Kreative Kue 364

Kreative Kue 363 asked for submissions based on this photograph:


John W Howell is a multiple nominated and award-winning author who blogs at Fiction Favorites. Details of John’s books can be found on his Amazon author page

Partners by John W. Howell © 2022

“What’re we going to do with this thing?”

“You’ve got to be kidding?”

“Just asking.”

“We will go by the humans, and each of us will have a hold of the stick.”

“Seems kind of dumb.”

“Says you. You know those humans are suckers for cute.”

“If you say so.”

“Here’s the thing. You the big brute and I the wiley terrier come walking along with this stick, and the cuteness factor will go off the charts with those humans.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Can you say treats?”


“Yeah, when they see us doing the partner thing on this stick, they’ll turn over chairs running for the cameras and treats.”

“How long do we have to do this?”

“Couple of minutes tops.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“So, you can let go of the stick till we get closer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got the stick. You can let go.”

“Um. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“You said it yourself. Wiley terrier.”

“We are partners.”

“Sure we are.”

“You imply I can’t be trusted.”

“Not an implication. More like fact.”

“That hurts.”

“Not the first time. I’m sure.”

“Let go.”


Raymond Walker offered this rock’n’roll tale (minus the roll). Raymond is a prolific author whose main web site is at Details of Raymond’s books can be found on his Amazon author page

Be careful what you wish for by Raymond Walker © 2022

The wand was lost for many thousands of years. Loup, the great grey wolf once carried it across mountains in the beginnings of the world before he met and mated with, dark furred, brown maned Okwaho, the house dog of the creator and mother to us all.  Okwaho first gave birth to the many tribes of wolves and then to those that were dogs but looked like wolves and then to others smaller and larger as the creator saw fit. The wand passed from female to female through the years until the sad years of the domestication where some poor lapdog buried the wand, and it was never to be seen again.


Barney loved to run, loved to chase sticks and balls, Barney loved life. He did not mind that he was small and had stubby legs as long as there was grass to run over, friends to play with and a warm fire to lay in front of when he tired. Life was good. Many of his friends were larger than him but Barney did not mind, he just had to run faster, throw his weight around and he liked a play fight more than anything, the other dog being larger just made him more determined to win. And he usually did.

Barneys’ best friend was a “brown as a muddy puddle” bulldog named Logan and when they met up, they would run, chase balls and playfight. Barney liked Logan as he was just like Barney, he had a tenacious spirit an urge to run and live and play.

That was until they found the wand, both were drawn to it, impelled, driven towards an unassuming broken branch, sticking up from ground that had washed away during the last storm, but both knew what it really was. Unearthed, Barney yearned to hold it and tried to snatch it from Logan, but he held it tight in his teeth. A tug of war ensued. Then claws and teeth. Both dogs had ran so far ahead of their owners that it took some time to catch up. Barney stood, blood dripping from his jaws, over the dead Logan, the wand held firmly in his jaws.


The dog once known as Barney who now called himself Waya growled in the corner at all who came towards him, the human children that he once enjoyed playing with, who rubbed his tum and scratched his ears, his master who once he could not ignore and the friends he once ran with, all were snarled at and repulsed.

Waya held the wand of his forefathers tight in his teeth and would let no one near. He took no food for he trusted no one and he slowly wasted away still clutching the wand. Waya left this world regretting the death of Logan and the death of joy and wondering if the wand was just another stick.

My effort was:

A cautionary tail

At school I was quite good at sport
And although I was notably short
I was keen to compete
As was my best friend, Pete.
We were both of the athletic sort.

When the sports day arrives every year
It is greeted with rich, wholesome cheer
As I take my place
In the main relay race
Coming second is my greatest fear.

I remember this one year so well
Pete was lightning from the starting bell
His favourite trick
As he hands me the stick
Is to make a victorious yell.

This one time, it wasn’t the same
And I say this with buckets of shame,
Despite what we’d planned
When the stick hit my hand
I dropped it; but who was to blame?

It turned out that Pete was a snitch
He ran to the side of the pitch
And, rubbing in salt,
Said it was my fault
To the teacher we thought was a witch.

The teacher thought Pete was my brother
And said we’re as bad as each other
That there’s no place in sport
For things of this sort
And she would tell all to our mother.

Pete laughed; that was not very wise
She looked him full square in the eyes
Then did something tragic
With witchy-poo magic
And shouted, “Now here’s a surprise!”

I thought she’d turn us into frogs
But ’twas worse – we’d both become dogs.
With the grass ‘neath our paws 
And a stick in our jaws
It’s like running a race wearing clogs!


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 before 6pm on 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 time.

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