This week’s prompts are at the bottom. Feel free to seize the prompts, twist them, form them, play with them as you will. All comers are welcome. The words below are just practice for me. I had a lot of fun writing them, and you know what I always say, “Practice makes perfect.”
Here’s how to play along, if you are unsure.
It was a fine Spring day when Scooter Boyle walked seven miles through the woods to call on Miss Savannah Jean.
He got there and found her house in complete disarray. Dishes were piled high in the kitchen, the bed was unmade, and garbage overflowed the bin. Neither Miss Savannah Jean nor her old yellow dog was anywhere to be found, so he searched. He eventually found her unconscious in the outhouse. She sat propped on the seat, leaning against the wall with her knickers around her ankles and bare feet in a pool of vomit. Her mouth was open wide; she snored loudly.
Scooter carried her over his shoulder and sat her up against an old stump in the yard while he fetched a bucket of water. Then he stood back and tossed the bucket of cold water on her from about eight feet away. She was soaked.
Savannah Jean blew water from her mouth, shook water from her hair, jumped up and screamed when she tripped over her knickers, which were still around her ankles.
“What’re you doing, Scooter? You horse’s ass!”
He stopped her right there, “No, you’re the horse’s ass, Savannah Jean. You promised to give up drinking, and here you’ve been in yer daddy’s Korn! I walked all the way from my momma’s place to come courtin’, and here you are, drunk as a skunk. You oughta…”
“I’m just doing what the doctor told me to do, Scooter,” she interjected as either an explanation or an excuse.
“The doctor told you to drink till you pass out in the outhouse and puke all over your feet?”
“Well, not in those exact words, but he told me not to keep things bottled up.” She studied Scooter to see if he was buying it.
Scooter was doing his share of studying Miss Savannah Jean. He liked how the bucket of water had made her clothes cling to her curves. He could see the dark of her nipples trying to push through the light blue fabric of her blouse. He thought she looked a bit sad with her hair all wet and hanging down. He smiled.
She smiled.
They walked back to the house and she fell asleep on the Davenport that had been her Mama’s.
This week’s prompts are:
-
- lost dogs, mixed blessings
- suspiciously plausible
- vagabond
The New, Unofficial, On-line Writer's Guild 
Ah… we believe what we want… sometimes it is easier that way.
(42)
Not all stoies, fiction or otherwise have such happy endings… if and when they do eventually end –
as in Wide Awake at Grand Central Terminal
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