My Papa’s best fishing yarn

Papa often took us punting along the shores of Lake Flathead. Spreading his tall tales and teaching my brother Jackson about fishing. “I found a dozen arrowheads under that hollow log just there. With an old scalp and two beaver pelts.”

“Really, Papa?” asked Emilia. Gullible as a newborn puppy, my youngest sister always had an unwavering faith in Papa.

Jackson was more skeptical. “Scalps? It’s not the Civil War.”

His “Honest Injun” poker face was how I could always tell when Papa was fibbing a little. At their ages I don’t think my siblings had caught on yet.

“Strike me down if it ain’t so,” Papa glibly lied. “We saw a big ol’ gator out there once, too.”

“There aren’t any gators in Montana.” Jackson was quite certain.

“Probably ain’t. But what’s that shadow under the water, just there?”

Jackson nearly fell out of the boat when the scaled back of the Spinosaurus broke the surface in the deepest part of the lake.

Papa laughed. “Guess it were mebbe a wee bigger’n a gator.”

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175 words. Inspired by this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

© Ady

Pour some sugar on me

“Thank you for your patience, Mr. Morrison. You’ve been waiting quite a while, and I need to apologize. With so many to process, we’re a bit behind. I’m doing my best, but we’re understaffed right now, won’t you forgive me? Thank you.”

“Here comes the last bit, let me just hook up this hose. Turn this valve and voilà. Just what you needed sir, thick and syrupy, I’m sure you’ll be quite pleased. You’ll find it delightful, fruity, with just a hint of formaldehyde—our very finest vintage, sir, nothing but the best for you. Into your arteries, that’s right.”

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In response to this weed’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT – © Madison Woods