Quite honestly, there’s nothing flashy about me, especially Flash Fiction, but for my dear friend, Netta, and in support of her wonderful spanking new site at WordWebbing.com, she’s inspired me to give it a whirl per the prompt she posted this Friday and plans to do with ensuing Fridays. I don’t write very edgy or hip… I tend to lean into simple observations, so thanks for stopping by and letting me flash ya!

I swear: linking will be the death of me. *sigh* The link to Netta's WordWebbing is above - please visit. She's a delightful talent. I do know how to download logos and such via Photobucket. The following logo was designed by one of us at JournalScape, LaLa, who is Netta's partner with the Internet empire they are building together. :)



Friday, August 29th Prompt in 500 or less words:

Two Southern girls are sitting on the front porch in the sultry summer afternoon, sipping on lemonade. What are they talking about? Are they friends, sisters, lovers? What do they see?


From the Porch
By Reenie Fulton
Word Count: 489

Thump, thump, thump. Corinne’s fingertips thrummed a rhythm of impatience on the armrest of her rocking chair.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. Maryellen thrummed a rhythm of relief as she dragged her fingernails against her shin and the cluster of chigger bites.

Peep, peep, peep. The freshly hatched birds thrummed a rhythm of hunger from the basket of ferns hanging on the porch where the girls sat waiting for their Aunt Clara.

Click, click, click. The ceiling fan’s beaded chain thrummed a rhythm of ennui against the metal casing of its motor.

Tick, tick, tick. The grandfather clock in the front hall thrummed a rhythm of time, which passed slowly on this languid summer day.

Clink, clink, clink. The ice cubes in the girls’ glasses of lemonade thrummed a musical rhythm of refreshment followed by a duet of ahhhhhhs.

Bark, bark, bark. Clue, Aunt Clara's dog, thrummed a rhythm of warning to the mailman as he approached the mailbox at the end of the driveway.

Splash, splash, splash. The water sprinkler thrummed a rhythm of nourishment for the scorched lawn surrounding the house.

Cluck, cluck, cluck. The mother hen thrummed a rhythm of concern for her brood running helter-skelter for remnants of feed carelessly thrown that morning.

Thwap, thwap, thwap. The playing card in the spokes of a neighbor’s bike thrummed the rhythm of youth as he pumped down the street toward a game of pick-up basketball.

Zzzzrrrr, zzzzrrrr, zzzzrrrr. The Dog-day Cicada thrummed a rhythm from his vibrating wings, which whined though the moist air with hopes of luring a mate.

Achoo, achoo, achoo. Aunt Clara’s allergies thrummed a rhythm of sneezes as she paused at her upstairs dressing table to empty the tickly agitation into her cupped hands.

Thwack, thwack, thwack. Uncle Mike’s straw hat thrummed a stiff-wristed rhythm against the leg of his bibbed overalls to create billows of dust.

Purr, purr, purr. Boots, Aunt Clara’s cat, thrummed a rhythm of pleasure as he plowed his paws deep into Maryellen’s lap.

Swish, swish, swish. The girls’ fanning hands thrummed a futile rhythm as beads of dew appeared at their hairlines.

Tingle, tingle, tingle. In the distance, an ice cream truck’s bell thrummed a rhythm of temptation for youngsters yearning to lick an ice cream cone.

Screech, screech, screech. The arrogant taunts of a hawk thrummed through the heat with the rhythm of a hunt about to start.

Scrape, scrape, scrape. The weathervane barely thrummed the rhythm of a breeze too gentle for relief.

Creak, creak, creak. The girls’ rocking chairs thrummed a continuous rhythm of patient repetition.

Clunk, clunk, clunk. Aunt Clara’s shoes thrummed a heavy rhythm as she descended the staircase and approached the porch where the girls were waiting.

“You girls ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, what’s keepin’ y’all? Let’s get a-going.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Giggle, giggle, giggle. The amusement of two young girls thrummed a rhythm of benign conspiracy as they followed Aunt Clara to the car.