Friday Fictioneers 7-1-2017

I’d greatly appreciate some feedback on this one.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Home

The street was cobbled, narrow, splashed with sun and shadow. I heard the distant tolling of St. Andrews ricocheting through blood and bone and marrow, sea songs deep where I had no control.

It was death I heard calling.

I stepped into the shadows, walking to the land of bones. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Sea salt and brine. Nowhere else to run.

Drowning in air.

I felt the pain before I heard the shot.

Sand. Fish-rough hands. A hand grasping my shoulder.

The sea always calls home its own.

Pappa.

Falling, drifting, far out beyond land. The land of bones.

 

Friday Fictioneers 3-26-2017

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gateway-jhardy

The mansion didn’t look old, yet I felt the oldness. The oddness. The otherworldness. Did I believe in ghosts? Not a word. And yet, I stood, pressed to rusted metal, staring, longing so hard tears could not help but come.

Waiting.

Night settled. The moon rose, pale crescent in the sky. Wind rustled bone-white leaves. Would it be now? Was this it? The moment for which I longed? The end of my journey?

Home?

Night passed. Dawn came. Like so many hundreds of mornings before, I turned and walked away.

 

JSW Prompt 3-5-2017

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Lucky for him, they couldn’t, though the gun in her hand was problematic.

“I should kill you right here.”

“I would never hurt you, Lisa.”

“Shut up, Stephen.” Her eyes were red, dark circles underneath. “I should have staked you when I had the chance.

“I was protecting you,” he pointed out unnecessarily, but women were women no matter what the century.

“Shut up. Just shut up!”

He raised his hands. He wanted things over, but forced himself to remain calm and slow. Sometimes, overwhelming force worked. Other times, not so much. He didn’t want to have to hurt her, too.

“You killed Bobby,” she said, voice raw. “Marty. Mary Jeana.”

Well, he hadn’t killed them all, but he knew better than to argue. She was just worn out enough to circle back around to staking and re-staking.

“Why,” she asked.

He was directly in front of her then, one hand closed around the gun, turning the barrel away from them both.

She smelled deliciously of the life he’d lost a thousand years ago. “Because,” he said softly, “You are my home.”

 

 

FFfAW Challenge – Week of October 25, 2016

To Read More Click Here

photo-20161023080618814This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yinglan Z

They stood on the sidewalk, staring at the house before them. Sure the price had been good, almost too good, and they’d been foolish to buy it sight unseen, but….

“It is….new,” she offered in a quiet voice.

“Humpt.”

“And chain link isn’t really bad.  It looks…… shiny.”

“Humpt.”

“I know it’s not the two story Victorian we wanted, but we can make it home.”

“Humpt.”

“You’ll see,” she said, tucking her hand into his elbow. “We can plant flowers and a few bushes and maybe a tree out back. I know you always wanted trees around and we can plant them. Create a whole backyard of shade.”

Still nothing more than a grunt.

“Once the builders are gone, taking away their trucks and trash and such, it will be nice. They’ll seed the lawn, you know. We can put up one of those tall wooden fence so nobody can see in the back yard. You can graze all you want.”

She grasp his hand.  “Come on, let’s go see…….”

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Friday Fictioneers 5 August 2016

 

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PHOTO PROMPT- ©Ted Strutz

The clutter brought him there. The sweet smell of baking bread and chocolate drew him inside.

“What can I get you?”

He looked at the bartender. “Beer.”

“You a labels man?”

What?   “No.”

“Right. One Anything-Goes coming up.”

He moved to the bar, overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of stuff. “Where did you get all … this?”

“Lost things. World makes lots of them. Figured the lost needed a home, too.”

Daniel set down his beer.  “Got any corn chips?”

He’d come home

Here

Friday Fictioneers 7-22-2016

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the-boat-and-miss-liberty

This week’s retread request is from Feivel Mousewitz Gayer.

They came into the harbor a little after dawn on a grey morning in late November. Nobody saw them but the Statue of Liberty and she wasn’t telling. It was her job, after all, to accept all. Tired. Hungry. Huddled masses. They fit all the descriptors perfectly so she let them come.

Bumping against her shore, the battered boat lingered a moment before drifting back out to sea, vanishing in a flash of rising sunlight.

They drifted to her as so many had before, lost, tired, alone, enfolded into her loving embrace.

At last, home.