Friday Fictioneers–The Big Cheese or The Gjetost of Christmas Past (reprise)

I thought I’d go with a reprise of something seasonal for this week.  I hope you enjoy it because if you don’t, it will cheese me off.  This one was from December 2012.

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My first thought was someone at the end of life thinking of all the choices made, one inside each door.  However, something ran amok inside my head and what emerged was a riff on that idea.  Or maybe just riff-raff.  Who can say?

The Big Cheese
Or
The Gjetost of Christmas Past

His mind wandered.  So many choices throughout his life.  Not all perfect, but he was satisfied.  Head of Dewey, Cheatum and Howe, Attorneys-at-Law, (plural intentional but deceptive—no other power here), people averted their gazes when he passed, feared him.  Life was good!

A knock.

“Enter.”

“A Mr. Gjetost to see you.”  Fat Tim, AKA“Tiny”, handed him a card, departing silently but for his limp.

What the dickens?  This guy’s a Norwegian cheese?  Ebenezeer scrutinized the card.  Mr. G. H. Ost.  Tim and names!  Wonder what this guy wants?

“Mr. Ost, how may I help you?”

“Au contraire, Mr. Skruge…”

Perspective, reprised

Almost four and a half years ago, I started writing a weekly hundred-word story based on a photo for Friday Fictioneers.  I kept at it for over three years and only stopped because the group had grown so much that I couldn’t read all the other stories, not that it was a requirement, but because I felt I should if I expected everyone else to read mine. This was my first hundred words.

 

He looks out…
sees space,
sees opportunity;
feels freedom.

She looks out…
sees space,
sees emptiness;
feels loneliness.

He looks down…
sees crops,
sees growth;
feels anticipation.

She looks down…
sees dryness,
sees obstacles;
feels discouragement.

He looks inward…
sees challenge,
sees work;
feels tall.

She looks inward…
sees questions,
sees work;
feels uncertain.

He looks toward her…
sees beauty
sees courage;
feels tenderness.

She looks toward him…
sees caring,
sees fortitude;
feels  resolution.

They look outward…
see opportunity,
see hardship;
feel purpose.

They look together…
see the sunrise,
see each other;
feel love.

Friday Fictioneers…Forever, Love (Three years later)

Has it really been three years already?  Evidently so, although it’s difficult to believe.  I’m reprising my entire post, opening paragraph and all.  A bit of nostalgia, followed by a bit of….well, that would be giving it away.

Friday Fictioneers says good-bye to creator Madison Woods this week and hello to our new home with Rochelle Wisoff (no “h’)-Fields, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/. Madison, we hope to read your stories often; Rochelle, thanks for taking up the torch. Now sit back and enjoy the read. As always, click on the little icon at the end to access all the stories. Oh, yes…thanks, Ron, for the picture.

Forever, Love

Their f­­­irst trip to their daughter’s as new citizens and their 60th anniversary. Truly a special day! He smiled at his wife; took her hand. He knew she really didn’t look the same as when they met, but that’s what his heart saw. Thinking of their grandchildren, he tightened his grasp; chuckled.

Last stop before they arrived. Only a few people got off, including the young man who’d been sitting in front of them. As the bus started, he noticed the forgotten backpack. Perhaps they could stop. He called to the driver, “Excuse…”

.

.

.

Bus Explodes—Terrorism Suspected
Over 80 dead

Friday Fictioneers….Memories may be beautiful and yet…

Time for another hundred words, despite being a bit distracted today by the news that my mom’s in the hospital for a few days with a UTI and blood infection.  Thankfully, the former caused her to go for testing, which discovered the latter, making it much easier to treat.  An IV antibiotic should kick them both out on their not-so-merry ways.  Fortunately, the story more or less wrote itself in my mind while on the way home from work the other day.

Thanks to David Stewart of The Greenwalled Tower for the photo prompt and to Rochelle for hostessing the menagerie of writers each week.

Memories may be beautiful and yet…*

“Wow! The houses look so small. I remember them as big.”

“The tree we used to climb is gone. Wonder if the creek’s still there?”

“Oh, man, looks like Love Canal or something. There’s that spiky gate Jimmy almost impaled himself on.”

“Remember when…” and we were off and story-telling. Joe’s hands shaped paper boats like the ones we used to float in the creek. Jimmy, Joe, and Jenny. Inseparable. Until they left.

I launched every boat, one for each year. “Ooh Rah, Jimmy,” we both said softly. Joe saluted, then turned the wheelchair around and headed for the car.

 

*Thanks to Alan and Marilyn Bergman for the line from their song, “The Way We Were.”

Friday Fictioneers…Missing

Recipe for a Friday Fictioneers story:

Take one photo.
Add some thought. (Amount is optional.)
Shake (or stir, James) to make 100 words.
Enjoy immoderately.

Serves one or more. No calories.

This week’s photo is from a Friday Fictioneers stalwart, Jennifer (ElmoWrites) Pendergast.  I’m sure it has a much happier memory than the story I derived from it.

Missing

I miss my dad.

He took us on hikes where we found green frogs and slithering snakes, taught us to swim and always splashed us, gave us piggyback rides, told us stories.

That was before he and Mom started fighting.
Before her bruises.
Before she fell down the steps and broke her arm.
Before he was gone.

Mom made a pile of stones, one for every year he’s been gone. That’s where I go over the good times so I don’t forget them. Or him.

Mom said it’s a place I can remember Dad.

They remind me of a headstone.

Friday Fictioneers: Mama K

It’s been many, many months since I’ve written one hundred words for Friday Fictioneers and it may be some time before I write again.  But while out for my morning walk today, a story to go with this photo came to mind, so I offer it to you, hopefully for your pleasure.

copyright rochelle wisoff-fields

Mama K

No one knew how to pronounce the Middle-European hodge-podge of mostly consonants comprising her surname, but even little children mouthed, “Mama K.” The neighborhood glue through all its metamorphoses, she reigned supreme from her window, somehow seeing everything. No matter her age, food appeared for hungry families, young people were lovingly taken to task or encouraged; even gang members deferred to her.

The day her face didn’t appear at the usual time, we all knew.   The flowers, cards, stuffed animals, photos, and other items of loving remembrance grew high as the doorway. The gaping hole her passing left remains unfillable.

Friday Fictioneers: Buried alive

What you see in a photo is not always what others see.  In fact, if you’re a Friday Fictioneers author, odds are high that there will be no story like your story, that what you see is not what others see.  We like that, strive for that.  Some stories flow directly from the photo, others take devious routes through the author’s thoughts and experiences before being born.  That’s the fun of it:  100 words creating a bit of flash fiction all your own.

If you’d like to read, write, or both, a click on the blue creature at the end of the post will take you into Wonderland, a place where often you pray that the stories are truly fiction.  But you never know!

copyright Sandra Crook

Buried Alive

Cold. Damp. Smells of earth. I can barely move.
Stretch tentatively from my curled position.
Soil coffin, oppressive darkness.

I’m impelled to try to move.
I push upward…

but which way is up?
What if I’m wrong?

Harsh, cold, packed ground.

Push.
Push.
Don’t stop.
Don’t think.
Attack!

Finally a bit more warmth.
Some give.

I strain, thrust in the tiny space. More give. Friable earth.
One final effort. One last blow.

I’m out! Grey sky overhead.
I rest, exhausted.

I have arrived in spring. Not yet time to bloom, but I can wait. I have more growth to accomplish.

Friday Fictioneers…The Assignation

If you love to write, but are at a loss for words, Friday Fictioneers is for you.  You only have to find 100 of those words, craft them into a story roughly based on a picture prompt (or maybe barely related), go to Rochelle’s site (she hosts the whole shebang), link your story, then read as many of the other stories as you can or like, preferably commenting on the ones you read.  If that sounds like fun, please feel free to join us every Wednesday for the new prompt (although you may post a story up until the following Tuesday night.)  If the prompt comes out on Wednesday, why is it called “Friday Fictioneers?”  Well, that’s a whole ‘nother story and I only have time to tell one this morning.

This week’s prompt is from Erin Leary.  If you’d enjoy reading other stories, please click on the blue linky critter at the end of my story.  But be sure to check back, as writers will be posting for many days.

Copyright Erin Leary

The Assignation

It was just before dawn when I slipped from the house, checking to be sure no one saw me. She was waiting at our usual spot, half hidden behind a tree. No demonstrative greetings; only time to briefly cup one ample curve. We had to move quickly and quietly.

About fifteen minutes later, we reached a place we’d often used before. Underneath “our” tree, the leaves were soft, with other trees and vegetation nearby for cover. She ran ahead, eager to find just the right spot. I followed, anticipating how many pungent black truffles her snout would unearth this year.

 

Friday Fictioneers…Rescue

Friday Fictioneers: One photo. One hundred words. One story. Any one author.

copyright Dawn Landau

Rescue

Shiiit, I don wanna go to no juvie, so I figure this volunteer thing be what I have to do. Dog rescue be good. Maybe I find me one a them Rottie dawgs or them pit bulls. Then nobody be messin’ wit me!

Trouble is, dat dawg I find be hurtin’ from bein’ made ta fight. She all skinny and stuff and lick ma face ‘n all. All she be wantin’ is some luv. Shiiit! Make me wanna cry ‘n I cain’t be doin’ that! They help me keep her. Now she follow me everywhere. I guess we a lot alike.

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This story is dedicated to Janie and Annabelle, the two rescue pit bulls we fostered and would have adopted had we been able to do so at the time.  You can find more posts and photos of them by clicking on “Animals” in the Categories part of my blog.  And a big shoutout to For the Love of Pits, the amazing organization near Cleveland, Ohio that does such stellar work!  They and their dogs are changing the hearts and minds of people and dogs every day!   You guys rock!!

Want to read more stories? Click below.

Friday Fictioneers: Wetting the Bed

Hurrah!  It’s good to be back with Friday Fictioneers. I’ve missed you and your fine stories.  I’m enjoying my new part-time job at the tea shop, although I still have a lot to learn.  If any of you ever make it to the Chicago area, we can have a Fictioneers meeting there (on a day when I’m not working.)  But enough with the compliments.  On to the story…and then work.

(For anyone new to Friday Fictioneers, a photo provides the prompt for the week and each person responds by writing a 100 word story.  To access all the stories written, please click on the blue link creature at the end of my story.  Enjoy.)

Copyright Marie Gail Stratford

 Wetting the Bed

They wouldn’t carry the bed upstairs. “Sorry. We’re only paid to deliver inside the door, ma’am” and off they’d gone, leaving everything in the lobby. I bribed some neighbors with cookies and coffee to help me to carry it to the fourth floor apartment: mattress, box springs, heavy, wooden, custom-made frame. I assembled it all myself and made it with my new sheets.

I sat, watching the rain-blurred colors of the changing street and car lights, wetting my new bed with tears shed for the the man I’d hoped to curl up with all the rainy days of my life.