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–Out of the Frying Pan

Friday Fictioneers

Eyes observe photo
Tumbling thoughts settle into
One hundred word story

Copyright Danny Bowman

Out of the Frying Pan

He lies
A useless hulk
A ranging mind or a vast emptiness
No one knows
Once-powerful muscles wasted from lack of exercise
He never speaks
Eyes dead and flat
Bodily functions machine- or human-aided
He lies alone
In silence

She never visits
His wife of many years, absent
No children to hold his hand
Or talk of the day’s activities

Some feel sorrow for him

Her bruises, burns, sometime broken bones
(all hidden)
Ended by the frying pan
That finally destroyed his abuse-ordering synapses

Today she signs the papers
Sending him, she hopes,
To the hell he put her through

Friday Fictioneers: Part of the Problem or Part of the Solution?

If you like stories, but don’t have much time to spend reading, then Friday Fictioneers is just right for you. Each story has only 100 words (sometimes plus or minus a few) and takes a minimum amount of time to read. Fair warning: sometimes you’ll find yourself re-reading, either because you missed something the first time or just because that story was so amazing (in one way or another), that you had to read it again, just to be sure it really was that good (or bizarre!)

You may access all the stories by clicking on the constantly-updating link at the very end of this post. Feel free to leave comments, to press “like”,or just read and leave. We all love friendly feedback and like to know that you read our stories. If you want to try your hand and pen/keyboard at writing, visit Rochelle’s site for the how-to’s.  That’s where you can find the weekly picture prompt, which will go live on Wednesday of each and every week.  Now on to my story (and this week, my photo.)

 

Part of the Problem or Part of the Solution?

The homeless.  Drugs and mental illness play a large part but many could go inside at night if they like.  I’ll never understand why someone would prefer cardboard on a steam vent or sleeping propped against a wall on the sidewalk.

I wonder.  Is homeless society hierarchical?  Do those with full-shopping-cart storage rank higher than those without?  Do the rest feel superior about their ability to survive with less?

It’s annoying to feel guilt at averting my eyes from the outstretched cups.

I want to help.  I just make sure the coffee I give can’t be traced back to me.

Friday Fictioneers: Remembrance

Friday Fictioneers.  One hundred words to tell a story, a snippet of life told tightly. Does it succeed? You let me know.

Copyright E. A. Wicklund

Remembrance

Standing there, he can only imagine (because Dad had rarely spoken of it), dropping into the Higgins boats, men crying, boys stiff with fear; your best friend dying next to you in the ocean red with blood, men drowning as their water-filled helmets trapped them under waves. After staggering the long yards through waist-deep ocean, the vast expanse of Omaha Beach still waiting, filled with mines and hedgehogs and openness, the deadly rain of ammunition falling all around. Behind, the inexorably rising tide; ahead, the unknowable.

The gulls’ hoarse cries echo the forgotten screams of the defiant and the dying.

******************

A snippet of what my father-in-law and so many others experienced on this and other beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944.

Higgins boats: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/LCVP_%28United_States%29
Hedgehogs: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Czech_hedgehog

My father-in-law’s ship:

Want to read more stories? Click here.

Friday Fictioneers–Hold me closer, tiny dancer

Taking a break from vacation photos, today I’m focusing on the weekly photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers.  One hundred words create a complete piece of flash fiction, one that hopefully evokes emotion and reaction.  Other writers have different takes and you can read their writings by clicking on the blue creature at the end of my story.  Enjoy.  And come back tomorrow for more of the vacation saga.  Your place, on the porch or on horseback, is waiting.

To my fellow Fictioneers…I’m on vacation, in the mountains, with a slow internet connection and lots to do (especially relaxing.)  Although I always read every story every week, I may not get that accomplished this week.  If not, I apologize.  But at 7,000′, surrounded by family, horses and mountains, things take on a different perspective and priority.  Thanks for your understanding and if you’d like to see where I am and what’s going on, check recent and soon-to-come posts and relax with me.

copyright Renee Heath

Hold me closer, tiny dancer

 Sitting on the porch, that day plays again for the thousandth time…

Charlotte’s joyful chatter on the drive to her first performance,
the squeal of brakes,
the pickup flying through the red light,
terrible sounds followed by silence that gradually resolved itself into hospital noise,
the pain of body and mind.

They told me she died instantly.  Grateful for the small mercy, I still wished it had been me.

Rolling my wheelchair to the table, I wind the music box and watch the ballerina twirl, remembering Charlotte’s excitement that birthday morning and her hug as she cried, “Grandpa, it’s perfect.”

Friday Fictioneers–What’s the Buzz?

The weekly Friday Fictioneers event takes place in the twilight zone of Wednesday through Tuesday, when authors from around the world virtually arrive to post stories based on a picture prompt chosen so our fearless leader, Rochelle I-am-the-Queen Wisoff, can write whatever story she has in mind that week.  (Now I’m really in trouble!!)  One hundred words provide the vehicle for stories of every type, wildly diverse in scope.  You’re welcome to participate…if you’re prepared to become an addict, shaking and sweating each week to get just the right story out, then reading as many other stories as possible before the cravings begin again.

If you prefer more measured participation, you may be content to simply read stories (although “liking” and commenting are always appreciated.)  Hover your cursor over the cute blue critter at the end of my story.  Click and you’ll be transported to other words, into other lives, having your emotions wrung dry all too often.  So choose your poison…or let Morpheus give you BOTH pills.  You are the One who decides.

Copyright Jennifer Pendergast

What’s the Buzz?

My family swarmed around, buzzing over my announcement.  Mom bridled,  “Honey, that’s not a job for a woman.”  Dad waxed eloquent about managerial positions and the family company vs. being a mere worker.  That stung a bit.  My older sister, queen of everything, looked disdainful, combed her perfect hair and declared it would give her hives.  My little brother bumbled about, droning in his usual incomprehensible monotone.

My best friend responded, “Sweet! But why?”  Although ridiculous in hindsight, my interest had flowered from a childhood misunderstanding at the theater, where I’d thought Hamlet soliloquized, “To bee or not to bee.”

Friday Fictioneers–Cloudy

Befuddled by what constitutes a Friday Fictioneer?  A FF, as we like to abbreviate it, is someone seriously addicted to writing stories of 100-words (more or less but mostly spot-on one hundred) every single week for as long as she or he shall live.  Sounds a bit like a marriage vow, doesn’t it?  Although it’s not a legal vow, most of us can’t stop writing each week, so it’s much like a marriage vow or an addiction or both.

You’re welcome to join us if you like.  The picture prompt is put out early Wednesday morning (yeah, don’t ask about the “Friday” part) and stories follow over the next week.  Stories may or may not seem to be directly linked to the picture but that’s fine.  The connection can be as nebulous as the promise you made to lose weight this year.  You can find the “rules”, such as they are, at the site of our hostess and chief-picture-choose-er, Rochelle Head-in-the-Clouds Wisoff, http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/.  The writers come from all over the world (and take you into all sorts of worlds.)

If you don’t want to write, but enjoy reading, fasten your seat belt and click on the blue link creature at the end of my post.  That will get you to the page where all the authors link their stories.  You’ll have to check back throughout the week to find them all.  Authors love “likes” and comments, so jump right in.  But beware!  You have no idea what you’re getting into!   This is not for the faint-of-heart.

copyright doug macilroy

Cloudy

Glancing in the mirror, she smiled at the disconnect between what her eyes saw and the way she felt inside. The reflection nowadays was merciless, but each of those lines told stories of laughter and tears, smiles and frowns–stories of a full life–and she would have changed very few of them.

Her husband was oblivious to those lines.  To him, she was the beautiful, young woman he’d married and she would never grow old or wrinkled.  He viewed her through love’s prism, greeting her daily with a kiss and a smile…even though now he couldn’t remember her name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whoops! Losing my mind. I forgot the link critter, so here he (or she) is:

Friday Fictioneers–Italian lessons

Visit. Read. Like. Comment.

Click. Read more. Participate.

Friday Fictioneers. 100 words. Fun. Addictive. No known cure.

Good luck.

copyright anelephantcant

Italian Lessons

Lake Como languishes under summer sun,
        streets so narrow side mirrors risk their lives 
        and buses stop traffic
        lurching back and forth while rounding corners.

Cool gelato slides down grateful throats.
Ferries crisscross quiescent waters
	past stately, hidden villas	
	with magazine-ready gardens.

We brave torturous cobbles
	up steep slopes
	past tiny shops
	with sometimes dusty windows,
Relax with espressos at metal tables in the shade.

Bright jersey-ed cyclists with muscled calves fly by
	as juice runs down my fingers
	from sweet, prosciutto-wrapped melon.

You lick the juice,
	your smile promising more sweetness
	yet to come in our fan-cooled, shuttered room.

Friday Fictioneers–In the Running

What can you say in 100 words?  Quite a lot, as it happens.  Weekly, kingdoms rise and fall, heroes live and die, all sorts of fantasy and humor occur, zombies and other creatures wreak havoc, relationships flourish, die or are killed.

Where does all this take place?  In the world of Friday Fictioneers.  Using a photo prompt as a jumping-off spot,
their characters take off for worlds known, unknown, and don’t-want-to-be-known.
Feel free to explore with them as they often boldly go where no one in his or her right mind would want to go. 

Take off with your little blue guide at the end of the story and fasten your seat belt because you have no idea where you might end up. 

Or with whom.

This week’s photo is courtesy of Randy Mazie, at The Writer’s Village.

In the Running

Being a nanny makes finding the right relationship difficult.  I didn’t have to do all the running in ours, although I took the lead.  He followed with alacrity, though, and as a couple, we were perfect.  Those who knew us bet that we’d make it. And they were right.  Ours was a winning combination.

We had great fun until one day, while out training together, what does he do but drop dead of a heart attack?  It gets my goat; it really does.  I miss you, Pierre, especially since without you, another team will win Tobago’s goat races this year.

………………
My initial idea was about as far from this one as you could get.  Then I recalled a short article Bill pointed out to me in Sports Illustrated as we sat waiting for the doctor to arrive yesterday morning.  After that, it was off to the races.

If you want to read a bit more about the goat races in Tobago, you can go here:  http://www.thetobagonews.com/opinion/Goat-Racing—-a-pathway-to-development-194624821.html.

Take a look at how the fun unfolds:

Friday Fictioneers–Phantasmagoria

My apologies for my super-sensitive new laptop publishing my story a day early just because my cursor went over it.  Because of what my schedule with the house looked liked (which has now changed), I’d begged the prompt from Rochelle early.  Now I’ve wasted her gracious gesture.  Sorry, Rochelle, and all.

……………………………..

The weekly gathering of the Fictioneers has commenced.  Bring out the halt, the lame, the blind, the murderers and aliens, vampires and vamps. Look carefully and you might see a human or two.  Take them all, stir thoroughly, add a dollop of disbelief, a soupçon of silliness. Dip a spoon into the resulting slumgullion:  each recipe meticulously prepared, marvelously rendered, tasty to the tongue.  Your personal recipe is solicited or feel free to simply feast and go away replete; perhaps not always uplifted, but with your brain stimulated.

Thanks to Indira for this week’s photo.

Phantasmagoria

Something hovered at the edges of his mind but he couldn’t focus on it. It floated just out of view, at the edge of consciousness. Heavy limbs wouldn’t respond as he struggled vainly to free himself.    Was he drugged?   Where was he?

Brilliant colors and garbled sounds pulsed through his aching head.  His mind vainly tried to make sense of them.

He moaned.  Attempted speech.

Heard someone calling his name. Tried to respond.

Dear God, what was happening?  Why couldn’t he move?

Crying out, he lurched up, tangled in his damp sheets, accidentally head-butting his wife bent over shaking him.