In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Finders, Keepers?.”

While walking on the beach you stumble on a valuable object buried in the sand — say, a piece of jewelry or an envelope full of cash.
What do you do with it? Under what circumstances would you keep it?

“Try raising the right hand.”

The frog stood back on its hind legs and half-raised its right hand.

“Now the left.”

The frog slowly lowered its right hand, but instead of raising its opposite hand,
it raised the same hand again.

“Can’t tell left from right?”

The frog sounded a croak, which oozed with exasperation and defiance. It
attempted to obey its orders again, but to no avail. It kept on trying until it
lost its balance and fell over backwards. Nearby, on a stone, sat Caleb- the
other frog that was giving the orders. Caleb monitored its friend, which was now
struggling on its back, with lazy amusement.

“Alright, give it up. Get out of there.”

A vapory mist drifted out of the upside-down frog and collected in mid-air. The
upside-down frog then deftly rolled over and promptly leapt away. The mist then
reformed itself and took the shape of a young female ghost. As soon as her mouth
materialized itself, she spoke, “Now what?”

“We need to return to the beach. There’s something I need to get,” replied Caleb,
still a frog.



A Duck-watching Day

(C) Priceless Joy. Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers (FFFAW) May 12, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page. Hosted by Priceless Joy.
(C) Priceless Joy. Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers (FFFAW) May 12, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page. Hosted by Priceless Joy.

“One foot… then the other foot… then the other- OH CRAP!” The duck tumbled over sidewards.

“[Insert string of swear words of choice here]” The duck was unabashed at exhibiting her extensive esotericism of expletives.

“Woah girl! You kiss your mom with that mouth?” A fellow duck waddled over.

“That does not make any sense at all.” The lopsided duck fixed a stare at the other duck that shocked me (the author) because I thought ducks can’t show expression. I was proven very wrong. This duck epitomised the phrase: ‘If looks could kill.’

The other duck flippantly disregarded the look it received. “Are you going to get up?”

“I’m trying but I can’t.”


“Are you going to help me?”


The lopsided duck let out an enormous sigh. “Oh dear Caleb the wonderful, brilliant and greatest duck in the human and spiritual planes, won’t you please help me up?” If ducks have eyelids, this one batted them enthusiastically as if her life depended on it.

Caleb obliged, and while he helped to upright his friend, I thought to myself, if ducks could grin and look smug, Caleb was the most self-satisfied duck I’ve ever seen.

Moral of the story: Projecting human traits onto ducks is a ton of fun.

Word count: 196

A Duck-watching Day

A Horse’s Flesh

(c) Alastair Forbes. Sunday Photo Fiction April 26, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page, hosted by Alastair Forbes.
(c) Alastair Forbes. Sunday Photo Fiction April 26, 2015. This photo brings you to the challenge page, hosted by Alastair Forbes.

“How do you like your meat?” Jeff asked.

“I like them raw and juicy.” Harry licked his lips.

“Can we not do this, guys?” Hazel begged.

Jeff and Harry gave each other a look that said As if.

Hazel stamped angrily, which made her pony-tail swing from side to side.

“You guys never listen to me!” Hazel huffed in agitation.

For a moment, Jeff and Harry may actually have felt guilt. A look of uncertainty flashed across their faces, but only for a fleeting moment.

“But we’re fleas and you’re the only livestock around here and we must feed.” Jeff and Harry sank their teeth into Hazel’s delicious flesh.

Word count: 109

A Horse’s Flesh

Arnold the Bee

Arnold was brave. He was always the first to leave the hive to brave the great outdoors. He returned later than the norm, and his comrades would look forward to the marvelous stories of the day that he would share with them at night. Arnold was also a bee.

One fateful evening, Arnold was wandering around a residential. It was an uneventful day for Arnold so far. He felt disappointed; he had to lie to his comrades with a made-up story once again. That day he just was not up to it. The truth was, he was not a brave bee. He was simply a great story teller- and as all great storytellers- he had a writer’s block that day.

He tried to come up with a story that would impress his comrades, yet satisfy his own personal ambitiousness, but to no avail.

It was then, he spotted the light.

He buzzed towards it. (Bees buzz, don’t they?)

The light was an open window, and it led to a bathroom. Arnold sensed running water in it. He hated running water, it made his wings heavy.

He buzzed onto the windowsill and waited. He was careful not to make a sound. Wait. The bee may not have buzzed after all. He… crept, I suppose? I’m not sure what words are used to describe bees.

But anyway, that bathroom was soon to be a battlefield between Arnold and the young boy within. As soon as the boy got out of the shower, Arnold began his mischief. While hiding behind a curtain, Arnold buzzed his wings like he never buzzed before. This gave the poor boy a huge fright. The boy was afraid of fireworks, and to him, that’s what Arnold sounded like.

Arnold giggled with glee- or however it is that glee manifests on bees- then proceeded to phase two.

An ancient phrase from Sun Tzu’s Art of War handbook proposes that “After the artillery has boomed, send in the cavalry,” so Arnold did exactly that.

Arnold was a huge bee. And despite the boy being several times larger, Arnold scared the bejeebers out of him. Arnold flew around in circles, and the boy literally slid and collapsed on the floor.

Satisfied, Arnold finally flew out and cackled to himself.

“What a story this will be,” he buzzed.

Arnold the Bee