Dad makes every shot. Nothing fazes him, not the windmill blades, the narrow bridge, the ripped carpet on Hole 7.
“They should fix that,” he notes, then drains the tricky putt.
My own ball rims out. Again. I curse it.
“Relax,” Dad tells me, as if he ever could have.
Jim Anderson is a retired college lecturer who lives in Michigan where he reads a lot and writes a little. More of his micro-fiction can be found at JimTheWriter.net.
Across the moat, the tower door stood open. What carelessness!
Klaus crouched by the black water, trying to gauge its depth. Atop fifty feet of curving stone, a guard wandered the battlements, oblivious.
Easy swim. A nearby frog croaked its agreement. Klaus eased himself in.
Around the bend, something splashed.
Jim Anderson is a retired college teacher who lives in south-east Michigan. He reads a lot, and writes a little. More of his micro fiction can be found at jimthewriter.net.