Friday Fictioneers 1-3-2020

Copyright-Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

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The house was dark, empty of the long forgotten sounds of life. Had it been dark when the family lived there or had it been filled with light and love and laughter?

He touched the yellow crayon with a finger-tip; lifted up the fragile photograph of the man. Had he ever seen him before? Face all angles; body skin over bones; the living dead?

What if the phone rang, calling for somebody who no longer existed?

Outside the thump of boots, the “Alles Klar?”

He let go of the picture. It fluttered to the floor, a bird with broken wings.

“Alles Klar.”


Please excuse my translated German if it is grammatically incorrect. The phrase is “All Clear?”

Friday Fictioneers 5-7-2019

PHOTO by Roger Bultot

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“We’re going to be late for the funeral,” Susan nagged, pulling her coat tighter around her body.

His forebrain heard ‘blah,blah, blah, blah,’ but somewhere in the back of his mind, in the small primitive reptile brain, she was heard.

“I don’t know if that is how they do it,” it said because the primitive brain knew how to protect.

‘Who?”

“Do Jews have funerals?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“Wouldn’t it be Allah’s sake?”

Rolling her eyes, she stormed away.

“What,” he asked, bewildered.

 

 

 

 

 

Friday Fictioneers 4-17-2019

PHOTO PROMPT Dale Rogerson

He approached the black garbage bag. Police officers weren’t supposed to be afraid, but the recent murders went beyond his understanding.

It was a small bag, so a child.

Stepping across the street and into the snow bank beyond, he slit the plastic, turning his eyes away from the gore bound to spill across his sturdy black shoes. Please, please, please don’t let the child be disemboweled, but he didn’t believe in God, not after all these years.

He looked back, plastic plates and cups scattered around his feet.

He began to cry.

 

Friday Fictioneers 4-17-2019

PHOTO PROMPT Ronda Del Boccio

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The fires were burning now, popping up in various places in the valley below. Soon her prey would be flushed and it would be over. And yet, nothing came and nothing came and nothing came.

She moved into the valley, determined for this to end. The fires, no longer hers, flashed to life, surrounding her in an instant. And beyond, nothing’s eyes, and nothing’s eyes and nothing’s eyes.

Reena’s Exploration Challenge – 81 4-9-2019

It is time to peep into your creative processes once again. Welcome to Week 81!

PROMPT

This video inspired me. Maybe you like to see it or use it as a creative nudge.

https://aeon.co/videos/then-fit-our-vision-to-the-dark-exploring-sight-with-emily-dickinson


We grow accustomed to Darkness. Darkness is in our hearts. Our minds. Our souls. Anybody who has not been tempted by Darkness is a liar.

Some of us grow up in darkness. Some of us grow up in Light, finding Darkness when we realize Light is not all there is in this world. This is the Darkness which crushes the soul, destroys the spirit, leaving nothing behind but despair.

Some of us live in Darkness all our lives, never finding the path out. Never seeing even a spark of Light, our eyes so blinded by Dark.

Some of us are created of Darkness, some of us of Light. But it is the Darkness which finds us in our hours of despair, when the pain is so all-encompassing we no longer believe in Light. Some of us never escape the Darkness and drown.

Some of us…. all of us…. grow accustomed to Darkness.

Friday Fictioneers 3-29-2019

PHOTO PROMPT ©Sandra Crook

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Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly…..and an interesting parlor it was, thick with the smells of machines and dyes, the loud clacking of a thousand and one spools running in synchronicity.

“I was sad to hear of your father’s troubles with the law.”

“See the intricate way the threads interweave,” said the son, motioning the man closer.

“Yes….”

Closer.

“Hummmm…”

With one touch, Mr King fell into the machine, spun into a web of a thousand and one spools.

 

 

Friday Fictioneers 3-22-2019

PHOTO PROMPT ©Dale Rogerson

Chris stood beneath the Ferris Wheel, watching his kids go up, up; unable to see them in the dark, but knowing they were there, somewhere, moving away.
He’d not been a good father. Away playing concerts, in the studio, interviews and promotions.
His kids had paid the price with missed birthdays and school plays, Easter egg hunts and skinned knees. He’d always promised to do better, but hadn’t. A lie to make himself feel better.
They tumbled out of the car, running towards him. “Daddy, Daddy, did you see us up in the sky?”

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Friday Fictioneers 3-18-2019

PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

He walked into the run-down store. “Evening. Nice planter.”

“You want that piano, son? Ain’t worth nothing.”

He frowned. “Did I say that?”

“Gonna take a while to fix that one.”

He nodded distracted. “Not much chance of that.”

“You know who played that piano? Fats Waller.”

“Really?” He glanced back out the window at the piano, seeing it through different eyes “How much?”

“Son., you make that piano play again, you can have it for free.”

“Thanks,” he said, holding out his hand.

They shook and music history was reborn.

 

 

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Reena’s Exploration Challenge – 78 3-17-2019

Today, we have a paragraph as a prompt. Do whatever you can with it. Reflect on it, twist it, break it into pieces and use a phrase or just write if you agree/disagree or whatever you think about it. As usual, there are no restrictions on length or format. Suit yourself.

PROMPT

“That proves you are unusual,” returned the Scarecrow; “and I am convinced that the only people worthy of consideration in this world are the unusual ones. For the common folks are like the leaves of a tree, and live and die unnoticed.”
― L. Frank Baum, The Land of Oz

“Leaves of a tree, my butt,” grumbled the Flying Monkey perched in the tree. “Ill show him leaves on a tree.” But he wouldn’t. He was, after all, a kind Flying Monkey and not a bit of the meanness in him that consumed his brethren.
Still, he hated to be called a leaf as if he were no more than one Flying Monkey among a thousand Flying Monkeys. And he  hated, hated, hated, being called common. Hadn’t he left the Witch’s Castle and set out on his own, searching for a kinder, gentler, place among the vastness of Oz?
No, he was a failure of a Flying Monkey; hadn’t he been told that all his life? Hadn’t the others mocked him and laughed at him as he helped earthworms across the Yellow Brick Road and rescued ladybugs from the dank of the Witch’s Castle?
Dorothy had been a single girl out of thousands. Toto a single dog out of thousands. The Scarecrow a single scarecrow out of however many scarecrows might be around; the Tin Man the single out of the world of Tin Men. And the Cowardly Lion. How many lions were there in Oz? Hundreds? Thousands? Millions? And yet, he was the only one of them who was scared and kind.
Was he maybe the Cowardly Lion of Flying Monkeys? Was he one of a thousand Flying Monkeys who wanted to be kind to those around him? Did that make him common? A leaf on a tree who would live and die unnoticed?
Could he be instead the catalyst of change among the Flying Monkeys? Could he be that one unusual Flying Monkey in a thousand who didn’t die unnoticed? Could he be a hero?
Spreading his monkey wings, he flapped from the tree, racing after the unusual band.

Friday Fictioneers 2-28-2019

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

“Thoreau? Wasn’t he in Maine or something?”

“Massachusetts, actually.”

“So he didn’t have a thing in New Mexico?”

“No thing.”

“No Deli?”

“No.”

“So what did he have?”

“Walden’s Pond.”

“He sold Coors from a pond?”

“No. He was a writer and philosopher learning to live a simpler life. It’s a famous book.”

“Red Mountain Market and Deli?”

‘What?”

“The book.”

“No. Walden’s Pond.”

“So New Mexico must have been really different for him.”

“He didn’t……. yes, I’m sure New Mexico was a shock after Walden’s Pond.”

“Cool. I didn’t know Grant had a tire store….”