| Humor Fiction posted April 24, 2024 |
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The Stream
by Tom Horonzy
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The photo seen is a scene I often see when musing to myself about what I might write about, like now, for I haven't a clue what to do with this challenge originating from Pearl, a girl, I suppose, since I never met a guy with that name.
On the other hand, I knew a guy named Leslie once, and I suspect he still is. Additionally, I heard of "A Boy Named Sue," which J. Cash made popular. "How do you do?" But, be clear, my name is not of whom he sang, and if you care you can address me as Tom, a more appropriate moniker for a masculine man like I am.
Returning to the picture given, a peaceful, bucolic location beneath a copse of weeping willows on a bank overlooking a slow-flowing stream of cool mountain water, which came to be by either a violent downpour spawned by an Arctic cold front or soft, sporadic spring showers formed on the South side of a stationary warm front. Either will nurse the thirst of the flowers growing beneath the aforementioned trees. (Why does this word- aforementioned need an a? If Grammarly didn't suggest I correct it, the beginning a would be missing! p.s. - it's the only a - to avoid confusion.)
I then painted myself into the landscape on the bench and pretended to hear the squawk of a Kingfisher. It was perched across from where I sat, peering North to South, not East to West, for that is how this waterway flows. It is seeking a tasty morsel to eat. Perhaps a creek chub or pumpkinseed should nature cooperate. We hear a splash. It and I turn our heads upstream to find the cause. We pause. The ripples of whatever caused the disturbance spread in concentric circles. The bird flies to where the perp had been, diving in head first, beaks acting as two spears before returning to the surface with a well-deserved serving of a wee brown trout who had given its whereabouts while trying to catch a Mayfly.
Before you ask or think, I do not know whether the trout was successful, but the noted bird achieved its goal before returning to where it had previously roosted.
There's little else I have to add at this time, for my eyelids tired, and I fell asleep when the warmth of the sun beamed its rays pixie dust-like upon my face. By the time I awoke, the bird had flown elsewhere, and now it was I who sat hungrily peering into the stream with little hope of snagging a meal because the artist who created the scene with the bench did not paint in a cane pole, line, hook and bobber.
Story of the Month contest entry
The photo seen is a scene I often see when musing to myself about what I might write about, like now, for I haven't a clue what to do with this challenge originating from Pearl, a girl, I suppose, since I never met a guy with that name.
On the other hand, I knew a guy named Leslie once, and I suspect he still is. Additionally, I heard of "A Boy Named Sue," which J. Cash made popular. "How do you do?" But, be clear, my name is not of whom he sang, and if you care you can address me as Tom, a more appropriate moniker for a masculine man like I am.
Returning to the picture given, a peaceful, bucolic location beneath a copse of weeping willows on a bank overlooking a slow-flowing stream of cool mountain water, which came to be by either a violent downpour spawned by an Arctic cold front or soft, sporadic spring showers formed on the South side of a stationary warm front. Either will nurse the thirst of the flowers growing beneath the aforementioned trees. (Why does this word- aforementioned need an a? If Grammarly didn't suggest I correct it, the beginning a would be missing! p.s. - it's the only a - to avoid confusion.)
I then painted myself into the landscape on the bench and pretended to hear the squawk of a Kingfisher. It was perched across from where I sat, peering North to South, not East to West, for that is how this waterway flows. It is seeking a tasty morsel to eat. Perhaps a creek chub or pumpkinseed should nature cooperate. We hear a splash. It and I turn our heads upstream to find the cause. We pause. The ripples of whatever caused the disturbance spread in concentric circles. The bird flies to where the perp had been, diving in head first, beaks acting as two spears before returning to the surface with a well-deserved serving of a wee brown trout who had given its whereabouts while trying to catch a Mayfly.
Before you ask or think, I do not know whether the trout was successful, but the noted bird achieved its goal before returning to where it had previously roosted.
There's little else I have to add at this time, for my eyelids tired, and I fell asleep when the warmth of the sun beamed its rays pixie dust-like upon my face. By the time I awoke, the bird had flown elsewhere, and now it was I who sat hungrily peering into the stream with little hope of snagging a meal because the artist who created the scene with the bench did not paint in a cane pole, line, hook and bobber.
 Recognized |
I saw, I came, I conquered - NOT. I did not see where the invite to THE BENCH introduced by Pearl in a club said poem anywhere, so demented Tom wrote a story, instead, and then after nearly posting it with "the club" I said release it as another in the series of demented Tom
And of course, not having a picture of a bench in my photo albums I found a stream photo instead.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. And of course, not having a picture of a bench in my photo albums I found a stream photo instead.
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© Copyright 2024. Tom Horonzy All rights reserved.
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