The Art of Growing Affection

© A Mixed Bag

Marmadas Twofoot fumed as he stomped up the walkway to the door of his home. Each hairy foot slammed down as though he were angry with the ground itself.

How dare she? he asked himself as he grasped the doorknob of the round portal that led into the cozy interior of his hobbit hole.

Marmadas had just returned from the market in Loamsdown where Ruby Gardner had told him that his tomatoes had worms. Worms! What did she know? Her cucumbers were shriveled and her carrots limp and he’d told her as much quite loudly. Their shouting match had been quite the spectacle.

He set his basket of tomatoes down on the floor in his kitchen.  He remembered how she’d called him a big-nosed lout, her soft cheeks glowing pink and how her hair had billowed in the breeze as she informed everyone his vegetables were unfit to eat. He recalled the way her breasts heaved as she ranted about how his crops were an embarrassment; the worst in the Shire.

He reached for a tomato and just before biting it, noticed something wriggling on the surface: A worm.

Marmadas grinned. He couldn’t wait to see her again next week.

Word Count: 200

[This is my entry into the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge, hosted by Alastair Forbes. Write a short story of 200 words or less from the photo prompt provided.]

~V

A Rabbit Goes Down a Hobbit Hole and Finds a Chamber of Secrets

“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?]

~V