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.
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?”
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.
Brother Ambrose softly hefted the bag of newly ground rye over his shoulder muttering yet another prayer.
Everyone was at Matins, so he was safe. This would make many loaves of bread for the orphan children in the village.
In the seven years he’d been at the monastery, he’d stolen countless bushels of food. If the abbot, discovered his theft he’d be punished for a year, he was sure; but, aye, it would be worth it to see the foundlings eat.
His only justification was that somewhere out there one of those foundling children might be his own.