Kreative Kue 216 asked for submissions based on this photograph:
John W Howell is the author of the John Cannon trilogy of My GRL, His Revenge, Our Justice and Circumstances of Childhood, co-author of The Contract, and blogs at Fiction Favorites.
Questions by John W. Howell © 2019
“Where are you taking those sprouts?”
“What do you mean?”
“You just took a bucket full of my sprouts, and I want to know where you are taking them.”
“What makes you think these are your sprouts?”
“Everything here is mine.”
“I’m here, and I’m not yours.”
“How do you know?”
“The farmer tells me so.”
“Jeez, a poet. Tell me Mr. Farmer’s pet. Where are you going with those sprouts?”
“Not that it’s any of your business but I have a trough full of slop, and I thought these sprouts would add an element of crunch to a fairly bland offering.”
“You can’t eat those.”
“Why not. They look delicious.”
“They are to be planted for this year’s crop harvest.”
“Oh, come on. There is a lot left. Duh.”
“I suppose once you have totally fattened the price for you will offset any loss on the number of crops.”
“Huh. What do you mean fattened?”
“You know what happens to pigs on a farm, don’t you?”
“I still don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Ever hear of spiral sliced ham?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Pork shoulder? Pork belly?”
“Wait the term pork rings a bell. When we came here the farmer remarked about a fine-looking group of porkers.”
“Did he mention you will end up in packages.”
“No, tell me.”
“You are food. Once you are big enough, you go to a place and come out in pieces.”
“Say it isn’t true.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Well, there is only one thing to do.”
“Here take these sprouts back. I’m going to spread the word that we all go on a hunger strike.”
“Thanks for the sprouts. Good luck on the protest.”
“Want to join us?”
“Not really. I’m pretty partial to sausage.”
“Oh, never mind. Not important. Good luck.”
This week, from The Dark Netizen, a short tail – sorry, I mean a short tale.
There she is, simply walking by.
I am sure she knows of our existence, but enjoys ignoring us completely. She knows we enjoy watching her as she struts along the sidewalk. The prized poodle that she is, with her flawless hair, and shiny coat, us street hounds can only marvel at her. I wonder why the humans call it a wolf whistle,
When the dogs do it so much better…
My effort was
They said it would happen one day. I can’t say I hadn’t been warned.
How many times have I been told that they’re fed up with my incessant barking, that I shouldn’t go mental every time I see a cat? Or a mouse? Or a lizard? Or a bird? Or a frog? Or next door’s bloody spaniel pup? Or a car driving past our front gate? Or someone walking near our gate?
How often have they shouted at me for digging holes in the garden? I mean… why? I’m only trying to find the moles or whatever it is makes those mounds. And why shouldn’t I use their veggie patch as a toilet? What else is it for? It’s not as if they’re going to eat any of that damned stuff, is it?
But they don’t like me doing it, and they’ve said so more times than I can remember; so I suppose it’s my own fault.
But now they’ve gone, and they’ve left me here on my own.
I suppose I still have to guard the place, which is why I’m sitting in this… whatever it is I’m sitting in. Gives me extra height so I can see farther. Yes, I know it doesn’t raise me much, but with legs as short as mine, I’m probably twice as high sitting here as I would be on the ground. This is where I sit to guard the gate. That’s my job. And to wait for that nice lady who comes in the white van and brings my food, of course, but that’s for pleasure. Everything else is business; serious business.
You’d think they’d be grateful, wouldn’t you? Thirteen years I’ve been sitting here, keeping away anyone who might be aiming to come in and kill my humans. A lifetime of guaranteeing their safety. And it works. No-one has been killed on my watch. But all they can see is that I’m barking. In all that time, have they ever once asked me why I bark when I do? No, they haven’t. If they had, they’d have understood what I’m here for, what my job is, what I must do to ensure no harm comes to them.
It’s too late now, of course. They’ve gone. And this time, I don’t think they’re—
What’s that I hear?
MUMMY, DADDY – YOU’RE HOME!
On to this week’s challenge: Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene, poem; anything, really; even just a caption for the photograph. Either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at firstname.lastname@example.org before 6pm next Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you). If you post it on your own blog or site, a link to this page would be appreciated, but please do also mention it in a comment here.
Go on. You know you want to. Let your creativity and imagination soar. I shall display the entries next Monday.