“In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty wet hole. It was a hobbit hole, and that meant comfort.”
“What’s a hobbit?” asked Clive. ”
“Just something I made up,” replied John standing outside the entrance to his basement apartment, which was covered in colorful foliage. “I call this place, Bag End. Come on, let me show you inside.”
“Well now,” Clive remarked, taking in the overstuffed furniture, multi-colored lamps and assortment of candles.
“And best of all,” replied John. “I have this!” He gestured to the large hookah in the corner.
Clive grinned. “Where did you get it?”
“Bought it at an estate sale from some family named Carroll” replied John.
For the next several years, the two friends enjoyed many evenings inhaling deeply from the Persian smoking device while conjuring fantastic, far away lands filled with magical creatures.
Decades later, a young single mother, struggling to find her way saw the hookah in an old antique shop.
As the shop keeper wrapped her purchase, he replied “Here you are, miss…”
“Rowling,” she smiled.
She couldn’t explain it, but somehow she felt this hookah would change her life.
[This is my entry this week into the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, hosted by Priceless Joy. A photo prompt is given and writers are encouraged to create a short story of 100 – 150 words, + or – 25 words.
Can you identify the four author’s I’ve referenced in this story?]