Sunday Photo Fiction 5-15-2019

SPF 10-28-8 Fandango 4
Photo Credit:Fandango

Sunday Photo Fiction


Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree…

J RR Tolkien

“And down the street and past the drug store and across the mall to the Ice Cream Parlor….” There were trees, yes, but no rocks.

He settled under the red flowing tree.  Why weren’t there any rocks? The song said over rock and under tree. Okay, he was under a tree but… no rocks.

How was he going to get home without rocks?

“John? It is time to go home now.”

“No rocks.”

“No, look,” the nurse called, holding up a bag of rocks. “Here they are.”

His eyes widened as he scrambled to his feet.

Rocks!

He could finally go home!

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-28-2019

Reena Saxena
Photo Credit:Reena Saxena

Sunday Photo Fiction


Thirty Seconds

Really, the having a tea behind a curtain thing was way overdone and, frankly, stupid, but when in Rome. He stared at his tea for a moment before taking another sip, feeling confined in the tiny space of his table and the curtain dividing him from the world.

If he wanted to be divided from the world, he wouldn’t be sitting there. He’d be out doing something totally useless and unproductive. Then again, that might be thought to be connecting, so he didn’t know what he would be doing, but he would be doing something, of that he was certain. Not sitting behind a stupid curtain sipping ice tea – which, by the way, he didn’t want any more……

“Right this way, Prime Minister,” a voice said from beyond the curtain.

He set his tea down and pulled out a tape recorder.

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-24-2019

SPF Export (1 of 1)Photo Credit:Susan Spaulding

Sunday Photo Fiction


The bicycle lady sat under her umbrella. Nobody came to buy her flowers, but she didn’t come to the corner every day to sell flowers. She came to sit and watch the world go by.

Men stood on the Pharmacy steps, chewing and telling tales. Women and children waited for buses. Every day, the owner of the pharmacy brought her a cold drink in the morning and afternoon, lunch at noon.

She drew pictures of their lives in her head, sparked by a word or a walk, a gesture.

She belonged.

Until, one day, she didn’t.

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-17-2019

Steampunk
Photo Credit:Susan Spaulding

Sunday Photo Fiction


 

“It don’t think this is right,” Nathan said, leaning so far back, eyes searching the balloon above them, Bridgett thought he might fall out of the basket. “Are you sure this is where they told you to come?”

“Yes,” she replied, the same answer she had been giving for the last two hours. “At 1410 the lattice-work will open and we’ll float up into the atmosphere.”

He straightened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t some sneaky trick by the enemy to take us out?”

“Really? Are you that paranoid?”

“No.” But he was. “So what happens then?”

“The space ship collects us, mission complete.”

Nathan frowned. “I don’t like it.”

“What could go wrong? Stop being a worry-wart.”

He didn’t say anything, but there were a lot of things which could go wrong and he thought he knew them all.

A moment later, she slipped over the side of the basket. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

He looked at his watch. “But… it’s 1400.”

“I’ll be back.”

At the bottom of the rope ladder, she stood, watching the lattice-work open and the balloon float upwards.

Space ship; really? She laughed.

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-8-2019

CE AYR 3
Photo Credit: C.E. Ayr

Sunday Photo Fiction


He sat on the ledge of the support column, watching the water rushing beneath his dangling feet. He wasn’t sure, now he was here, if he could actually do it, but it had been hard enough climbing down. He would be dead, not because he wanted to die, but because he couldn’t climb back up.

Irony, something his family would never understand. Mike might, but then he understood more things in his world than the real world. And this was definitely not the real world.

He laughed, a strange and hollow sound.  This felt like one of those dreams where you fall forever and never hit ground. Or where something is chasing you, but you can’t run.

What was he trying to escape? Life in this boring town? A drunk mother and an absent father, thing his friends though were cool because he could do whatever he pleased.

He looked up, but the supports seemed to be growing taller and taller and taller, dark against the blue and white dappled sky.

In the dream, he rose, staring down at the swirling water, mesmerized, one foot inching towards the edge.

Sunday Photo Fiction 3-26-2019 on 4-9-2019

SPF 11-11-18 Pensitivity
Photo Courtesy of pensitivity101

Sunday Photo Fiction


 

“Look good,” he said though he hated tomatoes. “Are they supposed to be green or red when you eat them?”

“These? Red though there are green tomatoes.”

“How do you tell the difference?”

“How… they are different varieties.”

“But don’t they all look like tomatoes?”

“Yes, but…”

“So how do you tell?”

Clenching his jaw, John replied, “They are either red or green.”

“Ah, makes sense, but I still wouldn’t eat them.”

“why not?”

“Poison.”

“You think somebody has poisoned my tomato patch?”

“No, no, tomatoes are poisonous.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

“Says who?”

“Wikipedia.”

“Oh, then it’s the God’s truth all right.”

Pause.

“Are you making fun of me simply because I told you something you don’t want to believe.”

“Believe me, no. ”

“It is in the nightshade family, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

They stood for a few moments, before Danny walked off, mumbling ‘stupid tomatoes,’ as he left.

John watched him for a moment and shook his head.  Stupid tomato.

Sunday Photo Fiction 3-18-2019

BicyclesPhoto Courtesy of Susan Spaulding

Yellow

Bicycles? And yellow bicycles at that?

First fact, he hated the color yellow as much as he hated sunflowers, rubber duckies, butter, lemons and chickens, the babies at least. Adult chickens were okay, but mean as hell.

Frankly, he just hated the color yellow and everything it entailed.

“I’m not riding a yellow bike.”

“Really?” asked with a groan.

” Nope.”

“Okay, have a nice walk.”

“You are going to walk with me, right?”

“Hell no. I’m riding the damn yellow bike.”

“You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well… I don’t like yellow bikes.”

“So. I do.”

“But….”

“Nothing,” Darcy finished for him, grabbing one of the bikes and swinging his leg over the saddle.

“Will you get the tickets for me?”

“No.” He looked back at Mike. “You have to get them yourself.”

“But I won’t get there in time.”

Darcy shrugged, pushing off and heading down the street. “Get on the bike!” he shouted over his shoulder.

With an angry shout, Mike started to run after his brother.