Friday Fictioneers: Babette Bladderini Gets a Better Part

Guess what Dear Readers?  I was running in the house yesterday and somebody left a calendar on the floor and I tripped over Tuesday and landed flat on my Wednesday.  Luckily, I was able to hobble to my keyboard and cobble together a 100-word story for this week’s Friday Fictioneers.

Björn Rudberg provided the picture this week.  He’s a really wonderful writer and you can magically materialize over at his blog and check out all his great stuff here   → Yes! I want to magically materialize over at Bjorn’s Blog!

Little Village
Copyright – Björn Rudberg

Babette Bladderini Gets a Better Part

The day Babette Bladderini was killed in a landslide was a strange blessing. Babette was born between bullets exchanged by the Bladderini clan and their mortal enemies, the Parcheesi’s.

While being born, a bullet grazed Babette’s head, leaving a permanent part in her hair a little too far to the left, and Babette’s fate was sealed.  She lived her entire existence never knowing a good hair day.

Then, a landslide.  The Parcheesi house slid over the top of Babette’s head, killing her instantly while simultaneously parting her hair right down the middle.

Oh that fate.  Always a day late and a dollar short.

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Until next time . . . I love you

If you would like to try your hand at  Friday Fictioneers, pop over to our Friday Fictioneers’ hostess’s blog at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple and Rochelle to get all the details.  And don’t worry, she won’t give you an apron and a big stack of dishes to wash.  (I think she finally got her dishwasher fixed).

Friday Fictioneers: Brunhilda’s Amphitheater

Welcome Dear Readers to Friday Ficitoneers where writers are challenged to write a 100-word story about the picture that’s posted each week .  

Here’s this week’s picture:

Copyright Sandra Crook
Copyright Sandra Crook

Brunhilda’s Amphitheater 

 With an amphitheater in her backyard, Brunhilda lacked for nada

She’d climb to the top of the stairs each day and eat an enchilada

With an amphitheater in her backyard, Brunhilda bought a slinky

She’d let it go at the top of the stairs then watch til it got dinky

With an amphitheater in her backyard, Brunhilda had the audacity

For giving parties of 5,000 or more because, hey! She had the capacity

With an amphitheater in her backyard, Brunhilda thanked the gods

Because having an amphitheater so close, I mean really now — what are the odds?

This week’s picture was brought to us via the courtesy of Sandra Crook’s camera. Thank you Sandra!   And, of course, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields over at Addicted to Purple who sets up this super-fun challenges for everyone each week.

 Until next time  . . . I love you

Friday Fictioneers: Funny How Things Work Out

Hello Dear Reader! It’s Wednesday, which means my brain, Peanuts, thinks it’s Friday. (Shh . . don’t say anything, I’ve found it’s always best to humor Peanuts.)

Anyway, it’s time for Peanuts to write a 100-word story for Friday Fictioneers — a writing challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields over at Addicted to Purple.

There’s a rumor afoot that Rochelle is busy sewing everybody official Friday Fictioneer Uniforms,  and that we will all be receiving them just as soon as she masters  French cuffs.  Could this be true, Rochelle?  I certainly hope so!

Here’s this week’s Friday Fictioneer Picture Prompt:

Linda Vernon Humor Joseph William Standish, the Tree, Friday Fictioneers
Courtesy of anaelephantcant

Funny How Things Work Out

William Joseph Standish hated being a tree because in his heart, he was a writer.  After all, wasn’t he made out of wood –which turns into paper?  Didn’t he have time to think?  Wouldn’t a byline with his name be fabulous?  But alas he had no pen.

One day someone leaned a bike against his trunk.  Screw writing! He would become a world-renowned Tour d France bicyclist!  It would be stupendous, it would be marvelous, it would be . . . well, he couldn’t think of anything else it would be.

Just as well he decided not to be a writer.

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Until next time . . . I love you