Friday Fictioneers: What Childish Notion

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Photo courtesy – Jill Wisoff

 

What Childish Notion

Word Count:  100

 

“Momma?”

She held Nathan’s hand tightly through the swarm of other pedestrians.

“Uh-huh?”

“Why is there a monster over there?”

“What?  Where?”  She replied without looking.

Exasperated with human traffic, she jerked her son a little too hard.  Nathan wailed, and passersby bestowed judgmental glares.

Screw this city, and screw Daniel; damn worthless ex-husband with shitty timekeeping.

She pulled Nathan toward her and looked down upon his tearful eyes.

“Momma!  The monster!” He pointed behind.

“Nathan, the only monster here is the one you’re…”

Her words were cut short as the Empire State Building broke free from the ground.

 

 

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Friday Fictioneers – Loop

Karen Rawson

Photo Courtesy:  Karen Rawson

 

Loop

Word Count:  100

Heather loved running this path.  She never deviated and bounded expertly over rocks and tree roots; strong legs pumping, and her orange hat bobbing visibly to warn hunters.

It felt as if she’d been running for years.

Heather paused to negotiate the rickety steps when she heard a sharp crack in the distance, followed by immediate head pain, then nothing.

Heather loved running this path.  She never deviated and bounded expertly over rocks and tree roots; strong legs pumping, and her orange hat bobbing visibly to warn hunters.

She crossed the stream, indifferent to the memorial cross bearing her name.

Friday Fictioneers: Not So Swashbuckled

Jan Wayne Fields

Photo courtesy:  Jan Wayne Fields

 

Not So Swashbuckled

Word count:  100

 

With sword in hand, Gerald leapt into the clearing.  He braced, expecting his opponent to pounce from behind the rock.  When nobody appeared, he let out a menacing bellow.

Still nothing.  Ever the professional, he yelled. “Yes, I am the Incomparable Giacomo!  And you want to kill me!”

A murmuration grew among the audience, and the spotlights glared uncomfortably.  Gerald glanced offstage to see the other actor take a drunken swing at the director before crashing through the backdrop to sprawl at his feet.

Gerald’s sword puckered his neck. “I am the Incomparable Giacomo, and you have ruined this play.”

 

A Strange Request at a Piano Bar

I took my daughter to Five Below this weekend.  If you are unfamiliar (as I was several years ago, and thought it was a store for all things winter) everything in the store is $5 or below.  It’s not like the old five & dime stores, and definitely geared toward teens and younger.

While there, we each purchased a book “Write The Story”.  On each blank page is a title and beneath the title are eight words that must be included in the story.  I thought this would be good practice for both of us because I procrastinate and am very much distracted by my phone, and my daughter likes to write stories.  We agreed to read our finished pieces to each other.

The first story is titled above.  The words to include were Carnival, Sprained, Mask, Oxidation, Awkward, Apple, Juvenile, Controversy, Twirl and Sassafras.  With limited space, it really calls on the old editing skills.

***************

Tommy was a drifter; orphaned in New Orleans, he’d float from state to state working odd jobs at the carnival.

Mrs. Oozabell eyed him. “How old are you?”

He lied.  “Twenty-one.”

She tutted.  “Please, you are just a juvenile.”  But she nodded toward the apple dunking tent anyway.  “You can manage that one.”

Tommy smiled.  “Thank you.”

“Fifteen bucks a day.”  She nodded.  Tommy had to mask his disappointment.  He’d been hoping for at least thirty but he’d take whatever was offered.

The apple dunking tent was opposite an aged carousel with horses that would tilt and twirl, and with few customers wanting to get their face wet for fruit, Tommy wasted time watching the passengers.  His attention perked up when he saw a pretty, dark-haired girl.  She was the prettiest girl he’d seen all day and she was accompanied by two friends. He noticed the slender curve of her arm as she reached for the railing, and was in a daydream when she took an awkward fall stepping aboard.

Her friends laughed but Tommy was by her side immediately.

“I think I’ve sprained my ankle.” she cried.

The carousel manager lumbered over.  “Looks like oxidation on the metal wore the step away.  Guess it was only a matter of time.”

The girl hobbled to first aid and out of Tommy’s life.  He looked at the empty apple dunking tent and decided it was time to move on.  Mrs. Oozabell handed him his earnings.

“You have a good heart.  Find another life, yes?”

Tommy walked the streets until he heard piano music from a bar.  He loved the piano; had taught himself to play in the orphanage, so he walked in and ordered a sassafras sidecar.  The bartender queried Tommy’s age with a flick of his eye and poured the drink anyway.

The place was empty except for a few tables and the pianist, and when the guy was finished, Tommy approached.

“Hey, I don’t mean to step on any toes, or cause controversy, but how do I get a gig here?”

The pianist raised an eyebrow.

“What….you think you’re some kind of big shot?  I’m the piano man around here.”

Friday Fictioneers: Honey Done

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Photo courtesy:  Yarnspinnerr

Honey Done

Word Count:  100

 

Nathan eyed the fan; another thing on the honey-do list for the house.  He puzzled at the cause of such damage; the blades were all bent at the same angle, and the whole thing seemed odd.  He retrieved his ladder from the foyer in order to inspect further.

Perhaps it’s not a fan at all, he mused.

As Nathan scrutinized, the blades creaked into life, snapped shut around his head, and zapped him into nothing.

“Babe, I…” His wife appeared as the machine resettled.

Assuming her husband was slacking somewhere, she grasped the ladder resolutely, and made her own ascent.

Friday Fictioneers: Love’s Interest

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Photo courtesy: Fatima Fakier-Deria

Love’s Interest

Word Count:  100

 

Over two hundred years have passed since the fine Rossiter ladies sat beneath the Yew tree, sewing, and talking in veiled ways of romance and social affairs.

The house is open to the public Monday through Saturday but nobody visits the far terrace; it appears abandoned and therefore, uninteresting.

However, if someone wandered down on a dusky Sunday, they might imagine having seen ghostly outlines in silk or satin dresses, and dainty hands tugging needle and thread.  They’d imagine overhearing conversation regarding Miss Rossiter’s love interest; a temperamental man with an unexplained fortune, and a habit of losing his wives.

Friday Fictioneers: The Right Time

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Photo courtesy:  Bjorn Rudberg

The Right Time

Word count:  100

 

The path narrowed as they rounded the corner.

“Hon, you know I don’t like heights.” Melissa gripped Robert’s hand, and avoided the precipice.

“I know baby, but….” He stopped and turned to her, eyes twinkling.  He was going to propose!  It was their first date anniversary and they were in New Zealand; the time was right.

“Melissa, did you notice the sign back there?”

She nodded, confused.

“It’s a deterrent baby, so nobody will find you.”

With that, he pushed her.

Robert wondered where he could get a cold beer as he watched Melissa’s body bounce to the canyon floor.