Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

Today’s picture was taken by Roger Bultot.Thanks, Rochelle, for posting it. I’m sure this scene will inspire many wonderful stories! My 100-word piece about this gorgeous old cafe follows.

Sarah came to the cafe for the sounds
clatter of spoons
rattle of plates
the jingle of laughter and
jangle of that tiny tarnished bell over the door

Sarah made friends here
broke up with boyfriends here
Went away smelling of over-cooked eggs
and burned bacon
and feeling like she’d just left her home.

Home was a mangled car in the yard
home was the sound of the too-loud TV
Mama’s tears
dogs barking
and a faucet drip, drip, dripping

Home smelled of mold and cigarettes
Home was Daddy lying in
her brother’s empty bed
eyes staring at nothing

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

Today’s photo prompt was taken by our fearless leader, Rochelle. Thanks for posting it! I’m sure this poor injured car will inspire many interesting stories.

Dearest Rebecca,

I cannot believe you left me hangin. What about through thick and thin? Sure, I done it. So’d you! Right there beside me, whooping, “Go! Go! Go! One more round!” But, darlin’, at some point we should a stopped. No way in hell that big feller deserved what we done. Takin him out in the field in the middle of the night, tyin him to the fence! Usin that ladder. What was we thinkin?

Well, it’s over now. Cept I got three years; you got nothin. Who knew people’d be so strict about takin elephants out for a joy ride?

(101 words)

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

Lovers come to the bench.
The teenagers spy.
Ephemeral. Unmoving. Only their heads peek ’round the hedge.
None speak. They simply watch.
Tommy ponders the smoothness of women’s skin.
Annabelle enjoys the muscles rippled across men’s backs.
Susanne resents everything about the couples. Would stop them if she could.
For the siblings will never feel such things, make such sounds
or hear the words, “I love you.”
Suffocation should have put an end to anticipation and hope.
But, they feel the need to return. Night after night.
Year after year.
Century upon century.

Today’s Photo Prompt was provided by Liz Young 

Wow! Wednesday-Friday is here again. Thanks to Magaly Guerrero for the fun photo. And to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for posting it so our merry band of Friday Fictioneers can each create a 100-word tale.

Me and them shoes been pals for a long time.
Yes indeedy. A long, long time.
Went to our first dance together.
Got married together.
Them shoes took me to the hospital when my Sara was born.
Carried me to the graveyard when she passed.
Yep, we got us some history.
When Burt left, them shoes took me to the bus station.
Went all the way to Kansas together
then on to New York city.
Joined us a chorus line.
Danced until we was both too old.
Got to pack them shoes away now.
We’re leaving for a better place.

The Guy

Posted: April 12, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers

Thanks to Dale Rogerson and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields the Friday Fictioneers get to go on vacation with a wild and crazy guy.

What did I do last night? Whose cosmetics are these?
Not mine! Hey! I’m a guy.
I don’t drink wine. I don’t wear red panties.
And I certainly don’t eat pizza. Red meat or nothin’.

What I remember: A conga line. Paper umbrellas. Clinking ice.
This guy drinks scotch on the rocks and wears Speedos,
’cause real guys don’t wear Jockey for Men.
Now, back to the question that hasn’t been asked, “Where am I?”

“Rog, darling!”
Who? What? Damn my head hurts.
H-e-l-l-o.
And there she is, in all her pink-skinned glory.
Not-My-Wife.

This guy is happy!

(100 words)

“No one is to go out after dark!”
“I won’t go out, Mama.” Not until you sleep.
Bicycle wheels squeak squeak squeaking, Jan rattles over the cobblestones.
His back aches from constant jostling, his eyes burn from glaring into the moonless night.
The gun on his shoulder seems to weigh twice as much as it did when he started five miles before.
Still, he goes on. It’s his last chance. “I can’t be late.”
The Troja Bridge. A motor car. The right motor car.
Jan drops the bicycle, steadies his gun.
Reinhard Heydrich’s face comes into focus.
Then disappears.

Thanks to Rochelle and Jellico’s Stationhouse, we once again have the perfect photo prompt for a Wednesday/Friday. The bike reminded me of WW II – why? It’s not what you look at but what you see. I looked up Reinhard Heydrich, and he seemed like the perfect recipient for a sniper’s bullet. This isn’t exactly what happened, but . . .

After eleven exciting days in Peru, I’m glad to be back in the company of the Friday Fictioneers. Today’s photo, posted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, was provided by Fatima Fakier Deria. Thanks to you both.

I make my living chasing
salmon and halibut and dogfish
across miles of salt-scented waves
under the heat of the midday sun
or swallowed by a cacophony of rain.

I am alone ninety days out of the year and
have learned to enjoy the solitude.
I whistle along with sea birds,
play guitar and mend nets.

I need no partner
woman or man
to make the world go round.
I am content
until my feet anchor on land.

There I endure endless pawing,
cat-calls and intimidation
from fishermen threatened by
the existence of
independent women.

(100-words)