Harry and Blanche finally found their dream house. Having always been both nature lovers and bookworms, they’d fantasized for years about the perfect combination of their two loves.
“You’ll see, sweetheart,” the proud husband gushed. “Once all these trees start blooming, it will be such a beautiful environment.”
“Yes, Harry,” Blanche intoned. “Until then we can get our books arranged. We’ll start with the Romantic poetry and Regency period novels. Then we can move on to the Victorian novels and poetry.
“You never know, of course, when Coventry Patmore and Jane Austen might stop by~or the Bronte’s and Browning’s~perhaps even the Shelley’s,” she imagined aloud.
“People will claim it can’t be done,” Harry admitted reluctantly. “‘You do understand they’re all currently deceased’, they’ll point out.”
“Little do folks know,” Blanche continued, “The rapport we’ve always had with the great literary giants of yore. Of course, all anyone needs is a library card and a keen set of eyes and ears. With our new purchase, though, we have even much more of an advantage.”
Here’s me entry, based upon a photo prompt from Tale Weaver #172
Tom and Frank were getting ready to march, with their Knights of Columbus council, at the annual Memorial Day Parade.
“Remember,” Tom stated. “We have to be at the south side of Illinois Avenue at 9:30 a.m. Monday.”
“We have the food ready,” Frank continued. “The Knights’ Pub is fully stocked. As always, the Historical and Preservation Society, and Hibernians, will be there.”
“We have our banners, fliers, and a trolley to take us home, “Tom explained. “Now all we need are healthy gams to get us through it all.”
They stared at each other sadly, tacitly conceding defeat.
Welcome back yet again to Friday Fictioneers. This week Rochelle
supplies the photo prompt.
I recently went to John’s and Fran’s wedding, where everyone was, like me, Irish and from Queens.
It was an animated night with a wide variety of loud music, including some songs by the Eagles.
I was careful about the bar, not wanting to get drunk in the company of their family.
I should suppose I shall have a long wait for the day when I shall be able to keep my anxiety about crowds and noise in check. Until then, though, I can at least have a good laugh about it. For now I can keep on winning people’s hearts with my distinctive charm.
This is me first attempt at Sunday Whirl . Click the link to find out what it’s all about. Brenda Warren is in charge.
“Watch out for those boots,” Mitt warned Keef as they approached the Goblin Market. “Don’t you remember what happened to Lizzie’s sister Laura?”
“They’re a reminder of the goblins,” his friend conceded. “They’ll stop at nothing to sell us their poisonous fruits.”
“It’s odd,” the former continued, “How such ugly little fellows can make such an enchanting pitch. It just goes to show how delightful a charm the fruits can have.
They went on along their way, strolling past the local graveyard and mental institution. The goblins, in the background, continued their irresistible, incessant chant, determined to entice the locals.
It’s time, yet again, for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers . Follow the link for an explanation. Courtney Wright has supplied this week’s photo prompt.
Klindworth and Cimino were having their nightly Hot Dog Debate.
“Of the rivers in the Garden of Eden,” Klindworth explained, “The Tigris and Euphrates still exist. The Tigris represents mankind’s poisonous secular culture, and Euphrates, his poisonous government.”
“Of course,” his friend continued. “The Pishon and Gihon represent what we have lost by Original Sin.”
Throughout their argument, Wass, the weinie salesman, was understandably frustrated.
“If you want that desperately to talk about things like that,” said he, “Go over to the apple stand.”
Klindworth, ever the wise~ass, replied: “Are you sure they aren’t pomegranates, my friend?”
Rochelle takes us yet again upon our weekly Friday Fictioneers jaunt. This week’s photo prompt was provided by Jill Wisoff
Muriel and Gloria desperately wanted to see the Old Man On the Mountain.
“Ooh,” Muriel opined. “I’ll bet he’s a dead ringer for Walt Whitman. We have to remember that someone in his position is always either a hermit or a wizard, so be careful.”
Having finally met him on the mountaintop, they were in awe. “Oh, most distinguished Sir, “Gloria dared to ask him. “Won’t you kindly impart to us your wisdom?”
“I wish people would stop asking me that,” he complained. “I’m just a retired plumber. I thought I could count on peace and quiet up here.”