Hoopla

Playing Pig or Horse,
Shootin balls in the driveway,
Summers and freedom.




As usual, if you want to read more, go visit all the gang here. Maybe I'll try a limerick next week. Woulda gone great with the lollipop post perhaps......Oh, not that kind of limerick.

Sucker Id-40 Word Challenge

Charms Pop or Tootsie,

Wanting to munch the center,

Freudian I think.

As usual, if you want to read more or play, go visit Robin.

The Revolution at Riley's Farm

40 Word Photo Challenge 3-On Finding Rest

Chocolate sits atop the pillow,
The Bubbly chilled and ‘good to go,’
But still my soul finds no rest.
For true rest is found in
The Well that bubbles up in me,
Him who never slumbers nor sleeps.

If you want to follow up on the other posts, or play, go here.

The Band is Formed: In Which Sydney Meets Veronica and Roscoe

There she stood. Not that she stood alone, but everything else receded, dull by comparison, colorless in contrast. Black skirt, hugging her hips and accentuating her form, leaving everything except her calves open to his imagination. Ruffled top, sleeveless, exposing strong nicely shaped arms. Were those leopard spots on her blouse?
He’d sauntered over, made foolish chit-chat, and introduced himself. They found a table in sight of the bar. Being a millionaire had its privileges.

Before he could react, she’d pulled the dagger from somewhere (Was it hiding amidst the leopard spots?) arcing it towards the young man behind the bar.
“What in the tarnation…?,” said Sydney.
“The closer the tip, the bigger the TIP. If he spills one drop of beer, or gets distracted…. We've played this game since we were young...,” she said, her voice trailing off.

No wince, no sudden movement; only a smooth, fluid angling of the body to drop the shoulder, and the man behind the bar averted the impact of the dagger.

Sydney had gone to The Bar of the Dancing Bear on assignment. He was searching for the Four Toed Man. How would he find him? How would you discover it was him until you were able to autopsy him? Perhaps he’d be lucky, and he’d taken to wearing sandals. It was only later that he found out he was looking for The Four Toad Man, collector of trinkets and exotic reptiles.

The young man came out from behind the bar, bringing out more ale and setting down the dagger between them. With raised eyebrow and a hint of mystery (or perhaps it was a hint of strawberry, blueberry or some other jam that he’d missed on his upper lip) he said, “A cord of three strands is not easily broken. Those who use a mini-mart as a front should learn to cover their back.”

To be continued……

Marshmallow Man

Mommy;
The Marshmallow Man; falling from the big blue sky:

Would his wide white belly and heavy hips squish Puffy the cat and fling Fifi the Jones' poodle into highest Heaven?

If you want to play, or see what others wrote; go here.

Bantering with the Barista-Bar Chronicles #1

We’ve all joked about writing a book chronicling the characters we meet, on the street, at our work, and on our travels. I’ve had a couple of customers these last two days that would be among those listed in the chapter: Bantering with the Barista-People I’ve Served at the Bar (feel free to come up with your own (better?) title and write it in the comments section).

A classic was the guy that came in Friday. We have these cups on display to illustrate to the customer the sizes for the drinks. The cups for the cold drinks have dome-type lids on the samples. The guy hems and haws about what to get and finally ends up ordering an Iced Coffee. Upon handing him his coffee, his eyes glaze over (Eyes’d coffee?) and he yells, “Where’s the whip cream?” To which I reply, “Uh, you didn’t ask for whip cream.”
“But that’s what you advertise!” I ask him to explain himself, and he stomps around the kiosk, points to the dome lid, and says, “See!” Then he rips the lid off of the sample cup, all the while frothing at the mouth (in place of whip cream?) and ranting about, “If you are going to advertise something, then you need to serve it that way!”

Black untamed hair all akimbo, this Italian guy came in to the store today. His girlfriend stood across the way, her black dress flowing to slightly below her knees (half-calf?), her shawl stylishly thrown over one-and-a-half shoulders.

We ask him his name, as usual, and with an Italian accent, he says, “Paulo.” I’m not sure that the word caricature would have leapt to mind, had it not been for the heart tattoo’d on his forearm, above the word, “Amor.”