Friday Fictioneers 8-18-2017

If she hadn’t been able to see past the door, she might have imagined there another world in there. A deep forest or an endless horizon of sand. Might have imagined a dark knight on a white horse, a cackling witch or a castle looming in the distance.

She could, however, see beyond to the shower curtain and her purple poof. Just her boring bathroom. Her boring life.

A thump sounded in the bathroom.

She stilled.

Another.

“Hello?”

No reply.

Took two steps.

“Hello?”

Thump.

Two more steps.

A peek inside.

Darkness.

The scent of wet leaves…….

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 8-16-2017

208 08 August 13th 2017

 

“Wow! Look at that!” Arny exclaimed, pointing at the painting on the wall.

“A phone booth. English.”

“No, I meant Dr. Who.”

“Who?” Mike asked. “What’s a Doctor have to do with it?”

“Dr. Who!”

“It’s a police call box. 1928ish. Had nothing to do with any Doctor.”

“NO! Dr. Who! The British show!”

“Right. A British Call Box. I don’t think they have them any more. No need really,” Mike shrugged. “Phones and all.”

Arny rolled his eyes. “It’s Tardis, Dr Who’s time machine.”

“The police used them. Not Doctors.”

“For crying out loud!” Arny cried. “Dr. Who. A British TV show! He travels through space and time in a call box named Tardis.”

Mike sighed, shook his head. “You and your funny imagination.”

Arny threw up his hands. “Hopeless!”  He walked away.

“Hey,” Mike called, hurrying after him. “Speaking of TV shows….. did you hear about that sci-fi show where some weird Timelord roams the Universe?”

Arny stopped, turned slowly.  “No,” he said flatly, “never heard of that one.”

Paused. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

 

 

 

 

Friday Fictioneers 8-12-2017

PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr


He balanced on the flat rock, looking into the uppermost round hole.

“What?” Becky asked, pulling on the tattered hem of his shirt. “What?” Anxious. Excited.

“Fairies.”

“What! Let me see!” She pulled his shirt again.

“They’re wearing pink tutus.”

“I don’t believe you.” Hands on hips.

He stepped down.  “Look for yourself.”

Becky scrambled up onto the rock, standing on tip-toes to peer into the hole.

“I don’t see anything,” she complained.

“Look closer.”

She squinted her eyes. Squealed. “I see them!  I see them!”

“What?” He pushed up beside her. “Where!”

Laughing, she jumped down and ran away.

 

 

Response – JSW Prompt 7-10-2017 on 8-4-2017

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words. If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site (sometimes I am slow, but I get there).

The watcher. He watches everyday looking down on the world below. no one ever knows he or she is there, buy for some odd reason you look up and see them starring right at you.

 

I remember him standing there, on the top step, lantern in hand, watching. Ever watching. Night after night, as dusk grew across the land until dawn broke. Watching. If I had known how to comfort him, I would have with glad heart, but sometimes when a man is broken nothing will bind him whole.

Day after day. Week after week. Year after year. His stood his lonely vigil, longing into the night. He ate little, slept less, days spent in silence, his counselors and I decision-making in his stead.

Nights I cried, as broken as he. But nobody saw, or knew, of the cracks inside of me. That much I could do for him.

I was a Queen alone, weight wearing heavy on my shoulders as my husband grew more and more a ghost.

A year ago, we buried him. Now I am truly alone. What little life remains in me grows weary. His heartbreak haunts me, knowing there was nothing I could do to salve his soul.

Now, every night, I stand on the top step, lantern in hand, watching. Ever watching. Night after night, as dusk grows across the land until dawn breaks. Watching. Because now, I know the truth.

When a woman is broken nothing can bind her whole.

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction – June 20th 2017

The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide.


203 06 June 18th 2017

© A Mixed Bag

He looked up at the eagle, judging time from sun and shadows. Turned to watch the wave of schoolchildren filling the plaza, shrieks and laughter warmer than the day.

“Time,” Diego said into his earpiece.

It wasn’t quite, but he said nothing. Patience was his virtue. Always had been. His weakness, too.

He picked up the courier as he entered the plaza, watching him wind around to the monument in the center. The eagle above. Eternally waiting.

Stepped up beside the man.

“It-it-it’s all here,” the man stuttered,  offering up a small folder.

He raised his eyes to the eagle again, courier’s following, then dropping again.

The eagle sees all.

Message heard, finally, and received.

Taking the folder, he slipped it inside his shirt; turned away, lost in the crowds.

Silence surrounded the courier, cut by the shrieks of children, sharp as knives.