PHOTO PROMPT © Connie Gayer

(Note:  We’re in South Dakota, visiting family and looking forward to the graduation of our oldest grandson.  I have infrequent access to wifi, so I probably won’t read all your posts this week.  I’ll miss that, but it’s the way things are.  In the meantime, here’s my contribution for this week’s Friday Fictioneers.)


(Note #2:  I forgot to do the link-up when I wrote this on Wednesday, finally got the opportunity today.  So sorry to not have the opportunity to read all of your stories!)



“Dadburned old pipes!” muttered  Jem, up to his knees in muck.  A connection had broken, or rusted off, or been chewed by varmints. His garden would die without the irrigation pipes that kept it green. Water dripping from the pipe made a foul-smelling mudhole, but he had to keep digging to see how far back the damage to the pipe had gone.

He threw each shovelful into his small front end loader, which would save time refilling the hole later. He wondered why the ground kept getting smellier. Terrible stench.

The he saw the human skull.



28 thoughts on “Pipes

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