Judith Garcia is the Readers’ Choice in this week’s Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. The winning entry is decided by the popular vote and rewarded with a special feature here today. (In the case of a tie, the writer who submitted an entry first is the winner per our rules.)
Without further ado, here’s the winning story:
Photo copyright K. S. Brooks. Do not use without attribution.
Dung
by Judith Garcia
“PLEASE DISPOSE OF HORSE MANURE HERE,” the sign read. He hung a ratty old broom and beat-up shovel behind the sign and stood back to inspect his work. Perfect! He chuckled.
His neighbors had objected when he painted his mailbox bright red. When he dyed the rocks around his little garden in gaudy colors, the Association made him remove them. Only gray-beige-brown uniformity was acceptable. Even the draperies in his front window were the wrong color. Well, he had had enough. He had paid good money for his condo, like everyone else, and felt he could do what he wanted with it. If he wanted to paint it purple with silver trim, he would. But right now that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to aggravate the neighbors the way they had aggrieved him, and he felt the horse manure sign was the way to do it. The sign, and the post it was fastened to, and the shovel, and the broom were all the right colors. So what was there to object to? He chuckled again, went inside, and drew his bright orange draperies.
Later he heard what sounded like a truck. That was odd. Ordinarily, the Association did not allow trucks on their private roads. He stepped outside and saw a loaded dump truck with “Hillcrest Ranch – Horses Boarded” painted on the door.
“No! No!” he shouted. Too late. The truck dumped its substantial load, as directed by his sign.
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Judith Garcia is the Readers’ Choice in this week’s Indies Unlimited Flash Fiction Challenge. The winning entry is decided by the popular vote and rewarded with a special feature here today. (In the case of a tie, the writer who submitted an entry first is the winner per our rules.)
“PLEASE DISPOSE OF HORSE MANURE HERE,” the sign read. He hung a ratty old broom and beat-up shovel behind the sign and stood back to inspect his work. Perfect! He chuckled.
His neighbors had objected when he painted his mailbox bright red. When he dyed the rocks around his little garden in gaudy colors, the Association made him remove them. Only gray-beige-brown uniformity was acceptable. Even the draperies in his front window were the wrong color. Well, he had had enough. He had paid good money for his condo, like everyone else, and felt he could do what he wanted with it. If he wanted to paint it purple with silver trim, he would. But right now that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to aggravate the neighbors the way they had aggrieved him, and he felt the horse manure sign was the way to do it. The sign, and the post it was fastened to, and the shovel, and the broom were all the right colors. So what was there to object to? He chuckled again, went inside, and drew his bright orange draperies.
Later he heard what sounded like a truck. That was odd. Ordinarily, the Association did not allow trucks on their private roads. He stepped outside and saw a loaded dump truck with “Hillcrest Ranch – Horses Boarded” painted on the door.
“No! No!” he shouted. Too late. The truck dumped its substantial load, as directed by his sign.