The Summertime prompt inspired many people. The prompt was to write a story or poem that includes the following words: summer, ice cream, bicycle, dog, waffle iron.
Want to take a shot at another writing challenge? There’s still time to respond to the picnic prompt.
Now grab a glass of iced tea and enjoy some summer reading.
Here are the entries (in no particular order):
A poem by Rachel Poli
The waffle iron turned on,
We eat breakfast together
Since school is finally done.
The kids ride their bicycles
While I walk our dog, Jack.
We’re happy in the sunshine,
On our way to get ice cream.
Summer has finally come.
Summertime by Rowena
Riding my bicycle in my bikini,
liquid ice cream dreams
by the flapping tongue
of a thirsty dog
It’s like they’ve never even been.
Oblivious to my ice cream woes,
the boy with the waffle iron
Find s love
In another’s arms.
summer can be so cruel.
A short story by Geoff Le Pard
Cuthbert dropped the ice cream. It fell in a slow parabola to splatter the broiling pavement where it sizzled as if it had landed on an overheated waffle iron. He knew he was wrong; he shouldn’t have been using his bicycle while eating his double chocco mint whip (with extra nuts) but how could he have known that bloody dog would run out just then and cause him to swerve. More to the point how could he know that the collision of his bicycle with the first beach hut would cause a domino like collapse.
As he gawped, every sort of holiday maker emerged from the debris: the anxious over creamed mother, the knotted handkerchief wearing grandpa, the barely covered teenagers and one naked nut tanned couple. They turned as one to Cuthbert who belatedly realised they were channeling their anger at him. Hurriedly he turned his bicycle towards the prom and addressed the pedals. So much for a relaxing summer’s day at the seaside.
Smells and Sounds of Summer by Christina Rose
He lags behind me,
floppy brown ears
flailing in the wind,
racing to keep up
with my bicycle.
A crazy smile
his happy face.
Scent of breakfast
on my clothes,
that sugary carb smell
of waffle irons toasting.
freshly cut grass,
the sweet of
melting ice cream
The smells of summer.
Stop at the creek,
the bridge the
children are fishing at.
Watching their lines
laughter and cries.
Plunk! a respite
from the lapping of
The sounds of summer.
Laying on the soft bank,
sit beside my face.
Savor this day,
this moment of
coming alive in the
breeze, the gentle
late morning sun.
The joys of summer by Solveig Werner
Out of the cool train she stepped, into blazing summer heat. The old fashioned whistle sounded as she straightened her golden hair.
“Beautiful, there you are!” her grandmother was approaching and looked sceptical at all the luggage. “I thought we told you not to bring too much, we are equipped you know”.
She rolled her deep blue eyes “Yes, grandma, I know, but a city girl is a city girl.” She loved her grandmother and grandfather, but spending three weeks of her summer holidays here was too much. She was of an age where she wanted to spend her time eating ice cream with friends, while watching cute boys. She wanted to go on summer dates and feel admired. But her mother had decided otherwise, probably to keep her out of trouble.
Her eyes readjusted slowly to the darkness, but her nose smelled the familiar smell. The sweet smell of waffles and forgotten memories was in the air. There was her grandfather holding the old waffle iron into the fire. Even on such a hot day, he could not resist making home-made waffles for for his beloved grand-daughter. Embracing the old man she looked out of the kitchen window. On the path leading to the old house she caught the sight of a dog.
“You have a dog now?”
“Oh that must be Jack with his new puppy.”
Jack, who is Jack? Questioningly she looked at her grandmother, who hinted that she should go outside.
Kneeling down to cuddle the puppy, her eyes fell on Jack. He was dismounting his expensive looking bicycle, wearing one of those million-dollar smiles of a cute boy. She felt the eruption of butterflies in her stomach as he stretched out his hand to help her up saying: “Hey, I’m Jack. I am a neighbour of your grandparents”.
Wow, even here, at the edge of the civilised world, cute boys exist. Thanks mom for trying to keep me out of trouble, she though to herself as she gave him a welcoming peck on the cheek.
Summer Cream Dreams by Cindy Scott
Within the summertime I hide
amongst the bicycles and ways
traveling with Friend Dog by my side
for grand adventure filling days.
Of the highest delicious kind
with a few dollars it is signed–
a waffle pressed cone just for me
and a dish of ice-cream for ye.
Waffles With Strawberry Ice Cream
It was another hot summer day. Mama was in the kitchen makin’ waffles. She loved her waffle iron. Papa gave it to her for their fifth weddin’ anniversary. Or so she says. We had to eat waffles pretty much every darn day. Some days for breakfast and for dinner. With chicken. Mama loved chicken. I hate chicken. I think I may even hate waffles, but not on days mama let us eat waffles with ice cream, like today. On days like today, I loved waffles. Mama even let us have seconds.
I was sittin’ in the kitchen finishin’ my seconds of waffles and strawberry ice cream, when I heard Lola, our dog, barkin’ somethin’ awful. Tom, my younger brother, was riding his bicycle aroun’ the block. Mama must‘ave been on the front porch sleepin’. Anyway, even if she wasn’t, she didn’t react to the dog barkin’. I was the only one that heard her barkin’ out there in the back. She was yelpin’ and yellin’. No stoppin’ to it.
At first, I tried to ignore it and kept eatin’ the ice cream. Oh, the delicious creamy sweetness. But Lola wouldn’t stop. I yelled at her to shut up a few times. Maybe once or twice. It didn’t do it.
So I finished off my ice cream, ‘cause my life philosophy is to never leave ice cream uneaten, and then I went out to the back yard to see what all that barkin’ was about.
There was a strange man standing there as if frozen, a bit hunched over with arms spread towards Lola. He looked filthy. He was a hobo, I thought.
At first, I didn’t know what to do. He didn’t see me, but Lola gave me away and he looked over at me with pleading eyes. Eyes I though I’d seen somewheres.
“Lola, down,” I shouted. “Lay.”
She promptly complied and the hobo made his way towards me, which alarmed me. I was only nine years old, and here was this strange filthy hobo comin’ towards me. What if he wanted to kidnap me? What if he was to kill me? Maybe worse.
He smiled. “Sweet girl, thank you. Is your mama ‘round?”
“Yea.” I turned and ran as fast as my legs allowed it. I got mama.
She came out and stared at the hobo for a while. “Don?”
He smiled and hugged her. She hugged him back without wincin’.