Start­ing some­thing new here. I used to find pic­tures of hot­ties every Wednes­day, and write fic­tion­al scenes about them. I found it to be a fun exer­cise, and a lit­tle bit of dis­ci­pline in my high­ly unstruc­tured life. Unfor­tu­nate­ly, one of the mod­els pic­tured emailed me, upset that there was a “false sto­ry” attached to his pic­ture, so in a knee jerk reac­tion, I pulled all of my Hump Day Hot­ties. For all of you that aren’t in the pub­lish­ing indus­try, the cor­rect term for false sto­ry is “Fic­tion”, which is what I do. So I decid­ed to start some­thing new with my false story.…er.…fictional scenes. I’ll post a pic­ture and write a scene. I’d like to encour­age my read­ers to either con­tin­ue the sto­ry where I left off, or write their own scene. It’s a fun lit­tle work­out for the brain. Ready?

Janine hid behind a tree, try­ing to con­trol her gig­gles. Marc had fall­en asleep on their pic­nic blan­ket, just as she’d hoped. When he asked her to rub sun­screen on his shoul­ders, she’d slathered it on pret­ty thick in prepa­ra­tion for this moment. 

He fid­get­ed in his sleep, and she clutched the bag of flour clos­er to her chest, but he did­n’t wake up. He deserved this. Just last week he’d plant­ed a rub­ber snake in her trunk. The week before that he’d got­ten one of his friends to call her at work with a pho­ny accent and ask about rent­ing her office space to film porn. She still would­n’t admit to laugh­ing about that one. The kick­er was when he rigged the front door with pull string pop­pers. She had dropped her gro­ceries, and a jar of pick­les broke. The house still smelled like pick­les, and Marc still laughed about it.

Yes, he deserved this. Janine tip­toed over to him, her heart pound­ing wild­ly. She was care­ful not to let her shad­ow fall over his face. That would wake him up. Instead she stood a bit to the side, and held the paper bag over his face. She tucked a fin­ger in the fold at the bot­tom, and before she could talk her­self out of it, she ripped the seam. She squealed almost before the white pow­der hit his skin, and gig­gled all the way back to safe­ty behind the tree. She peeked around it, hop­ing to see him strug­gling fran­ti­cal­ly with the mess. Instead, he mere­ly wiped his eyes, shook off his hands, and rolled over onto his stomach.

She was in so much trouble.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this scene are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.