Sunday Photo Fiction 12-19-2017

220 12 December 17th 2017


He’d been walking forever, carrying his bed-roll, sack at his side. Had ceased to wonder why he’d been cast in the role of a hobo. Wasn’t a normal occupation for a snowman.  Look at Frosty. But then, he wasn’t Frosty. Wasn’t even of the same snow.

The world shook and the snow started to fly, distorted face starting down at him from above.

He’d gotten used to that, too, though he still didn’t like being watched, not even by the huge Snowman in the sky. Watching for what, he didn’t know or care.

He just carried his bed-roll and sack, and walked. Waddled really, not having feet.

Damn Frosty. Couldn’t the Big Guy have given him shiny black boots, too?

As snow slowly settling around him, the world gave another jerk, a tilt and then he, and the world, were falling.  Exploding. He found himself lying on his back, world draining away around him. He couldn’t breathe.

“Johnny! Look what you did. You broke the globe! How many times….”

Sweeping up the mess, Mother tossed the shattered remains into the trash bin.

Sunday Photo Fiction 12-6-2017

219 12 December 3rd 2017


He watched the hotel draw closer as the boat slipped through the water, studying the almost-blank face of the building. To be honest, it looked more like an apartment building on the steadily-growing-seedy side of town than a five-star hotel.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, coming up beside him and sliding an arm around his waist.

He’d seen better, but didn’t say so. This was special to her, even if it wasn’t to him. It should be special to him, but he just couldn’t make it so in his own heart.

Truthfully, he loved her but he didn’t much like her anymore. Her neediness; her desperation to fit into his world when she didn’t. The band tolerated her because of him.

And that was a bad sign.

Because he loved her, he’d arranged this last weekend. It was gonna hurt like hell to walk away, but he would. Family was more important and the band was his family.

Turning to her, he smiled, determined to give her one more happy memory.


Sunday Photo Fiction 11-25-2017


“Did you know praying mantises used to be worshiper as Gods?”

“God of bugs?”

“The harvest.”

“Harvest? Don’t they eat the harvest or something?”

He shook his head. “That’s grasshoppers. They eat insects.”

“Others insects?”

“And each other.”

“So why did they worship them as Gods?”

“Because, see it’s front arms. It looks like it is praying.”

“Well, sort of.”

“It does.”

They were silent for a few moments, watching the insect on the wall; filled with the wonder of life all around them, thick with the scent of fresh-cut hay and horses.

The shadow of their father fell over them, hands folded in prayer.

Sunday Photo Fiction 11-14-2017

 


Mission Scrappy-Scramble

“Pssst.”

“Quiet.”

Rodney moved his binoculars back and forth.  “They’ll hear you.”

“Who’s they?”

“You know, them.”

“So who’s them?” They had a they and a them and that was too confusing for him.

Rodney growled under his breath. “Doesn’t matter.  Just hush.”

They both fell silent as Rodney scanned some more.

“All right,” Rodney finally said.  “After this monster, run! And, Andy, I mean run your tail off.”

“It’s an awful long way, Rodney.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Just… get ready….. One….”

A huge gust of wind almost dumped them backwards as the monster flew past, metal sides gleaming in the sun.

“Two….”

The last of its wheels passed.

“Three!”

Grabbing Andy by the scruff of his neck, Rodney threw him out of the sewer drain. With all the speed two rats could muster, they fled across the pavement, reaching the far side and diving into a ditch as another monster flashed behind them. Collapsed in the grass to catch their breath.

“Are we going to the feast now, Rodney?”

Rodney slowly rose on his four feet.  “Yeah, we are. Come on.”

Rodney led the way as they scampered through the woods towards the houses beyond.

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 11-7-2017

“Don’t,” he said, glancing over at the camera.

“But…”

“Pick up the camera and I’m gone.”

“But nobody will believe me.”

“Tough shit.”

“Bastard.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I bet.”

Shrug.

“So, tell me what happened.”

“Pinkert lied.”

“About what?”

“Promises. Platform, whatever you wish to call it.”

“And….”

“And, his past.”

“What about his past?”

“I’m not sure I want to talk about that.”

“Isn’t that what you called me to talk about?”

A long silence.

“I suppose.”

“So talk.”

“He …. abuses little boys.”

“Were you one of those boys?”

A longer silence.

Finally, “Yes.”

“So….”

“No more details.”

Silence.

“If I hadn’t come forward, nobody would know, now would they?”

“The political atmosphere is pretty vicious these days. He would have been found out eventually.”

“Eventually isn’t good enough.”

“You have proof?”

“Proof?”

“Without details to check, I need proof for my Editor to print this.”

“Pictures?”

“Pictures are good if they are authentic.”

“They’re authentic, all right.”

They both rose, neither offering to shake hands.

Darkness and shame walked one way.

Pulitzer Prizes and glory walked the other.

 


It seems fitting this conversation came up today, Election Day. Make of that what you may:) Thanks for reading.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

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 This week’s photo prompt is provided by Maria with Doodles and Scribbles. 

Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.

2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.

3. Please credit photo to photographer.

4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.


The rush of water soothed his jangled nerves, wiping away the tension of the past week. This was his spot. His thinking spot. And he had some thinking he needed to do and fast.

Susan wanted to get married. He wanted to get married, just not to her. All week his brain had been jumping back and forth, searching for the right answer to the problem. He didn’t want to break her heart; she thought he loved her. And he did, just not in a marrying-raise-a-family kind of way.

Sue was a city girl, easy amid the hustle and noise of a big city. He was a country boy, at home under the wide-spread sky, silent but for the wind and the call of a hawk.

It wasn’t gonna work, no matter how many times he assured himself it would.

Back on shore, he pulled on his boots and mounted his horse, turning the mustang’s head towards home.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

Even when it hurts.