The Well-Worn Bone Guitar

[A SIMPLE SHORT STORY FOR YOUNG CHILDREN, WRITTEN AS ENCOURAGEMENT TO MY WONDERFULLY ARTISTIC AND TALENTED NIECE FOR HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION]

A young cricket, mouse and frog were the best of friends and dreamed of forming a world famous band.

But father cricket told his young cricket, “Work hard and you can be the best chirper in the meadow.”

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Promote Your Blog Here

If you are a follower of my Blog (new or old), please promote your Blog by putting your Blog address in a comment below along with a brief description of what your Blog is about. Let readers know why they should visit you and what they will find when they do.

If you post below, please consider visiting some or all of the other Blogs listed.

Also, consider reblogging or sharing this post to get your readers involved and connected as well.

I stole this idea from MakeItUltra™, who recently posted a subscriber promotion (click HERE for link) that really took off and appears to have helped a lot of bloggers connect. My Blog picked up a large number of new followers by simply posting a blog description on his link and by visiting some of the other Blogs listed in the comments. So, please visit his post, follow his Blog, and link up your Blog for others to find.

Because my readership is likely quite different than MakeItUltra™, I would like to try the same thing here.

Thanks, and enjoy!

M.A.S.K.D.

Booming, throbbing bass bludgeoned her brain while blackened goth revelers thrashed and bobbed about in a daze, a grotesque menagerie bewitched by the darkness and the dead. Garish locks and bloodied bodies blazed beneath demonic strobes spiraling above the dizzying hoard worshiping in the night’s mass. A macabre brew of black and sweat dripped and smeared across Clisby’s blanched face, rendering a vision of walking death, a coveted ticket to conformity. But the bedlam disturbed the nauseous beast bathing within her sloshing belly, and she bolted for the dark passage through which she had descended into the gloom, bombarded and bruised along the way by blurry, bumping bodies pulsing and gyrating to the blaring cacophony.

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The Street Peddler

[My first response to the Daily Prompt: Hope]

A street vendor swept down from the yellowish mid-day sky, alighted on a wobbly, graffiti-covered park bench, which caused him to buck and sway for delicate moments as if on a precarious tightrope. When he finally acquired his balance, he unfurled like a bat, displaying the dollar wares tucked tightly within the inner folds and secretive pockets of his checkered and multi-layered cape. His smile was uncomfortable, his eyes shifty, and he reeked like swine with a spritz of patchouli. He adjusted his blood-red and soiled cap, which read, “MAGA Man,” in gaudy golden script, and hollered in a raspy, yet hypnotic, voice,

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Treasures of the Wooden Chest

Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . .

He repeatedly tapped and scraped the wooden cell door, to the point of digging a trench with his slender finger, seeking the wandering attention of his keeper.

Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . . Tock-tchhh . . . .

The rhythmic sound was interrupted only by the deathly quiet, when he strained for the slightest sound of curiosity.

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