#FF: Putting down roots; putting up walls

tree-sandra-crook
© Sandra Crook

Friday Fictioneers (#FF)
This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


“Why do you suppose that rock wall is so close to the tree?”

“To keep the roots from pushing out onto the walkway.”

“What a shame, stifling a tree like that. I wonder if the roots turned to grow toward that building.”

“Probably.”

“Did they cut off the original roots?”

“Probably.”

“What a shame, stifling a tree like that. A tree needs room to grow, to expand its roots, and grow free.”

“Do you think that’s what happened to us: Mom put up a wall and Dad turned around and walked away, leaving us to find our own way?”

“Probably.”

~~~ YinYang ~~~

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Five lilies

778 words

FiveLilies
© PenNTonic

A lone tear crept down her cheek thinking of having to leave this aging Victorian home. Sure she had to dig deep into the recesses of her mind to find the good times, but it was home. The silence, the loneliness, and the betrayal pulled everyone in different directions and no one talked of it. No one ever spoke of the painful abyss between Mother and Father that widened with every passing year. No one ever talked about what was going on Read more

#FF: Alone together

fridays-moon-ted-strutz
© Ted Strutz

Friday Fictioneers (#FF)
This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
A sappy little love story this week.


We took the ferry across Sydney Harbour. The moon shone brightly upon us as we held hands and kissed on the nearly empty deck. We didn’t care who watched. We admired the approaching city lights and talked about old times.

As far as we were concerned, we were the only two people in the world.

We had never been so in love as at that moment.

The fireworks display on the bridge was just for us.

***

At the quay, I purchased my ticket for next time.

I walked to my car and drove home.

God, how I miss him.

~~~ YinYang ~~~

My heart is a ghost town

Note: This is the first cut of a song I’m working on for acoustic guitar, but I thought I’d stop here and call it a poem for now — Draft 1.


GhostTownStrolling down these dusty streets
Once again I walk alone
I’m taunted by the howling wind
Laughing, saying I told you so.

Even the tumbleweeds drift on by
Taking no notice of my bitter sorrow
Rolling on without a care
Knowing what I can never have.

Saloon doors swing, and welcome me in.
I sit alone at the empty bar
Seeking solace at the bottom of the bottle,
But my thirst for you is never quenched.

My soul wanders in a ghost town
Since you walked away without me
Leaving me here with the tumbleweeds,
A dry reminder of my lonesome heart.

~~~ *Yinyang* *Peace* ~~~

#FF: Rusted memories

red-apple-rest-jhc
© J. Hardy Carroll

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Sometimes, we just want (or need) to remember, even the painful stuff.


Rain pelted down, as darkness descended over the town.

Derek and Kylie had been searching since Sunday and were not about to give up, even if the police were.

He doesn’t want to be found, the constable said. He’s sick, they insisted.

For five days they’d searched his usual hideouts. Surely he wouldn’t come here. Forty miserable years he’d spent in this factory. The building was a hazard then, and now—rotten floors, falling timbers…. In two days, they were coming to demolish it. Finally.

A raspy voice rose from the back room.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”

~~~ YinYang ~~~

#FF: Painting the pain

old-shoes-cobwebs
© Sarah Potter

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


He was a painter.
A damned good painter.
Too bad he didn’t know it.
He spent his life criticizing his work, finding fault with every detail.
Depression and anxiety plagued him.
His past haunted him like wisps of morning fog roiling around him and settling at his feet, some days rendering him immobile.
A thousand times he said he’d paint no more.

She took his paintings to galleries.
They sold. The critics raved.

He hated her interfering in his life.
Why would anyone pay for his art.
Rubbish! Utter drivel.
He had nothing to say.

And yet he kept painting.

~~~ YinYang ~~~

#FF: Breaking bread

hearty-bread
© Kelvin M. Knight

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


“Mom, can I have those stuffed pizza things instead of a veggie sandwich?”

“No, you have to stop eating junk. Did you know that sugar is an addictive drug?”

“Hmph. I can’t wait until I leave home so I can eat whatever I want.”

“But this is good for your heart.”

“You don’t have a heart.” Kailen mumbled under his breath.

“What did you…?”

“Nothing. You’re just mean sometimes.”

“One day you’ll learn which side your bread is buttered on, or you’ll be toast.” Mom snickered.

“I know which side is buttered—the top.”

“I mean…. Ach! Forget it. Kids!”

~~~ YinYang ~~~

#FF: I am the moon

danny-boweman-1
© Danny Boweman

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


They pushed the cart up the mountain. Perpetual darkness pushed back.

Tecuciztecatl didn’t understand. He was young and handsome. Nanahuatl was a mass of boils, sick since childhood. He’d never have a mate or children, surely.

On the mountaintop, they lit the pyre in a small crater. They tossed on the slaughtered lambs and calves.

Tecuciztecatl shivered in the night heat. He couldn’t do it.

Finally, Nanahuatl threw himself into the raging flames.

“No!”

Tecuciztecatl watched as flames gnawed at his friend and the new sun blossomed over the horizon.

Guilt overwhelmed him.

He leapt into the crater.

He became the moon.

~~~ YinYang ~~~

A moment in time

smallpox-hospital-roger-bultot
© Roger Bultot

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


Lord Cranston’s raging screams from the west tower faded to mere whimpers. She would never be his.

Evening shadows crept across the courtyard. Tomas gripped her hand as they waited.

She said nothing, but he could feel the slight tremble of her body as they watched the sun settle into the horizon. The limestone walls tinted to blood red.

Yes, the crone had seen them, in another place, another time.

Any moment now.

She grasped his hand ever tighter, a slight smile crossed her lips.

Crimson rays shot through the stone portal, lighting their faces.

The future was theirs.

~~~

#FF: A dog’s life

1502901343035-3fe33f29498d1b1f-3fdae246fddc9c2a.jpg
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

FridayFictioneers (#FF)

This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.


I hate this shower, Duke thought.

I’m clean. I played for three hours in the lake.

Why are they torturing me this way?

How would they like this foamy white stuff all over them? It’s inhumane.

And that smell. It smells like those little purple flowers in the garden. I can’t stand being near those flowers.

Finally, they’re finished. Three wet towels. Heh. Heh. Bet if I shake hard, they’ll let me out of this jail cell.

“Ahh. Duke. Do you have to do that every time?”

Yep, now open that door. I have a lake to conquer.

~~~