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.
This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
I hope everyone had a great summer!
I’ve always hated fireworks.
Josef knew that, but he insisted I go with him.
“Come here. Hold my hand.”
The first explosion. I flinched.
The second explosion. I cringed and crushed his hand.
The third explosion. I jumped and ran from the oohing and aahing crowd.
Josef followed, yelling for me to come back. “It’s only fireworks.” He yelled after me.
If he only knew. If anyone only knew.
Thirty-three years and I can’t get that sound out of my head. The sight of blood. The screams.
The nightmares still haunt me regularly.
Maybe someday I’ll tell him.
Maisiehas always been fascinated with the past. Until now, however, she’s been afraid to really examine hers. She had good times growing up, yet there were painful times too. Now that her Gran has passed away, she understands, perhaps too late, just how important the past can be to understanding who she is. Why didn’t she ever push Gran to answer her questions?
Maisie hasn’t reached her thirtieth birthday yet, but suddenly she realizes that she has no one anymore to ask questions about her family. Charlie, her brother, never wanted to visit the past. He told her the past is the past and dwelling on it isn’t going to get you anywhere.
Now, Maisie reflects on things that happened that no one could never talk about, Read more
This week, I’m offering the final installment to my previous stories of the time-traveling Victoria (Part 1: Faint memories, Part 2: Pourquoi moi? and Part 3: Third time charm). I hope you enjoy it. For those of you who might have been waiting for the final chapter, I apologize (again) for the delay. It has been very a busy summer.
The tall man grasped her tighter still.
“Yes,” she whispered again more softly.
The waltz ended. With no word, he disappeared into the garden.
Her heart pounded. He is gone? No, a voice screamed in her head.
At the east gate, a note was tucked under the rusting hinges. The red wax seal. His. Her name. Victoria. Carefully scripted in black ink on the outside.
She trembled as she read his words.
The hinges screeched as she slowly stepped through the gate, to the past, now her present and her future.
This week, I’m offering a follow-up to my previous stories (Faint memories and Pourquoi moi?). I hope you enjoy it. For those of you who might have been waiting for the third installment, I apologize for the delay. It has been a busy few weeks.
Puffy white flakes drifted and clung to Victoria’s lashes and the faux fur of her parka. She blinked them away as she ascended the steps of the ancient pavilion.
Quiet dusk embraced her. The forest was silent. It was nearly time. Read more