Sunday Photo Fiction 10-22-2017

The moyacht motored down the street attracting the attention of one and all, shining its glory in the mid-day sun. People stared.

“What the heck is that?”

“I’m glad you asked,” crowed the salesman. “This, my friends, is the newest in modern technical creations.”

“What does it do?”

“What does it do, you ask? This, my friends, is a moyacht. You laugh now, but when you are the only house in the neighborhood without one in the driveway….

“The moyacht, my friends, is a combination motor-home and yacht.”

More laughter.

“Imagine touring the country in your motor-home. One can only see the treasures of this great country so many times. Think how many other wonders are in this world!

“Suppose you want to visit Jamaica. To do so, you have to leave your motor-home behind. But with a moyacht, friends, you simple drive into the water and sail away for another beautiful adventure.”

People started to murmur.

“Line up, line up, my friends. First come, first served and there are only so many moyachts to go around.”

People started to crowd around him, fighting for a place in line.

Ah, a sucker born every moment!

 

(Many thanks to Ryan Stiles for coining the wonderful word moyacht.)

Sunday Photo Fiction 10-14-2017


“Ugly fellow.”

“Why would you say that?” Holding back irritation.

“I never understood those beards.”

Workers bustled around, packing the statue into a sturdy wooden box, ensuring each delicate part was safely secured, and screwing on the lid.  I marked the papers on my clipboard.

“They are fake. Worn for religious purposes.”

“Still ugly.”

I turned away to hide growing anger. One simply did not talk about the Pharaoh in such a manner. Remained turned away, watching the wooden box loaded onto the first truck. Tapped the driver’s window.

The driver pulled away.

“No worries, Your Majesty. Soon, you will be free to rule once more.”

Sunday Photo Fiction 9-24-2017

Walking in fall was the best, he decided, scuffing his boots through the leaves. He liked the nip in the air, the cold night, the shortening days.

“All right, time to walk on your own,” he said, lifting Andrea off his shoulders and to the ground.

Off she went, tottering and laughing at the crunching leaves.

He hadn’t wanted to take her when her mother died, hadn’t wanted the responsibility. She wasn’t his child, but he was as close to a father as she had ever known.

She tumbled, silent for a moment as if not sure whether to laugh or cry.

His heart melted. A career was a career. This was….

This was….. well, he didn’t know what this was.

Scooping her up, he lifted her above his head, spinning wildly to her shrieks and laughter.

She’d changed something inside of him, something vital, something he’d never wanted but now would never let go.

Dropping her down, he hugged her tight.  “Don’t you worry, baby girl. Daddy’s here forever.”

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 9-16-2017


Cindy turned from the window.  “It’s over,” she declared, with finality.

“It will never be over.”

“Oh, grow up, Dave!”

“It won’t bring him back, Cin.”

“At least we got justice.”

“Justice? Is that what we just saw?”

“Yes.”

“It doesn’t chance anything.”

“Yes, it does.”

“What?”

“Now we can move on.” The tears started.

‘If you haven’t moved on after twenty years, why the hell will you now?’ he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“The Bible says an eye for an eye,” she insisted in a voice he knew too well, then walked out, slamming the door shut behind her.

He’d been all for killing the man who murdered their father. At the beginning. It had seemed a just and right fate; a place to put all his hurt and fear and rage. But things didn’t always work out the way he wanted.

He’d just watched a man die for killing his father.

No, he would never forget. But, now, he could forgive.

Sunday Photo Fiction 9-5-2017


210 09 September 3rd 2017

They peered over the railing, watching the tank roll across the bridge-way.

“Do you think they know?”

Cat shook her head.  “How could they?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. They have ways.”

“They have ways?” She laughed.

The tank rumbled off the bridge, disappearing behind tumbled warehouses surrounding the abandoned wharf.

“The camp is that way,” he pointed out.

Her look said ‘duh.’ Her voice, “Let’s go.”

They moved back to the highway, following the tracks of the tanks back towards their hidden camp. It was hidden no longer.

The tank had flattened the gates. Exposing the bodies. Destruction. And blood.

Cat stood motionless for a moment, eyes flat. “Ways you said?”

He nodded.

“Ways.”

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.