out my future felon has this weird thing for robotic furniture, can swat smart cars the length of a football field with just a slight paw tap, and if he gets too much bacon he has fevered-hallucinations that he can fly... just like Underdog. He never bluffs, he just jumps. Who knows, one day he might be right and I'll need to get him a flying permit.

Oh, and did I mention he can chomp through a cell tower with a casual bite. He loves to bring the poles home. I try to put them back up, but he keeps bringing them home. We've been labeled as the number one menace to communications and technological advancement in the greater southwest. Considering Silicon Valley is kind of in our extended front yard, that might be saying something. I've taken to recycling the un-restorable poles. I built him a cell-tower-pole log cabin out back. I keep getting bills for the poles, so I figure I might as well use them.

Being titanium-vibranium, my arrows don't seem much affected by his chewing, they just ignore it. I tugged the arrow away from him. He let me. Anyone else trying to play tug with him would lose and arm, not because he would bite them, simply because normal people's arms would just pop off like a Barbie doll's.

I nocked the slobbery arrow, "Loki, fetch!" I aimed high and long, fired, and off he went. He had a lust for fetch that most dogs could never match. Trying to wear him out sure could wear me out. I sincerely hoped he would bring the arrow back, rather than another cell tower pole. If we got too many more poles, his house would soon be bigger than mine.

Our relationship isn't perfect, but it is both operatic and poetic. The superhero and the super-dog, saving and menacing the world. Sometimes on the same day. As he bounded back, probably from somewhere near Vegas, arrow in mouth. I thought about how much I loved him and what a lucky girl I was. I can't imagine ever adopting a more perfect pup.


Today's random words were:

Love    hallucination     puppy    bacon

Operatic  lust   furniture   weird

Relationship   robotic   arrow    felon

Fever   future   bluff      plaything

If you would like to see more Random Word Writings (or try your own), visit Eight Ladies Writing

Wind Tossed

It's been a while, but it is Flash Fiction Friday.

I've been working on a full novel that I plan to have out by the end of the year:

Archeologist meets lady sheriff, roughly, over the missing sheriff's truck and a query about the dead body they found in his basement. He wants to find and stop whoever is looting and destroying Utah archaeological sites, and she wants to find the missing sheriff without too many entanglements. Needless to say that isn't quite working out as planned- for either of them.  It is a southwest, murder-mystery, killer-thriller, and if all goes well, the first in a series. I already have some great ideas for the next 4-5 stories in the series.  Lee McEuen is the archaeologist - he's half Goshute Indian and proud of it. She is Jackie Kincaid - the only non-son in a family that have been Texas Rangers for generations. The desert can kill you, hide you, or even sustain you....your choice.

Oh, also.... it's finally motorcycle season here in Michigan. I've been gathering the sun's vitamin D rays on my face and arms for the last week in and out of work. It sure makes the world feel and smell nicer. Except for that strange day last week that I kept smelling spiced peach jam all along the way to work, except for one stop that smelled like doughnuts.  It inspired me to grab a dozen this morning and squeeze them gently into my side-bag for me and my work mates. Kind of a "have a great long weekend" kind of morning.

Now, here is Flash Fiction Friday... Thanks to the ladies over at Eight Ladies Writing, because I decided to participate in their Friday Writing Sprints.... want to try your luck and spin some random words? Drop by over there and add some. It can be a lot of fun. It definitely loosens the up the old brain cells - waky waky little brain! :D  Here's my entry for the day:

Wind Tossed

by PR Henriksen

Picture from Morgue File

"Brother, am I gonna regret this!"

Truly epic adventures and the most stupid of hell-bound ideas both start with a statement like that. So, my odds were 50/50. Could be worse... 

It was. 

After my chute shot unexpectedly sideways in a near hurricane wind blast,  I'd gotten myself tangled up in a tree.  I was hanging upside down, like some sort of floofy, artist's dream of a cloudy, forest chandelier.  I also mentally reset my odds of accomplishing this mission at about 75/25 - against.