I know, I’m late again. Sorry, Charli. Sorry ranch leaders. This time, I think I have a valid excuse for missing the second of the Carrot Ranch’s excellent 24 hour free writes: I was on a retreat, with no electronic gizmos, not even my trusty pair of headphones. Nevertheless, upon my return from this renewing experience, one of the first things I did was to look and see what the prompt was I had missed.
Despite one or two false starts yesterday, followed by a story which just didn’t ‘feel’ right, this morning the following story flew from my fingertips. I hope you enjoy my 297 word flash fiction story (words counted using the competition recommended WordCounter.net). Maybe you’ll nip over to the Carrot Ranch and join in with the next themed competition prompt on September 13th.
Kelvin M. Knight
After supper, Papa told me his favourite watering hole floated beside the tallest mountain, like a boat on an ocean, a boat anchored in place by hope.
When I struggled to get my head around this, Papa drew me a picture. Rainbow silhouettes filled the paper. Along each rainbow strode stick people with butterfly wings. He called these funny folk regulars, ones that loved supping the joy that could be found at the ends of these rainbows.
I told him there was no joy at the end of any rainbow because that’s where Mr Leprechaun hid his pot of gold, and all the gold in Ghana couldn’t buy happiness.
‘That’s true enough,’ replied Papa, ‘which is why my favourite watering hole is at the beginning of these rainbows.’
Colouring these rainbows, I sucked my bottom lip. ‘Does Mr Leprechaun frequent your watering hole, too, Papa?’
‘No, Mr Leprechaun isn’t a regular, he’s the proprietor.’
‘The owner.’ Papa ruffled my hair. ‘Mr Leprechaun built this watering hole from the roof down, positioned it at the beginning of these rainbows so he could roll his takings into the pots he’d strategically placed at each rainbows’ end.’
‘Pots and pans.’ Mama glared at Papa. ‘Don’t forget the pans!’
‘Ah, yes, Mr Pan.’ Papa stroked his whiskers. ‘He’s another regular at my favourite watering hole.’ He drew a stickman with horns on his head holding a collection of pipes.
‘You drink with the devil?’
‘His music is devilish, certainly; however, my favourite watering hole is dead boring without his magical tunes.’
‘What tunes, Papa?’ I clapped my hands.
‘No tunes!’ Mama’s voice was a thunderclap. ‘And no singing, Mr Daydreamer, until the dishes are done properly!’
Following Papa into the kitchen, I whispered, ‘Please tell me another tall tale.’