
It is Stream of Consciousness Saturday time again, and I looked up in time to see a balloon floating down into the yard. Not being cautious, I ran over since I could see an envelope attached to a string on the balloon. Sure enough, the return address was Linda Hill’s. I ripped open the envelope to find out the prompt this week. To my surprise, here’s the message. “Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “-sty.” Find a word that ends in “-sty” or use the word “sty.” Enjoy!”
If you would like to participate, visit Linda’s blog and see how easy it is to lose your grip[ on reality. Here’s the link.
Sty by John W. Howell © 2021
“I don’t even have to ask. You got the prompt for this week.”
“Why don’t you have to ask?”
“You have the ashen look of a person who is flummoxed.”
“I’m not flummoxed. I just can’t decide the direction.”
“What is the prompt?”
“Sty.”
“Like in the eye?”
“Well, that could be one but words that end in s-t-y or the word itself.”
“Describe your bedroom, and you’ve got it.”
“Meaning?”
“Pigsty.”
“Yeah, very funny, that is a different word.”
“Okay, you got me. What are you going to do?”
“Ask a friend for help.”
“You have one?”
“I think I need to do this myself. Honesty is not your strong suit.”
“Ah, don’t be testy. I was just kidding. Let me help.”
“Okay, I’ll give you amnesty. Any ideas?”
“How about talking about modesty?”
“Um. I would have to get into immodesty descriptions, and that might get me into trouble.”
“Okay, maybe discuss your rhinoplasty.”
“Nose job? I haven’t had a nose job. That would be an element of dishonesty.”
“Was an idea that came to be looking at your nose. Maybe a nice story of the desert. Your hero could be thirsty and out of his mind.”
“And then he becomes a bloodthirsty killer as a result.”
“Now you’re cooking. I’ll leave you in this feisty mode. You’ve got this.”
“Thanks for your help. I was too hasty judging your input.”
“Now that your prompt problems are over, how about a frosty one?”
“At the Zesty Pig Pub?”
“I think you are pushing it, but sounds tasty.”
“After you, your majesty.”
“Stop it.”















Ice on the bushes. Then the temps went to 57 degrees F (13.8C)




















