Flash fiction for aspiring writers – Page 9 – a cooking pot and twisted tales

Benjamin assessed the corralled horses, his mind deeply disturbed.

”Who could have done such a dastardly thing,” he mulled over and over. His disturbed mien hardly taking cognizance of the rain that soaked him to the skin.

”It is only three more weeks to the Steeplechase competition and some mean snake got it into his head to contaminate the horses oats, now my best mount Thunder Hoof is down.”

”Could it have been Lucas, my ever envious neighbor?” ”Or that oily tongued land grabber, Max?” He debated.

The answers were not forthcoming. He scratched his head in indecision.

”I need to choose a good horse and very fast too.”

His mind quickly settled on Sun-dance, whose silky white mane swam down his neck like waterfall, and his tail swept carelessly with pride.

He almost stood apart from the rest in confidence and regal posture, with muscles that rippled under his white coat.

It is rumored that his sire is the direct descendant of Crazy Horse, an Apache Warrior’s mount.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha

In response to Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers

This post is for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (FFfAW) Challenge, run by Priceless Joy. This week’s photo prompt was provided by her. Thank you ma’am! The challenge is that you write a story of 75-175 words inspired by the photo prompt below. I hope you like it

Tommy sprawls on his stomach on the thick paisley rug by the fireplace. His crooked elbows supporting his head, as he gazes at Nana with rapt attention.

In her favorite rocking chair, her shawl around her shoulders and Jack-sparrow at her feet, her little round glasses keeps sliding down her nose, when she chuckles.

He loves Nana dearly and her tales are full of magic. Time spent with her are precious.

He enjoys such special nights; the room is warm and toasty, despite the downpour. Cups of warm cocoa with marshmallows and buttery toast are just the thing. Nana’s pecan pie; the best in the entire county. The scents of spices all form a sense of coziness in their hearth.

Stretching his limber frame, his dreamy senses are roused by whispering voices and the waft of vanilla essence. Thomas pads over to his kitchen, brews a cup of coffee and sits by the misty window watching the rain drops.

He startles as a shadow of an orange floral shawl and a limping dog float by. Rushing to open the window, scents of nutmeg, cinnamon, vanilla and other spices float in.

Time to finish writing Nana’s tales, he tells himself.

Jacqueline Oby-Ikocha