The Writing Exercise Board's Quickie of the Week: April 4, 2008
The prompt is … use a pink flamingo in a poem, story, essay, or scene.
Serious or silly, it just has to have a pink flamingo somewhere.
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When I read this post, the first thing that ran through my mind-- I've seen flamingos doing that little dance they do when they feed. Though I've never seen them up close and personal, I've seen it a number of times on TV. All those thousands of pairs of legs, stepping, stepping, up and down. Up and down; marching along. Thousands of heads bobbing and looking about; left, right, back, front. And always with some peppy musical score.
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So, immediately I saw those pink plastic lawn ornaments undulating across someone's yard. But, whose yard? And how did they all get there?
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I had fun with this and reworked it a little, so-- Enjoy!
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Most couldn't say exactly when it started. It's simply one of those things that was part of the landscape. But everyone knew the day Mildred Pinkton became known as the Crazy Pink Flamingo Lady. That's the day the Pine Hollar Gazette made her front page news. .
Mildred lived on the last parcel of untilled land, eastward bound out of the city proper. A few townsfolk remember when the first one appeared. The hardcore council members took pride in the fact there were no plastic daisies or whirly-gig birds in anyone's front yard. Nothing that outsiders could accuse of being kitch. At least not until a single pink flamingo appeared on Mildred's front lawn one unsuspecting hot summer day.
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A week or so later, another one appeared on the opposite side of the lawn; facing the first arrived. No one knew how long it was before they crept across the distance and stood finally, beak to beak. Her neighbor across the street remembered seeing they'd been moved, at different points, but paid it no real attention. When a smaller one appeared a few weeks later, he laughed out loud and gave Mildred an approving thumbs up.
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Throughout the following months and subsequent years, another plastic bird would appear, regularly until the crazy lady's herd would be found undulating in one direction one day, then heading opposite come the next brisk morn. That's only after they'd made their way entirely across the yard. No one ever saw her move them or put one out-- They just appeared.
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Though there were numerous attempts made buy neighbors and nosey kids, no one ever found her out. Not until the Gazette gave the job to their ace reporter, Wallace Fowning. He snooped around the post office; no special deliveries were made. Ever. And the lawn and garden center twenty miles south, didn't even carry them.
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Though his editor suggested a stake out, in due course, Wallace decided to take the more direct approach. He knocked on Mildred's door, introduced himself, and sat with her to tea. When he asked, Wallace found her actually amazed no one really ever made the connection. She explained that everyone knew her son trucked produce. They just never saw a relationship between his regular visits and a new member of her droll little flock.
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"But tried as they may, no one's ever seen you, or him for that matter, put one out or move them around. When do you do it all?" Wallace asked.
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"Oh! People don't always see a thing right under their noses." Wallace noted her sly smile. "When it all started, I did it at night; when most folk sleep. You know how early even us citified bed down. I just thought it would be funny. Once the herd grew, people rarely noticed when I moved one; even in broad daylight." He also noted her delight. "But no one ever sees me trim around them. Movin' them around just made it easier to cut the grass."
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"You know they think you're a little crazy?" Wallace asked.
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"No they don't." Mildred smiled. "They drive back 'n forth every day, and narry a one that I see drives off but with a smile on their face."
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It just made it easier to cut the grass. Wallace focused his article around that one innocent line. That and the simple want of making someone else smile.
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