Finder’s Keepers

It had taken them all afternoon to build the dummy. Her arms were tired and scratchy from stuffing pine straw inside the old jeans and button up shirt.

But it was worth it.

The dummy sat upright in a rocking chair on the front porch. The feetless jeans were shoved into a pair of cowboy boots, the handless arms tucked into a pair of workman’s gloves. And an old cowboy hat, hung from a piece of fishing line, hovered just over where a head would be.

Running back inside to drop off her tools (a rake and a pair of scissors), she grabbed the big bowl of candy and headed for the porch to join her straw man companion.

On the porch, the once occupied rocking chair sat empty, slowly creaking back and forth as though someone had just pushed out of it.

What happens next?


She noticed the trail of straw that started not at the chair, where she thought it would, but instead several feet out off of the porch.

Almost as if someone had tried cleaning up after themselves but heard her coming and run before they could finish.

“All right, you kids!” she hollered, holding the bowl of candy out as if in a peace offering, “Bring back my scarecrow and I’ll cough up the sweets!”

“No!” a tiny voice screeched, “He’s ours and we’re keeping him!”


And my brain wondered off and forgot about this until the last moment. This tiny post was brought to you by the 1st Wednesday prompt from Chaotically Yours.

One Voice, Many Speakers

She’s been beach combing for hours, hunting for unique shells along the tide line, putting dead ones in her bag, throwing the live ones back into the sea. As she turns to start her trek back, she stumbles over the sharp spires of a lightning whelk.

Whatever lived in the shell has vacated it, leaving an unobstructed view of the smooth, pink walls. Holding a hand against her left ear, she lifts the shell to her right, waiting to hear the rush of wind and water.

Instead, a voice emanates from the shell.


“Why are we doing this again?”

“Because we must find the Master!”

“But the Master left eons ago!”

“It was five minutes, FIVE MINUTES  YOU BLASTED-”

“Why are you guys always fighting?”

The voice continued to talk to itself in it’s tinny little voice, changing who was controlling the voice every sentence. She dropped the shell like a hot coal and like a hot coal that one has been holding for a while, her fingers refused to budge.

Great, now she was stuck with some kind of Dis-associative Identity Disorder Shell.

She hated going to the hospital to get weird things removed from her person. You’d think she’d have learned her lesson about picking things up in random places the last time she’d gone to the hospital to remove that marble she’d poked with her bare foot.


The first section is a prompt from Chaotically Yours, the second section is my continuation of the little story snippet. I’m very tired so this was the first thing to jump to my fingers and of course it’s a little silly.