Best Laid Plans

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold. [I overshot the word count this week, so sue me. :)]

My obituary wasn't in the morning paper, so I headed to Target. I entered the store and there she was. Red shirt, curly, grey hair, hunched shoulders. I smiled as I walked by, still unable to speak to her. But today I had a plan. 

I headed to the flower section to purchase a bouquet of green balloons. My passion wasn't the only thing left deflated when I was told about the helium shortage.

Missing Person

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold.

The drought had turned the lake into a pond. The trunk of the white Mercedes, her prison, glinted in the sunlight. Boots floated in the rear window. I thought she’d run away. Now a mental checklist scrolled through my mind, as I wondered what I’d done to lead us here. 

The Houseguest

"Who's that?" Carl asked about the man standing near the fence.

"Says his name is Angel Lopez," Jake replied.

"For real?" Carl moved to one side for a better look.

"I know. He doesn't look like a Lopez," Jake said.

"You got that right." Carl listed to the left and shaded his eyes. "What is he, Chinese?" 

"Does it matter?" Jake turned and walked away, dragging his right foot, the one that got run over and cost him his job right before the company declared bankruptcy and went out of business.

"What's he want?" Carl said to the air.

"Says he needs a new home." Jake bent down and picked up a Cheerios box. "Wants to know if he can stay with us while he checks out the area." He peered into the box and threw it back on the ground, away from his home. "He was snooping around our stuff when I got here. Said he was checking out the accommodations." Jake looked toward the fence. The guy named Angel Lopez was taking a leak. "Like we're some kind of hotel. I should have asked him if the minibar was to his liking."

"Does he smell?" Carl asked.

"Not that I noticed." Jake continued his housecleaning by throwing a tattered shirt into the neighbor's concrete yard.

Carl straightened and turned his head toward Jake. "Did you tell him our carton is hardly big enough for the two of us?"

"Of course, I did," Jake slapped the back of his neck. "Damn mosquitoes are bad this year." He wiped his hand on his shirt and continued cleaning up the area. "He said he didn't take up much room." Jake looked at Carl. "I told him to take a hike."

"Guess he didn't hear you." Carl walked over to where Jake was standing. "Maybe we could let him stay for a couple of days. It'd be a shame to throw him out on the street." Carl put his hand on Jake's shoulder. "You know how that is."

Jake looked at Carl and smiled. "Why you old softy. You know that's why I love you."

Carl shrugged, his face flushed.

"Okay, he can stay," Jake said. "We've been sharing the same blanket anyway." He stepped back and pointed a finger at Carl. "But you  gotta wear some pants at night."

Sweating in the IHOP

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold. 

I took a visual tour of the town, while I waited for my organic catfish special. The restaurant sat across the street from the county jail, a building my eyes kept returning to. I wouldn't be here if the battery in my LTD hadn't died. I sure hoped the mechanic didn't look in the trunk.

The Parade

Here's a bonus Sunday story. Patti Abbott posted a challenge to write a drabble (a story of exactly 100 words--not counting the title) based on a picture. Here's my effort.

***

The Parade 

The town folk waited for the maimed war hero to ride by. Small children held red, white, yellow and green helium-filled balloons, ready to release them in his honor. The older boys hung out by the trees, smoking pot and joking about the one-legged hero to cover up their own anxiety about being next. Others, dressed in summery garb, leaned over to watch the horizon.

The lead motorcycle carrying the fallen veteran approached the crowd. The soldier saw a line of enemy troops and grabbed his gun. As they rode past the horde, he sneered and emptied his rifle.

Life Imitating Art

The Sunday Flash Factory 5 to 50/55 challenge prompt words in bold. 

Mazie trudged through the Gallery of Fringe Art disgusted by what she saw. Statues with heads for feet. Torsos with genitals in place of belly buttons. Audience members oohing over every disgusting piece. She stopped at the statue of the boy, drama etched on his face. She touched his skin and he whispered, "Help me."