Bucket of Ideas

People often ask me, “Where did you get a crazy idea like that?” I usually reply with some cock & bull explanation that I merely observe the world around me and the stories write themselves. Today, (against my own better judgment) I have decided to share my source of inspiration. Be forewarned that this act can only be performed by skilled professionals after years of training.  DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME!

 To read more stories, go to   http://madison-woods.com/  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

Bucket of Ideas

“Billy, see that bucket hanging on the fence?”

“Sure, Grandpa. What’s in it?”

“That’s where Grandpa gets the ideas for his stories.”

“Really? How does it work?”

Grandpa leaned over, stuck his ear under the spigot, turned the tap, and made a bubbling noise to indicate the invisible flow filling his brain. Once full, he straightened up, shook his head like a dog and said, “Umm, that’s a good one.”

“Wow, that’s cool. Is that where Grandma gets her ideas for all the projects she has for you?”

“Oh no, son. She has those delivered in a large tanker trunk.”

I Heard it Through the Grapevine

When I download the photo for Friday Flash Fiction, I usually go with the first thing that pops in my head. The reason being, my brain is so small it can only contain one thought at a time, and even then, if it’s a very big thought my neurocranium starts to swell. This week’s photo triggered multiple thoughts sending me into a neurocalyptic (You like that word? I made it up. J) spasm attack. I spat all three ideas out on 3 x 5 section of used Kleenex and applied the scientific method, Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Moe, to select a topic. My apologies to Edgar Rice Burroughs and Marvin Gaye.

 To read more stories based on this photo, go to   http://madison-woods.com/  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

I Heard it Through the Grapevine

“Jane, you look so sad. What’s the matter?”

“Oh Cheeta, since George came to the jungle, I find myself questioning my love for Tarzan.”

“I can understand your infatuation with a younger man. After all, it’s been a long time since you’ve seen another male of your species.”

“It sure has. And George is so sweet and childlike. He counts the petals on every flower.”

“That’s because he has the brain of a six year old, Jane. He can’t swing from a grapevine without slamming into a tree.”

“Yes, Tarzan is a better swinger, but George uses a bigger vine.”

A Tale of Two Sissies

I can really relate to this week’s photo. I’ve been called an ‘old buzzard,’ and told that I have ‘buzzard breath’ upon occasion. Experts say we don’t have buzzards in NW Arkansas, technically they are vultures. I’m not going to worry too much about it unless one’s picking my bones. My Dad used to say if you ate a lot of hot peppers they would eat you. It’s a good thing I had a dozen jalapenos before starting this story.  To read more stories, go to   http://madison-woods.com/  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

A Tale of Two Sissies

“Come on boys, eat your food.”

“Ah, Mom . . . .” Brian and Billy whined in unison. “Do we have to?”

“Your father works hard to feed us. You want to grow up big and strong like him, don’t you?”

“But it smells awful,” said Brian.

“And it taste raw—like it needs to ripen some more,” added Billy.

“There’s nothing wrong with this food,” said Mom. “You can’t go play until you finish your meal.”

“Why do we have the same thing every Friday?” Billy choked back the tears.

“Because Friday’s the day when most Fictioneers get run over by the prompt.”

My Adobe Hacienda

I used the title from an old Bob Wills’ song for this week’s Friday Flash Fiction. While I was at it, I raped the lyrics from another song a by popular western swing artist, through in a couple of rednecks, stirred briskly, and threw out in the hot sun to bake. 

This week’s photo by Amanda Gray. To read more stories, go to   http://madison-woods.com/  click on the Blog tab, and follow the links.

My Adobe Hacienda

“How much further, Bubba? I ain’t seeing no ocean yet.”

“The guy said it’s remote. He called it a romantic getaway.”

Two hours later.

“Thar it is, Charlene. Our mansion in paradise.”

“Don’t look like no mansion to me. It ain’t even got no roof.”

“That’s so you can see the stars at night, Sweetie.  Look. Thar’s the Golden Gate.”

A section of wrought iron fence, painted John Deere yellow, dangled from a concrete pier.

“Let me see that deed again, Charlene. Why, I ought to shoot that singing cowboy.”

What’s a matter, honey?”

“This ain’t Arizona. It’s New Mexico!”