A drabble is a one-hundred word story. Write one based one of these three pictures--or go your own way.
Here are the stories. At the end of the day, I will draw one for a prize.
Blindfolds yanked, Walter Cronkite and Captain Kangaroo find themselves in a boxing ring. Lights doused, the smoky abyss roars around them.
The referee taps their gloves.
“Keep it clean, boys….”
The bell clangs, an Kangaroo launches a right cross. The beloved, late CBS new anchor wilts on impact.
“This is not the way it should be….”
Kangaroo chops and chops, muffling,“Noo! If-izzz! If-zzz! If-zzzzzz!”
Cronkite covers up. Weeping.
An uppercut lifts Cronkite up and then down to the canvas. Captain Kangaroo removes his mouth guard and heaves.
“I said, that’s the way it is, you dumb-ass….”
I was more lost with the map than I was without it. Smartphones were supposed to keep you out of crap like this. I saw a show once where the survivalist dude smashed his binoculars to get the lenses out so he could start a fire. I don't need a fire, I need the binoculars.
But only if I can find the damned house before someone finds me. Which is ironic considering I was looking for people out here I couldn't find. Maybe I should give the money back, forget the job.
I'd still need to find my car, though.
“Hear there’s a parade Saturday,” Cassidy said.
“Bank’s open till noon,” Ferguson said. “Good a time as any.”
“Still got the costumes?”
“If they fit. Been living the good life since Tucson.”
By ten, the streets were filling with people.
“Gonna work out,” Cassidy said, heading toward the bank. “Stick ‘em up,” he yelled, bursting in. Both men sported blue noses, red wigs, flopping shoes.
“Didn’t notice Dalmatians and poodles on the billboard,” Ferguson said as they fled, looking at the parade of costumed dogs
“Where you clowns think you’re going?” the cop asked, hand coming down on their collars.
No Complications, Michel Williams
“Look, I'm serious, my toes feel fat."
The doctor glanced at his watch. "They look fine but surgery will takecare of everything, anyway."
She shrugged, he must be right.
Soon after the operation her big toe disappeared. In rapid succession the little toes followed. By the time she saw the doctor again, her ankle had disappeared.
"How're you doing?"
"Oh fine," she replied.
He checked his clipboard, "Color good, breathing normal." He patted her shoulder, congratulating both of them on the recovery.
That night in the shower watching her thigh disappear, she smiled. She was fine. Really.
Stephen D. Rogers