Friday Fictioneers – Your Life, Your Choice

49-womans-face

Photo courtesy – Liz Young

Your Life, Your Choice

Word count:  100

 

Jeremy stared glumly down at the city; he could smell the destitution from up here. Another night had passed by on Knob Hill with a stolen six pack, and cigarettes.  However at some point, he’d discovered a mannequin head.  Her appearance was a mystery but Jeremy had named her Lucy.  As his buzz grew, he discovered how easy it was to talk to her.

Sometimes, he’d clutched her tightly and screamed; he’d cradled her in his chest while deep, wretched sobs roiled from him.  Sometimes, he’d simply looked at her.

This morning, Jeremy knew he had always had a choice.

 

Friday Fictioneers – Ally

back-ally1

Photo courtesy Jan Marler Morrill

Ally

Word count:  99

 

“No, alley is spelled with an E.” She said.

“No…” he was becoming exasperated, “there is no E.”

“If there’s no E, then it’s just ally, like in wars when countries help each other out.”

He snorted, “No that’s allie with an IE. God, didn’t they teach you anything in school?”

His misplaced superiority rankled her, and she turned on him in full grammar nazi mode.

“It is alley, spelled A-L-L-E-Y. ALLIES are made during WAR!”

She kicked him in the shin and as he bent over, punched him in the head, and left him friendless in the alley.

Friday Fictioneers: Sweet Maggie

jhardy

Photo courtesy: J Hardy Carroll

Sweet Maggie

Word count:  100

She was a shivery thing huddled in the corner, trying to appear smaller to the junkies who taunted and threw stones.  Even in my addled state, my heart broke.  I scooped her up, tucked her inside my jacket and fled the building with their jeers following.

Fourteen years ago, that kitten saved me; I took on a responsibility and I loved her.  We’ve been through a lot but no matter how far down the mental well I tumbled, she was right there to haul me up.

She died yesterday.

Helpless; hopeless, I’ve returned to chase the dragon one last time.

 

**For our cat, Maggie.  I’m so sorry.**

 

Friday Fictioneers: The Damned Town

antiques-along-the-mohawk

Photo courtesy:  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

The Damned Town

Word count:  100

Lesley eyed the building while she polished the antiques. Its bleak façade hung like a gaping maw; rotted teeth below empty sockets, and its tongue rolled rock-strewn into the river.

Her gaze returned to inspect the wares on the windowsill; all polished and shiny, ready for another day of business.  Lesley knew though, that by morning they would all be tarnished again.

That night, as every night, Hell’s presence rose through the devil’s portal, imparting its ancient malice into the water. Fetid fumes seeped up river banks, swarmed over trees and bled into buildings, coating everything in a dark patina.

Friday Fictioneers – Old Beryl

al_forbes

Photo Courtesy: Al Forbes

 

Old Beryl

Word count:  100

Mr. Briggs loved the old girl but now it was time to let her go.  He’d polished her fenders with care, attached the poppy just so and spit-licked the spotlight shiny.

Later, he watched from the other side of the barrier as she passed by, tears brimming, and saluted with one briny hand. Mr. Briggs lingered long after the crowds had dispersed, staring down the road with droopy, rheumy eyes.

He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly before turning away.  Perhaps he’d stop at the newsagent and pick up some chicken noodle soup for dinner.

The Notion

Metaphorically, most of us discard some things to keep hold of the other things in our arms, be it a lover, a toxic friend, a hobby that’s been outgrown, bad food, whatever…the importance of what you currently cradle is greater.  But, as we amble or race (however you choose to move) along our journey, those discarded things can be found glinting on the side of the road once again.  Certainly, picking up an old lover wouldn’t be considered a good thing, nor the crappy food that we kicked to the curb

But, some things perhaps they call as a small voice; not heard as a sound but a notion.

Even as I sit here, I am hesitant; do I have the will to pick up with this blog again?  Haven’t I said everything I wanted to say?  Who the hell is interested anyway?

In my arms, already a life filled with growing children and their activities. My time is spent ferrying them places, or exercising, cooking, cleaning, working…certain things that weren’t so significant when I started this blog.

I’ve not forgotten entirely what it is to be spiritual or mindful because there are moments, sporadic moments, when I ask “Am I still here?” and the affirmation floats up with a, yes, I Am still here.

So, why am I here?  I don’t know.  The notion to come here has popped up several times over the past few weeks, so today I decided to use my lunchtime wisely and try it out again; to heed the notion instead of brushing it aside.

Perhaps it’s a call to be creative again since that is most sorely lacking in my life.

Oh look, there it is – Creativity.  Glittering on the side of the road.  I can pick it up but what do I discard to make room for it?  Do I need to discard anything at all?  Can’t I have it all?

I’ll see.

 

Friday Fictioneers – The Truth Fairy

frost-on-a-stump-sandra-crook

Photo courtesy – Sandra Crook

The Truth Fairy

Word count:  98

Lily stood, wondrous. Her mother had assured her that the tales were true; fairies did live beneath that stump in the woods, but Lily considered herself too old to believe in her mother’s “fairy” tales.

After her Mother died suddenly, Lily walked in the woods alone; memories of their time together trailing like gold dust. Perhaps it was the beam of sunlight on the stump that made Lily pause on the bridge; she’d never be sure, but there they were – hundreds of fairies waving. Lily stood, wondrous. She wept; wishing she had believed sooner.