Sunday Photo Fiction 4-18-2018

156 05 May 15th 2016


 

“Skylark, come in Skylark.”

“Bluesky. Skylark.”

“Intelligence says the Grounders have…..” Awkward pause.  “Gone to ground.”

Joshua chuckled; keyed his mike.  “Understood, Bluesky.”

At the first junction of the Skylift, Skylark veered right, out of the city. The other patrol cars spread out in different directions, heading for their beats, radio chatter fading.

“Think we’ll see them today?”

“Better,” Josh replied. “Four more cars hit last night.”

Ten miles out, a figure stood out against the snow. Tall. Dark. Covered in mangy fur.

Josh headed diagonally left.  Heard Randy jack a round into the shotgun. Open the port window.

Some said the Grounders were once human, some said they were older than humans, but it didn’t matter. They were Grounders; they hunted and killed Skyfolk.

‘Back at ya!’ was the new slogan of The Force.

Randy fired and the creature fell. At the same moment, the snowscape exploded with Grounders, shooting up at their car. Randy screamed.

“Holy shit!” Joshua cried, reversing as fast as possible. “10-24! 10-24!”

The car exploded.

Back at ya, indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Objects or People Older than 50 years 4-13-2018

Cee’s Black and White Photo Challenge

2018-04-13 07.51.22.jpg

Monticello and a tree, both over fifty years old.

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-9-2018

March 31st 2013

 


 

Ridiculous, Perry grumbled around a beak-full of paper. Ridiculous!

I am a gull. A majestic gull. Distantly related to Jonathon Livingston. How dare they command me to deliver a message?

He squawked around paper, dipping close to the waves, thinking about dropping the message in the water, but didn’t. It was never wise to upset the Owl King.

Instead, he caught an updraft and soared high above the waves, dipping and darting through the wind currents, mind and heart dancing.

This, he knew, was living. Jonathon has been right. There was so much more to life than dipping and skimming for tidbits; fighting on the beach for scraps. Seagulls were so much more!

Winging away from the ocean, he flew over the forest, dropping the message down into the hollow tree in which the Owl King lived.

Message delivered and done. Squawking for joy, he soared upwards, free once more to be a seagull.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-1-2018

227 04 April 1st 2018

Sunday Photo Fiction


 

“All right, so he’s cute. But the clock… A little kitsch isn’t it?”

“She likes things like that,” she replied. “And she collects clocks.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Ok, but…”

“What?” Flat.

“Nothing.” Wasn’t worth provoking a fight just to get out of having his name attached to the clock. Gods, the thing was….. ugly.

They left the shop, heading back to their hotel. Later, while he was  down in the weight room, she called her sister.

“Yeah, I got the ugliest one I could find.”

“I bet he hated it!”

They both laughed.

“Oh, he did!”

“Do you think it will work?”

“I hope so.”

“Me, too.” Like so many sisters, they often thought alike.

“At least, while he is worrying about the clock, I can get my work done.”

“I hope so. Annie needs to come home.”

“I know, sister. I’ll bring her home. Don’t worry.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 3-26-2018

Sunday Photo Fiction

226 03 March 25th 2018

He waited, as he always waited;  days, months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember anymore. So much he couldn’t remember.

And yet, he remembered the street. So much had changed in the time he’d sat on his bench, through rain and snow, winter and spring, hot and cold. Days blurred together into one endless, continuous, Monday.

Mike’s Sub Shoppe. Long gone. Mike died, he’d heard, left nobody who wanted his business. MacLaree’s. Burned up inside, but none of the surrounding building had caught flame. Now abandoned.

Pete’s Newstand, on the end of the block, sold. Seven times until the final owner ran it into the ground. Didn’t much need papers or magazines these days. Everything was online.

Everything but Mike and his sign. He’d never changed, not his orange vest or black hat, relics from another age.

He lifted his sign as a crowd of daily walkers neared.

‘Peggy, come home.’

Watched as the carefully penned letters faded and ran, cardboard crumbling in the sudden onslaught of rain.