Wow!Rochelle has been our Friday Fictioneers Facilitator for four years and what a marvelous job she does.Today’s thought-provoking picture was provided by Peter Abbey. When I read 100-word story to my husband, he said, ” Another dark one.” Maybe next week I’ll bend toward the lighter side. Thanks to all who read and comment on my submissions. I truly appreciate you all.
“Got to get home before me Em does.”
Samuel’s feet clattered across the wooden bridge.
His leggings were too hot, not because the day was warm,
it was only forty degrees, it was the panic, the need to reverse time.
“She not be cheatin’ on me! Lyin’ bitches!”
“Em!” The oak door slammed against the wall.
Emily’s single porcelain dish tumbled from the shelf. Shattered.
“Em!” Samuel sprinted, room to room.
He found her hanging in the attic; note pinned to her bodice.
Beneath his words, “Be gone by noon.”
she’d penned, “Husband, I’ll have done what you be askin’.”
Posted: October 19, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
A special thank you to Rochelle for announcing that my story, “The Perfect Death”, was published in Sweet Tree Review. It was incredibly exciting to get the email from the editors saying, “We are delighted to accept…” then see my work in print. And thanks to my fellow fictioneers for reading and commenting on my stories. What you say helps me refine my writing.
Giselle accepted anything in payment for her rituals. Coins, stringed balloons, moss.
She performed an elaborate ceremony for the man who presented the painted rock, truly her favorite gift.
In general, Giselle found the men greedy: “More money” “A new wife.”
And the women simple: “A needle” or “Just a pair of shoes.”
She doted on the children for they always asked for sweet things:
“Heal my puppy” or “A little brother. P-l-e-a-s-e.”
They came to her shack alone. Hands wringing. Boots scraping.
All of them feeling needy.
Giselle gave them what they wanted but always kept their souls.
The wheels on Tonya’s cart aren’t in sync.
The gravel path between the glaring street lights makes the cart,
bulging with stretched-out sweaters, a greasy sleeping bag,
and the canvas tarp she uses as a tent when there is still “real estate” beneath the bridge,
go all wonky.
Tonya fingers the soft pink blanket on top. Rattles the bag of marbles – good for trade.
Perhaps someone has milk.
But the knife – cold and swift – ends all ideas of trade.
She bleeds out while a man, not heeding the mewl of the baby, flees with Tonya’s cart.
Thanks to Rochelle for leading our merry band of Friday Fictioneers, it’s amazing how you can keep up with everything! Thanks, also to ceayr for providing the picture prompt. When I enlarged it and “saw the writing on the wall” I absolutely had to run with it.
“I’ve lived beside the pond so long,” Botene thought, “I no longer remember when I arrived.”
Nor was there any memory whether Botene was man or woman. His/her hair was brittle, like sticks, and
his/her skin rough as bark. Through time his/her feet had spread until shoes wouldn’t fit.
People ignored all these things when they asked, “Will I marry?” “Have sons?”
“Get rich?” Botene didn’t know. Perhaps if the villagers brought
gifts: shampoo, or lotion, or food he/she might care.
Still, when Botene smiled and said, “Everything is going to be alright,” never anything else,
the villagers went away happy.
Posted: September 28, 2016 in Uncategorized
Tags: P.O.W., planning ahead
Wednesday/Friday has rolled around once again. Today’s story weighs in at 99 words, Finally, I’m under the 100-word limit. I have good news to share. My story A Perfect Death as been accepted for publication in the October 17th edition of the on-line magazine Sweet Tree Review! I’m super excited.
I’ve seen too much, felt too much
Nothing is what it should have been
What I’d planned
They took me and bent me
Into a man I don’t recognize
I walk through my days
Guarded and stealthy
Waiting to be taken again
Waiting to be thrown into a box
Beaten and hounded
But I’ve done what is needed
To keep me sane
Behind this door?
Enough food to keep me alive for a year
Blankets upon blankets
The last door?
Can you not hear the voices?
It’s Wednesday-Friday again, the day we Friday Fictioneers put fingertips to keys and type out 100-word stories inspired by the picture prompt our Fairy Blog Mother posts. Hooray! for Rochelle! Thank you. And Hooray! to my fellow bloggers. I look forward to each and every one of your stories.
My Dear Mrs. Pinkington,
At the age of 85, I never thought I would find love again
but have discovered more beauty in you than any other woman.
Tsk. Tsk. You old fool
Nellie Pinkington inspects the barely visible surgical scars along her hairline.
I would be honored if you would agree to marry me as soon as possible.
In our waning years, we have little time to spare.
You don’t know the half of it.
All I own will be yours. Please say yes.
Grinning, Nellie opens the satin box containing fifteen
Or is it sixteen?
Posted: September 15, 2016 in Uncategorized
By the sixth month of the remodel, Frankie couldn’t bear Nancy’s screechy voice.
“You said it’d take three weeks!”
“You said pink tiles! Then frickin’ put in blue! And them stairs is too damn steep!”
“You said…” “You said…” “You said…”
When’d you turn into such a punk? Frankie thought as he said, “Yeah, Hon, I’ll fix you right up.”
Frankie went to Billenger’s Hardware, bought pink tile, five feet of rope and a sheet of canvas.
“Nance?” he said to the neighbors. “Uh, she went on a little trip.”
Nancy was right. Replacing the blue tiles with pink was a good idea.