Frankly Freddie, Flash Fiction

Since my human judy fractured her ankle all she does is sit around moaning and nothing I do can get her outside.  So I take my Peggy for walks every day where we are inspired by nature which in turn inspires my creative writing endeavors.

P.S. Some of this story is auto-biographical but names have been eliminated so I don’t get sued.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a tree.(I frequently start my writing with “Once upon a time” as it lends a universal appeal to readers young and old.Its trunk was crooked and all its bark was peeling.  Big roots spread all around the tree, some deep in the earth and some growing above the ground.  The Tree lived in a park with other trees of its own kind on the far edge of town.  Every day many dogs of differing sizes and persuasions came to claim the tree as their territory.

One day, after years of being claimed,the tree yelled at a big black dog with pointy ears and a black nose sniffing around its roots, “I am NOT your territory!” The big black dog didn’t care what the tree thought, claimed it for its own and walked on looking for more territory.  

Within minutes a little white dog with floppy ears and a wet nose sniffed out where the big black dog had been. “I am a tree not a fire hydrant!,” the tree yelled at the little white dog  who ignored the tree, claimed it for its own and walked on looking for more territory.  

The tree, ever alert for impending indignities, spotted a medium-sized dog with shaggy brown hair and a pink nose approaching.   Finally, after many years of being claimed by many dogs, the tree figured out that actions speak louder than words.  So it picked up its roots and walked away.

The end of my tail

Freddie Parker Westerfield, CDN Canine Dog Novelist

There’s a new post on Forest Bathing.  Please tell judy she won’t need to take off her clothes or use soap or water. She can wear her big boot that protects her ankle and I’ll help her meander.

If you want to know what I’m talking about click here: FOREST BATHING 

Write on! – Alls fair

       Assignment from my writing class – An incident when you were treated unfairly or you treated someone else unfairly.”  I think I covered both . . .

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Unfair Treatment – Body, Mind & Me

By judy westerfield

     “More! More!” my mind screams at me. Her desire reverberates throughout my body. Once again, I’m caught in the middle ­ between body and mind, between hedonism and health.

     The three of us — body, mind and me — have been together a very long time. Over the years the mind has grown bolder, louder. To keep the peace I usually do what she says, even though it’s often based on want rather than need. Today is no exception.

     For the second time in less than an hour I retrieve the half-gallon carton from the freezer.

     “More! More!” She is unrelenting.

     “Calm down. “I’m scooping as fast as I can.”

     I ladle from the carton to the soup bowl — 1/3 less fat, 120 calories, $2.99 on sale — spoonfuls of vanilla, chock full of chocolate chunks and ripples of golden caramel. Hard, too hard. I like it soft, just this side of starting-to-melt. Ten seconds in the microwave will do it. I’ve perfected the timing.

     “More! More!”

     “You will just have to wait 10 seconds.” I can be firm.

     It’s creamy, cold, sweet and glides deliciously from the lips all the way down to the stomach.

     “Ahhhh. Mmmm,” the mind purrs and declares it to be an invention ranking right up there with the discovery of fire, the wheel and Tampax.

     The bowl is empty. She points out that there’s more in the carton, purposely left out on the counter, which is now just the right soft consistency.

     “120 calories per serving . . . 12 servings per carton . . .1,440 calories,“ she calculates. “We’ll just skip dinner.”

*   *   *

     “Why? Why?” My distended stomach cries out, pushing painfully against the waistband of my pants. Hips expand, thighs grate together, intestines grumble while impolitely relieving themselves of gas as I walk to the trash to throw away the empty carton.

     The body unfairly treated, yet again, by me. And the mind . . . she’s still screaming . . .

     “More! More!”

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Write on! “I deserve . . .”

  My  inner 7 year old slightly rebelled at this assignment from my new writing class.

A Serious Assignment for the Deserving

(prompt: start the story with “I deserve . . .”)

By judy Westerfield

     I deserve to be punished for my sins which are the following — Jennifer stopped writing. She mindlessly scratched Trotter, curled up next to her, behind his ears with one hand while the other hand pushed the eraser end of the pencil in her cheek — the part of her cheek she checked every day to see if she had a dimple yet. Like the dimple her best friend Carmen had.

     She read which are the following” out loud. Grown up words, and sin was a grown-up subject. A good way to start so the teacher would know she took the assignment seriously.

     Deserve . . . she thought hard, rearranged the pillows, propped herself up on the bed startling Trotter who rearranged himself and curled up again.

I deserve to be punished for my sins which are the following–

   #1. I ate my brother Josh’s Jelly Bellys and said he was lying when he told Mom.

  #2. I hit my brother Rick and told Mom he hit me

  #3. I watched my brother Sean kiss his girlfriend.

 Carmen agreed with her, it was a stupid assignment writing ten things you “deserve”. The teacher said it had to be about “deserve”, not about what mattered, like what you want or what you need. Carmen called it estúpido. And it was hard to figure out what qualified as a sin. Jennifer squinted wondering if calling the teacher’s assignment stupid was sinful.

   #4. I deserve to have my own room and not have to share it with my s stoopido sister Becca.

   #5. I deserve to be punished if it’s a sin calling my sister and this assignment stupid.

     She flipped open her i-pad and Googled “deserve” — “to merit or have a claim to reward, punishment . . . because of circumstances: to deserve a pay raise; to deserve exile.

   #6. I deserve a pay raise because I need more money to buy things.

   #7. I deserve to have my sister and brothers exiled so I can be an only child.

      She added exiled to Alaska.

   Trotter nudged her, rolled over on his back, signaling time to scratch him on the stomach and think some more — If her mom and dad really loved her they would give her everything she deserved. It wasn’t fair her sister and brothers deserved a bigger helping of dessert, or deserved to stay up late or deserved their own room, just because they were older. It wasn’t fair and proof her parents loved them more.        

   #8. I deserve to get a good grade for this assignment.

     Scratching Trotter with one hand, she tapped out a text message to Carmen with the other: need 2 mor deservs txt me yurz

how du u spel s stoopido

"There she goes . . . again"

“There she goes . . . again”

Write on – Unfair Treatment

Since I spend a lot of time (off and on) writing this blog and attending a writing critique group I figured it’s time to learn the tools of the trade.  I signed up for a free Emeritus writing class from the local junior college.  (“emeritus” is a sophisticated word for anyone who qualifies for Social Security.) 

The first assignment was to write a two page SHORT story about being unfairly treated or treating someone else unfairly. 

(Names have been omitted to protect my image)

Unfair Treatment – Body, Mind & Me

By Judy Westerfield

     “More! More!” my mind screams at me. Her desire reverberates throughout my body. Once again, I’m caught in the middle ­ between body and mind, between hedonism and health.

     The three of us — body, mind and me — have been together a very long time. Over the years the mind has grown bolder, louder. To keep the peace I usually do what she says, even though it’s often based on want rather than need. Today is no exception.

     For the second time in less than an hour I retrieve the half-gallon carton from the freezer.

     “More! More!” She is unrelenting.

     “Calm down. “I’m scooping as fast as I can.”

      I ladle from the carton to the soup bowl –­ 1/3 less fat, 120 calories, $2.99 on sale ­ — spoonfuls of vanilla, chock full of chocolate chunks and ripples of golden caramel. Hard, too hard. I like it soft, just this side of starting-to-melt. Ten seconds in the microwave will do it. I’ve perfected the timing.

      “More! More!”

      “You will just have to wait 10 seconds.” I can be firm.

        It’s creamy, cold, sweet and glides deliciously from the lips all the way down to the stomach.

     “Ahhhh. Mmmm,” she purrs and declares it to be an invention ranking right up there with the discovery of fire, the wheel and Tampax.

      The bowl is empty. She points out that there’s more in the carton, purposely left out on the counter, which is now just the right soft consistency.

     “120 calories per serving . . . 12 servings per carton . . .1,440 calories,“ she calculates. “We’ll just skip dinner.”

*         *         *

     “Why? Why?” My distended stomach cries out, pushing painfully against the waistband of my pants. Hips expand, thighs grate together, intestines grumble while impolitely relieving themselves of gas as I walk to the trash to throw away the empty carton.

     The body unfairly treated, yet again, by me. And the mind . . . she’s still screaming . . .    

   “More! More!”

Bob Blobfish sez:

Bob Blobfish sez: “. . . I prefer ice cream cones –  they’re easier to hold in the water”

Freddie’s Flash Fiction – The Tree

Dear Human-beings and other creatures, Those of you who follow my posts know how frank and fundamentally illuminating they are (not to mention how fantastically informative about the human condition).   This post is no exception as my story The Tree has an important lesson for all to heed.

Here is my first (and possibly only) draft of the story.  Those of you who appreciate and are knowledgable about this genre your “critique” would be appreciated before I am sought out by publishers.

Freddie Parker Westerfield, Published Author

Freddie Parker Westerfield, Published Author

 Freddie’s Flash Fiction

The Tree

By Freddie Parker Westerfield

Once upon a time, a long time ago, there lived a tree. (I frequently start my writing with “Once upon a time” as it lends a universal appeal to readers young and old) Its trunk was crooked and all its bark was peeling.  Big roots spread all around the tree, some deep in the earth and some growing above the ground.  The Tree lived in a park with other trees of its own kind on the far edge of town.  Every day many dogs of differing sizes and persuasions came to claim the tree as their territory.

One day, after years of being claimed, the tree yelled at a big black dog with pointy ears and a black nose sniffing around its roots, “I am NOT your territory!” The big black dog didn’t care what the tree thought, claimed it for its own and walked on looking for more territory.  

Within minutes a little white dog with floppy ears and a wet nose sniffed out where the big black dog had been. “I am a tree not a fire hydrant!,” the tree yelled at the little white dog  who ignored the tree, claimed it for its own and walked on looking for more territory.  

The tree, ever alert for impending indignities,  spotted a medium-sized dog with shaggy brown hair and a pink nose approaching.   Finally, after many years of being claimed by many dogs, the tree figured out that actions speak louder than words.  So it picked up its roots and walked away.

The end of my tail

The End

Frankly & Faithfully yours,

Freddie Parker Westerfield, Canine Dog Therapist RET, Author

Read my last published work: The Real Tail of Little Red Riding Hood