Bacon with a side of Haiku

Friday prompt ! I’ve challenged myself to post a prompt every Monday and Friday to keep me on my toes. We’ll see how it goes! Today’s is provided by Writer’s Digest.

In an ironic twist, a dog really ate your homework. When you try to explain this to your teacher she says, “Come on, you can do better than that excuse.” Instead of arguing, you take that as a challenge and come up with an elaborate story as to what happened to your homework. Let us hear it.


“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” Molly sighed to Ms. Kellybrooke.

“Try me,” Ms. Kellybrooke huffed, her mossy green eyes peered over her purple glasses like frogs peeking out from under lily pads.

“Well it’s all my brother Tommy’s fault really,” said Molly. “We were sittin’ at breakfast and I was readin’ my collection of haiku to everyone so they could tell me which one I should recite in front of the class today.” Molly stopped for a second, scrambling her thoughts together like a hungry hippo game.

“Go on, Molly,” said Ms. Kellybrooke, one of her penciled eyebrows arched so high it nearly touched her hairline.

“So…as I was readin’ the haiku Tommy snatched the papers out of my hand. He said that he wrote the haiku and I was trying to take all of the credit. But it’s not true! Tommy is in Mr. Kilkenny’s class and they have the same assignment. Tommy never does his homework. Anyway, he grabbed the papers and I tried to grab them back, but when I yanked them from Tommy’s hand I fell backwards and crashed onto the table! Plates were flying, cups spilled all over and my papers got stuck to the syrup and bacon covered plates. Before I had time to grab my papers our dog, Destructo, was already eating his way across the mess. He ate up my best haiku with a side of crispy bacon and half a buttered biscuit. He’s a grouchy old git that will eat anything so long as a piece of meat is stuck to it. And that’s the honest to goodness truth Ms. Kellybrooke.”

Ms. Kellybrooke stared at Molly through her purple cat-eye glasses. Her lips were pursed so tightly Molly couldn’t tell if Ms. Kellybrooke was trying not to scream, or laugh.

“It’s the truth Ms. Kellybrooke. My mama was too angry about the mess to bother writin’ me a note. But it’s as true as the freckles on my face,” said Molly.

Ms. Kellybrooke took a deep breath. She was about to bark at the whispy little girl to get back to her seat along with her tall tales when she noticed a large clump of Molly’s hair stuck together and matted to the side of her head.

“It’s from crashing onto the table,” Molly said sheepishly as she held her hand up to her syrupy tangle of hair. “I landed headfirst onto my dad’s plate of biscuits and honey. I was so afraid of what they were gonna do I forgot to wash it out.”

Ms. Kellybrooke let out a deep sigh and as she did the corner of her eyes crinkled into a rare smile. “You take yourself on back to the water closet and freshen up young lady.”

“Thank you Ms. Kellybrooke,” Molly beamed as she puffed her chest. She turned on her heel and jogged quickly down the hall to the girls restroom. Grateful that for once Destructo saved her skin instead of nipping at it.

Three’s A Crowd

Writing Prompt provided by Writer’s DigestAfter months of planning, you and two of your friends pull off a major scam and steal $10 million dollars from a Vegas Casino. Your tracks are completely covered, there’s no way they can track it to you guys and you’ve escaped to a far away country. While you lay in your bed, dreaming of spending your share, you overhear your friends in the next room—plotting to kill you! Write this scene and what happens next.


Webster defines a sucker as, “A person who is easily tricked or deceived.” Lucky for me, I’m no sucker. But as for Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in the next room? Suckers.

While my “accomplices” praise themselves over our victorious thievery I have packed away every piece of paperwork, their passports, credit cards, debit cards, identification cards and all ten million (in various checks) into my backpack. It wasn’t difficult, as I’ve insisted from the start that I’d keep track of all the logistics. In fact the whole thing was my idea. I got them safely out of the country with a little over three million each. They were simply the muscle. Without me they’d still be scraping off buffet plates by day and mopping bathrooms by night at the Mandalay. I have to admit I find amusement in imagining them trying to work their way through the Latvian countryside. They barely speak English, let alone Latvian. Thanks to Craigslist, I’ve been taking lessons from an old Latvian lady the last nine months. Atvainojiet zēni! (Sorry boys!)

As they bicker over the details of my imminent and, apparently, brutal murder I am finishing up the last knots of my bed-sheet rope. A little medieval I know, but when you’re in a creaky old hotel and there is only one door in and out, you improvise.

“Do it now before she wakes up,” I hear one of them growl. Thank God the old man at the desk downstairs gave us the suite with the extra room. There’s no lock on the door, but I didn’t sleep anyway.

I pry open the window and fling out my makeshift rope. There’s not a soul in sight on the dimly lit cobblestone street. I double check that it’s secure on the wrought iron bed frame and begin shimmying down as quickly as I can. Three stories seems a lot higher when your only lifeline is a rope made of ancient sheets.

“She’s climbing!” one of the idiots shouts. I still can’t really tell them apart. Better to not get too personal with people you’re committing criminal offenses with. Thank God they don’t have guns. I stashed them when they went downstairs to eat in the lobby, thinking I was asleep.

Just as my toes touch the pavement I’m knocked off my feet with impressive force. My head feels like it’s splitting in half. I push myself up and rub the back of my head. Blood. I turn back up to the window and see the two buffoons staring at me, hoping their little stunt worked. It didn’t.

“You’ll need more than a bedside bible to do me in, boys,” I sneer at them. I couldn’t feel more elated to see their idiotic dumbstruck faces.

“Your money’s on the table,” I cheer before turning to run down the street. I laugh to myself as they’ve undoubtedly read my note; next to the $6.60 in US dollars I left, by now.

“T & H—spend it wisely, suckers.”

Fool Me Once

Prompt provided by Writer’s Digest! I promise my next post I’ll switch things up…perhaps.

After arriving at your favorite lunch destination and eating your favorite meal, your waitress rushes to your table. She looks panicked. She grabs you and looks into your eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Finally, she turns toward the wait staff, who is all gathered just outside the kitchen, and yells, “We only have 6 minutes until he dies! We need to save him.” Write this scene from your perspective.


“I’m sorry, what?” I stare at the waitress, whose complexion is as tomato red as her hair.

“Six minutes,” she rasps, “six minutes until you die!” Despite my best efforts my laughter clamors through the awkward silence of the restaurant, stunning the waitress.

“Where is she?” I ask, scanning the room. I know she’s behind this. Annie always was one for dramatics. Price you pay for straying from the marriage bed.

“If I were you,” the waitress pleas, “I’d be in the next cab to the hospital, mister.” Ignoring her again I stand up and walk back through the kitchen towards Annie’s office with the waitress on my heels.

“I wouldn’t go in there!” She wails, “Seriously, sir, you need to get to a hospital!”

“Listen, you’re obviously new here,” I warn her as I hold my hand up. “Annie is a close friend of mine. So if you’d be so kind as to get out of my way.” Niceties have never been my strongpoint.

I push open the office door and there’s Annie, leaning against her desk, looking perfect as usual. Her slender legs go on for miles and her hazel eyes take a man’s breath away. But beneath all that gorgeous perfection is a hailstorm waiting to strike.

“Enough with the nonsense, Anne,” I say to her. “Your little friend is making a scene and I’d like to eat in peace if that’s alright with you.” Annie smiles exposing two rows of flawlessly straight pearly whites. She laughs her rich sultry laugh and for a minute I’m almost swept up in her storm once more.

“Ezra Kane,” she says, “what a way to spend your last six minutes. Tell me, how was the milkshake?”

“Annie, I’m tired,” I begin, “it’s been a long day. I thought we agreed to leave well enough alone.” I see her left eyebrow begin to rise like it always does when she’s about hurl a lightening strike.

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you wasted three years of my life, Mr. Kane,” she hisses at me. “And of all the diners in this city, you still come to mine? You had it coming.” It’s as if she has said the magic words. A searing pain slices across my lower abdomen as a burning sensation tingles in my hands. My vision blurs at a rapid pace as my heart booms in my chest .

“Goodbye, Ezra,” Annie bends down and whispers. Through the pulsing in my ears I can hear Annie’s favorite soundtrack playing on her computer. It’s “Cell Block Tango” from Chicago. Just as my world is going black she sings the words, “You know some guys just can’t hold their arsenic.”

Aunt Edna

Writing Prompt provided by Writers Digest ! 500 Word Max.

Your wealthy Aunt Edna has died and left you all of her money. At first you’re excited, as you’ve been living paycheck-to-paycheck your whole life, and this newfound money offers you endless possibilities. But, in her will, Aunt Edna left one big catch—and, if you don’t do it, all of the money is to be given to your most unlikable cousin, Wilfred.


“So you’re telling me if I don’t do this, all five hundred mill goes to Wilfred?” I clarify incredulously.

“Yes, Mr. Hardy,” croaks the Lawyer. Once again the grin cracks across his aged face, reminding me of an old toad.

“I guess we better get going then,” I sigh. I follow Mr. Hale down the hall and out into the parking lot. We climb inside his vintage Jaguar and set off for Aunt Edna’s house in the woods. I haven’t been back since I was a kid. All I really remember is her weird obsession with vintage glass soda bottles. She’d buy them by the dozens wherever she could. “A soda a day can add up,” she would say each time she bought one. She was always missing a screw or two.

We turn onto the long driveway leading up to the house. From the mailbox at the end of the drive, stretching out over at least an acre of yard is an enormous mosaic of soda bottles. There isn’t a blade of grass to be seen between the shimmering green and clear colored bottles. She seems to have been inspired by her Dutch roots, making a picture of a windmill and a pair of clogs.

“There must be half a million bottles here,” I groan to Mr. Hale. “I’ve got to wash, dry and polish every single bottle? Just to throw them away?” Mr. Hale nods once again smiling like bug eyed toad.

“Well make yourself comfortable,” I sigh as I push the car door open. I realize that there are a myriad of worse scenarios in order to get five hundred million dollars. I’d clean a billion bottles if I had to. I just don’t get why I have to go through all the work just to throw the stupid things away.

Back at the mosaic I’ve set up a cleaning station on the front porch of the house. I pull a couple of dark green Sprite bottles. Just as I’m about to dunk them in the water I see that they each have something inside. I flip two bottles over and two tightly rolled wads of twenty-dollar bills fall into my hand. I unroll the wad and each one has a hundred dollars worth in twenties. I flip over the other three bottles and inside each is a wad of one hundred dollars. I grab ten more bottles from the yard and dump them out onto the porch. Every single bottle holds a hundred bucks. I collect the money and stash it under the porch steps before running over to Mr. Hale.

“Is the entire five hundred million in the bank?” I ask him as coolly as I can.

“Yes,” He replies without looking up from his book. Pure jubilation rises in my chest. I’m going to walk away today with at least another fifty million.

“A soda a day can add up, Mr. Hale,” I tap on the car door and run back to the porch.

The Secrets of Sally Thorne, Part IV

(Click the links for Part I , Part II , and Part III )

Sally was stunned. Staring back at her in the salon mirror was a gorgeous brunette. Her once tumbleweed-esque mane had been replaced by long silky raven layers. Bold brows, deep berry colored lips and lush lashes framed her vibrant green eyes. The navy blue frock picked out by Francine cinched her waist and hugged in all the right places.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sally whispered in disbelief. Lucy, the red-headed hairstylist, smiled warmly as she continued to play with Sally’s hair.

“Whoever permed your hair did you no favors,” said Lucy. “Your high cheekbones were made for sleek layers. You remind me of a brunette Kate Winslet.” Sally couldn’t help but laugh. She did look like Kate Winslet. She also wasn’t about to admit that she had been perming her own hair for the last twenty years.

Sally paid for her new dress and makeover then walked over to the salon door. The bustling sidewalk paid no attention to her. Clint was nowhere to be seen.  Even if he was, Sally was convinced that he wouldn’t notice her. She didn’t recognize herself. Taking a deep breath Sally pushed the salon door open and stepped into the crowded city.

Sally arrived at Tutus fifteen minutes early. She hoped that Barnabas would show up early too. She’d rather deal with the shock of her new appearance between the two of them and not in front of Xander. Butterflies began flitting through her stomach as the minutes ticked closer to six o’clock.

Five minutes till Sally could see Barnabas’s large body parting the crowd on the sidewalk, a grizzly bear of a man. She’d always found those types attractive. He caught her eye as he got closer to the restaurant and it was obvious he had no idea who she was.

“Hi Barnie,” Sally said quickly. There was no disguising the absolute confusion on Barnabas’s face. If it wasn’t for her purple glasses he would have never guessed who she was.

“Sal?” said Barnabas. His eyebrows locked in a state of shock. “Wha — why–You look amazing.” He finally sputtered. Sally’s cheeks glowed against her pale skin. Normally she’d brush off such a comment, but tonight she did look amazing.

“Just wanted something different,” Sally said as coolly as she could. “I’ve been meaning to do it for a while.”

“Well, words fail, Ms. Thorne,” Barnabas said cheekily, holding open the restaurant door. “Shall we?”

Sally followed Barnabas into the restaurant and waited as he spoke to the hostess.

“Xander’s already here,” Barnabas said surprised. “He’s normally fashionably late. Likes to make an entrance, if you know what I mean.” Sally and Barnabas followed the sharp featured hostess. The enormous room was speckled with silvery glowing lights contrasted by the pitch black walls. An electric blue waterfall cascaded down from the fourth story ceiling landing into three perfectly circle pools. Glassware clinked all about the room mixed with muffled conversations. Idyllic for the modern elite of the city.

Finally they arrived at their table, a semi circular booth secluded from the rest of the tables. Obviously Xander must be a man of money to be able to afford such a space. As Barnabas turned to introduce Sally to Xander her blood ran cold. Sitting across the table in a three thousand dollar Armani suit was her estranged brother-in-law: Ray Alexander Savij.

To be continued…

The Secrets of Sally Thorne, Part III

Part I & Part II )

Sally stood outside of the coffee shop on the bustling sidewalk. She could still see Barnabas towering above the rest of the passersby towards Larson Street station. She smiled to herself and began walking the other way.

It was a gorgeous day. The sun was bright and buckets of fresh flowers lined the shop windows. The whole mood of the city lifted when summer arrived. As Sally passed a gaudy french boutique filled with clothing that no normal human being would wear she caught a glimpse of her reflection.

“Good grief,” Sally groaned. Her unruly hair was a mass of tangles and her coffee soaked yellow sweater had an air of homelessness. Her grubby once-white tennis shoes aged her. The only thing she didn’t detest were her purple glasses. They were a splurge during a weekend getaway to St. Augustine last fall. She’d always worn purple glasses.

Sally’s bemoaning was disrupted by a rapping on the boutique’s window. A thin woman with bright red lips and a frilly top waved her inside. Sally held up her hand apologetically and turned around to cross the street.

Time froze. Sweat broke out across Sally’s forehead and beaded into the palms of her hands. She’d recognize those lifeless eyes anywhere. Her ex-husband and convict, Clint Savij, stared with a face like flint from across the street. Sally’s vision started to blur. A city bus rumbled by hiding Clint behind it. Seizing the moment Sally ran into the boutique and watched from the window. As the bus rolled away Clint was nowhere to be seen.

“May I help you Ms?” The woman with the filly top had a voice that matched her shirt.

“I, uh,” said Sally nervously,”Yes I’d like a new outfit please.” The boutique woman’s eyes shined as she weakly concealed her excitement.

“But of course!” she replied, “We have some stunning new numbers in for the summer.” She paused for a moment to slowly study Sally from head to toe. Sally kept her eyes on the window.

“Blues, ” the woman piped, “blues are your color.” Sally nodded in agreement though she couldn’t care less what color the frilly voiced woman thought she should wear. All that mattered was killing time and making sure Clint stayed out of the boutique.

“My name is Francine,” said the woman. “If you’ll make yourself comfortable in the dressing lounge I will collect some options for you.” She smiled exposing a mouth full of pearly white teeth, two of which had a smudge of tomato red lipstick.

“Thanks,” said Sally. As she hurried towards the dressing lounge she noticed, for the first time, a glass door leading into what looked like a salon.

“Francine?” Sally called out.

“Yes, my dear?” Francine chimed, emerging from between two thickly packed racks of clothes.

“Is that a salon next door?” asked Sally.

“Yes, it’s our sister shop,” said Francine. “Lucy and I co-own the boutique and salon. If you shop at one you get a discount at the other. Lucy does wonders with hair. She styles to kill.” Francine raised her eyebrows, yet again failing to conceal the eager desire for a sale.

“Excellent,” said Sally. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

To be continued.

It was Sarah

Prompt provided by Writer’s Digest!

Opening up the daily paper, you decide to catch up on the local news. When you check the crime log, you notice a familiar name: yours. The log says you’re wanted for a crime you didn’t commit. Suddenly, you hear three loud knocks on the door, followed by a man yelling, “Police! Open up!” What did the paper say and how are you going to get out of this?


“Lavinia, open up!” They pound on the door. I’ve barricaded it but it’s no use. Sooner or later they’ll come crashing in with their snarls and snares telling me I’ve done something that I haven’t. There’s a conspiracy against me.

“Lavinia if you don’t comply we will come in by force and you won’t like the consequences,” they shout. Whether I comply or not they always come in and there are always consequences.

The paper is spread across the floor and there’s my name in dark bold print, “Lavinia McCoy found guilty of family massacre.” Ludicrous. It was all Sarah. It was all Sarah’s doing. It was all Sarah’s plan. She held the knife. She did the slicing. I’m the one that tried to convince her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen. After the slaughter she disappeared, as I feared she would. Empty promises of sticking together. She left me in the lurch, covered in the blood of the innocent souls I tried to save.

A jarring slam hits the door and busts it open. Two coppers, a nurse and Dr. Holt spill inside. Before I know it the coppers have flipped me on to my stomach and once again the cuffs bite into my wrists. They pull me up onto my feet and walk me out of the room and down the hall.

“Lavinia this is the second time this month,” the nurse says to me as she walks in step with the coppers. She’s pretending to be concerned but I know she couldn’t care less. “I don’t know where you keep finding the old newspapers. You understand this means relocation?” I contort my face to look indifferent, but I know relocation means the third floor.

“Name and condition, sir? For the report.” I hear one of the coppers ask as they push me into the car.

“Lavinia McCoy,” says Dr. Holt. From the car window I can see the stunned copper’s face.

“The girl who killed her family?” The copper asked. I can feel my blood rising. I want to claw his smug little face off.

“It was Sarah!” I scream, “Sarah is the murderer you want! Sarah slaughtered them in their sleep! I don’t belong on the third floor!” I begin banging my hands against the glass, but it’s useless. All they do is stare at me like I’m crazy.

“Yes, Lavinia McCoy, paranoid schizophrenic and multiple personality disorder. High risk,” says Dr. Holt, “sometimes goes by the name of Sarah.”