Sunday Photo Fiction 5-20-2018

Sunday Photo Fiction

DSCF8715

Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding

 


“So the slaves were down here?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Yes,” Mother said.

“Why weren’t they upstairs with the people?”

“Because, Little Light, slaves weren’t considered people.”

“But… Mama. how could they not be people?”

“Because,” Mother knelt. “Slaves were considered property.”

“Am I property?”

“No,” Mother laughed, hugging her daughter close. “Never in a million years.”

The little girl looked down at her Raggedy Ann doll. “Is Raggedy property?”

She smoothed down the child’s hair. “Raggedy Ann is a doll. She’s not a living person.”

Not satisfied, the girl frowned, squatting, Raggedy Ann held in front of her. “Raggedy,” she said seriously. “I’m sorry I thought you were property.” She blinked, holding back tears. “I guess I should free you cause… I don’t own you or nothing.”

“I think,” Mother said, “Raggedy Ann wants to stay with you.”

The little girl looked up hopefully. “But she is not property is she?”

With a smile, Mother rose, pulling her daughter up. “No, she isn’t property. She wants to stay because she loves you.”

The child looked at Raggedy Ann, hugged her close. “I love you, too,” she whispered, skipping off down the corridor.

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 5-14-2018

ayr6

Photo Prompt: C.E. Ayr

Sunday Photo Fiction


 

 

Tanya stood just inside the doorway, watching the boys move from exhibit to exhibit. Men really, but she still called them boys. Her boys. She’d been in the band when Chris took over, when Jay came, where they were still the Fluffy Marshmallows. When she’d been nothing more than the token girl shaking the tambourine and looking pretty.

Not that she’d been pretty.

Chris blew in like a nor’easter, changing her life forever. From the second day, the marshmallow backdrop was gone, they were nameless – for the moment – and all the previous members were gone except for her and Mikie. She wasn’t sure why Chris kept Mikie except he could play the drums. Maybe that had been enough. Or maybe he’d been as lost as she and they’d both been waiting to be pulled to safety. There were people like that; people who saved the world without even knowing.

She wanted to go back to the hotel. The animals lwere as lost as she had been, made pretty so people could stand and stare. People who never did, and never would, understand lostness. Why hadn’t they had a savior, too?

Laying a hand on the baby’s elephant’s trunk, she started to cry.

 

 


 

Sunday Photo Fiction 5-9-2018

Sunday Photo Fiction


“Do you really think we can get across the ocean in this?”

“Why not?”

“Well,” skeptical, “this is a hot-air balloon. What if something happens?”

“Its 1987, Per. This baby is the best in the world.”  Richard Branson patted the rim of the basket, proud of his hot-air balloon. Sure, a trio had crossed the Atlantic in 1978, but with a helium balloon. His would be the first hot-air balloon to make the crossing.

Per Lindstrand nodded, ever hopeful. He’d love a record as much as Branson.

Takeoff was problematic, landing worse, but 31 hours and 41 minutes later, they had secured the record, been rescued by the Royal Navy and become heroes.

Arriving home, Richard looked at Per. “Next, the Pacific!”


Thanks to those who write historical-based stories for inspiring me to try my hand!

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-26-2018


157 05 May 22nd 2016

Sunday Photo Fiction

Three men stood in front of the table displaying three wine glasses.

“Nice diagonal,” Jay commented, tilting his head.

“I’m more worried about the yellow wine,” Kerry replied.

“You think the artist is comparing wine to pee?”

“Well…. maybe.”

“So,” Chris put in. “What about the blue?”

“Blue bests yellow which bests red?”

Chris leaned forward, looking down into the glasses. “I’d be more impressed if he’d gotten liquid to tilt like that.”

“He’d have to tilt the glasses for that.”

“Obviously.” Chris looked around the museum, taking in the variety of other exhibits. “I might not be up on visual arts,” he went on, “but this…”

“Yeah,” both Jay and Kerry agreed.

“The artist needs to come on one of our tours, see the reality of wine.”

“And what, Sir Abstinence, is the reality of wine?”

Chris chuckled. “You drink wine, you get sloshed and don’t care shit about what color it happens to be.”

“Unless its yellow,” Kerry added.

Both Chris and Jay looked at him. Laughed.

“Yeah, right, Kerry, unless it’s yellow.”

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-18-2018

156 05 May 15th 2016


 

“Skylark, come in Skylark.”

“Bluesky. Skylark.”

“Intelligence says the Grounders have…..” Awkward pause.  “Gone to ground.”

Joshua chuckled; keyed his mike.  “Understood, Bluesky.”

At the first junction of the Skylift, Skylark veered right, out of the city. The other patrol cars spread out in different directions, heading for their beats, radio chatter fading.

“Think we’ll see them today?”

“Better,” Josh replied. “Four more cars hit last night.”

Ten miles out, a figure stood out against the snow. Tall. Dark. Covered in mangy fur.

Josh headed diagonally left.  Heard Randy jack a round into the shotgun. Open the port window.

Some said the Grounders were once human, some said they were older than humans, but it didn’t matter. They were Grounders; they hunted and killed Skyfolk.

‘Back at ya!’ was the new slogan of The Force.

Randy fired and the creature fell. At the same moment, the snowscape exploded with Grounders, shooting up at their car. Randy screamed.

“Holy shit!” Joshua cried, reversing as fast as possible. “10-24! 10-24!”

The car exploded.

Back at ya, indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-9-2018

March 31st 2013

 


 

Ridiculous, Perry grumbled around a beak-full of paper. Ridiculous!

I am a gull. A majestic gull. Distantly related to Jonathon Livingston. How dare they command me to deliver a message?

He squawked around paper, dipping close to the waves, thinking about dropping the message in the water, but didn’t. It was never wise to upset the Owl King.

Instead, he caught an updraft and soared high above the waves, dipping and darting through the wind currents, mind and heart dancing.

This, he knew, was living. Jonathon has been right. There was so much more to life than dipping and skimming for tidbits; fighting on the beach for scraps. Seagulls were so much more!

Winging away from the ocean, he flew over the forest, dropping the message down into the hollow tree in which the Owl King lived.

Message delivered and done. Squawking for joy, he soared upwards, free once more to be a seagull.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-1-2018

227 04 April 1st 2018

Sunday Photo Fiction


 

“All right, so he’s cute. But the clock… A little kitsch isn’t it?”

“She likes things like that,” she replied. “And she collects clocks.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Ok, but…”

“What?” Flat.

“Nothing.” Wasn’t worth provoking a fight just to get out of having his name attached to the clock. Gods, the thing was….. ugly.

They left the shop, heading back to their hotel. Later, while he was  down in the weight room, she called her sister.

“Yeah, I got the ugliest one I could find.”

“I bet he hated it!”

They both laughed.

“Oh, he did!”

“Do you think it will work?”

“I hope so.”

“Me, too.” Like so many sisters, they often thought alike.

“At least, while he is worrying about the clock, I can get my work done.”

“I hope so. Annie needs to come home.”

“I know, sister. I’ll bring her home. Don’t worry.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 3-26-2018

Sunday Photo Fiction

226 03 March 25th 2018

He waited, as he always waited;  days, months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember anymore. So much he couldn’t remember.

And yet, he remembered the street. So much had changed in the time he’d sat on his bench, through rain and snow, winter and spring, hot and cold. Days blurred together into one endless, continuous, Monday.

Mike’s Sub Shoppe. Long gone. Mike died, he’d heard, left nobody who wanted his business. MacLaree’s. Burned up inside, but none of the surrounding building had caught flame. Now abandoned.

Pete’s Newstand, on the end of the block, sold. Seven times until the final owner ran it into the ground. Didn’t much need papers or magazines these days. Everything was online.

Everything but Mike and his sign. He’d never changed, not his orange vest or black hat, relics from another age.

He lifted his sign as a crowd of daily walkers neared.

‘Peggy, come home.’

Watched as the carefully penned letters faded and ran, cardboard crumbling in the sudden onslaught of rain.

Sunday Photo Fiction 2-28-2018

 225 03 March 18th 2018

Sunday Photo Fiction


“I didn’t know the Boy King was that short!”

Jeff glanced at his assistant.  “The smaller sarcophagi is symbolic, not correct to size. Tut was about 5’11, average for the time.”

“Wasn’t he deformed?”

“He had a club foot, probably as a result of incest. He was also infected with various strains of malaria and, overall, not a healthy guy.”

“Dude.”

“Indeed. Which is why we need to learn as much as possible about his life and times.”

“Yeah. You want this little guy in the front case?”

“That would be fine.” As his assistant walked away with the tiny replica, Jeff glanced down at the mummified face of the boy king. “We’ll have you some new DNA just as soon as you’re settled,” he promised with a pat. “Once the miracles of  medical science have their say, you’ll be as good as new.”

 

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 3-8-2018

26 Jade Wong March 4th 2018

© Jade Wong

Sunday Photo Fiction


The snowman stood, smiling his silver smile, silver bow tie stuck to his neck with a small twig.  Nobody noticed him. One thing about being made of snow, he always blended in.

Behind him, kids played, shreeking with laughter. If only he could laugh, but no throat, no laugh. Just another deterrent of snowman life.

He’d never seen play before, or kids. Were they little snow beings with little silver bow ties and silver eyes? Or were they something else, something stolen from snowmen myths?

Ruing the lack of feet, scraping snowman butt, he inched around. Somebody in the Snowman Bureau of Affairs needed to do something, pass some law, issue an edict. Snowmen must have feet. Anything else was gross discrimination.

The shapes called kids flashed in his side vision, but they didn’t look like little snowmen. What could they be? Maybe he would be the one ….

A bat smashed into his head, snow flying, eyes and nose and mouth scattering like snowflakes in rain.

“One more down. Let’s find another one!”