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.

JSW Prompt April 10, 2017

Feel free to jump in and tackle the prompt yourself. Please keep your posts under 300 words. If you link back to this post, I will re-blog your post to my site.
379de43224356cbee129641b0882a5af

 

I’ve always wondered how one’s life can flash before one’s eyes in six minutes, but it can. Doesn’t seem possible but I was there. I knew.

Six minutes. Did that mean my life hadn’t been worth more than six minutes? Or is that just the time angels give you to make amends, get your name upgraded from hell to heaven? Or downgraded.

It’s like there is a suspension of belief, those six minutes when you can’t accept that, yes, you are going to die. That all the pain and suffering of your life is almost over. No one can hurt you any more. You’ve got hurt enough to last six minutes and longer, but all you have is six minutes.

Still, you have time to regret those things you did wrong, and those you did right. I like to think I did more for the right than the wrong, but I know better. I’d killed people, people I didn’t even know. People with sons and daughters; wife and parents and friends.

Killed them for no reason except the man in power told me so. Ship out and kill some of those bastards. Kill as many as I could, truth be told.

Now, I know better. Killing doesn’t make things right. Not for the winners or the losers. Whoever said war solved problems didn’t know shit about war. You can’t solve your problems with fighting. It just makes more fighting. More death.

I’m about gone now. The pain is gone completely and I can feel my body going, death rolling up my frame like ocean waves.

The ocean. I used to love to go to the ocean. Swim. Play on the sa…..

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER 4-10-2017

 

The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, April 5th. Allow the prompt to take you anywhere you want to go! (Limit your stories to 200 words.)

This challenge is open until 11:00 pm Friday night, April 14th, 2017.

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

kid

I never understood anything about walls and fences, not til I saw the boy. He was young, ten maybe, hands holding tight to the barbed wire. Eyes looking like they’d seen the world and beyond.

I wanted to talk to him, find out his name, why he was behind the wire. I’d been told the walls were to keep the monsters out, but the boy didn’t look like any monster I’d ever imagined. He didn’t have monster eyes.

His eyes had no hope. That’s the closest I can come to describing them.

I went to Daton. He’s the Wise One. He knows everything.

“Whys that boy behind the wall?” I asked him.

“He’s a monster.”

“He doesn’t look like a monster.”

“Monsters don’t always take the shape you might imagine.”

And so I went to the wall every day. Watched him. Waited for him to turn into a monster.

And, you know, he never did.