Fruit of the Lonely Tree

There was a tree that grew music.

In spring, it sprouted symphonies. March overtures became triumphant swellings by May. On a mild April day, the melodies shamed the birds to silence.

In summer, the music continued, but it seemed to most that it was dimmer, paler. Not a patch on its earlier stuff, most people said.

In fall, it was nearly bare. A couple crisp, drying notes still clung to the branches. The birds sang over them and they shriveled in silence.

Come winter, there was no music left.

But spring would come again soon enough.

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Word Count: 96

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Anshu Bhojnagarwala for providing the prompt photo!

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This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Artem Bali for providing the prompt photo!

Empty Places

The market store had sat empty so long the town’s children couldn’t remember it any other way. The store rotted, windows hammered up with boards, paint flecking away, the sign fading letter by letter. There was always talk of someone buying it, opening it up again, bulldozing it, selling the land for housing, but nothing ever came of it.

There was talk of the curse too, but nobody believed that. At least, not during the day.

But in the dark of night, when shadows stretched and the wind blew cold, nobody lingered long by the ruined store.

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Word Count: 97

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Jean L. Hays for providing the photo prompt!

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter

An Artist Inside the Painting

Glass roses sung like wind chimes in the morning breeze, crystalline stems trembling. The sun shone a brilliant gold and the cloud-marbled sky gleamed.

A bee buzzed by, clockwork wings carrying a wire-striped body, and alighted on long needle legs. In the sky the birds circled, watching with glinting eyes and knife-sharp beaks.

And in the crooked tower upon the hill, the metal man watched his creation unfold, his long copper fingers tapping like a typewriter. On his world he had been alone, an outcast in a world made of meat.

Here, in this wonderland he had made, he belonged.

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Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and providing the prompt photo!

Last Light

The fire was the only light left in the cold, black night.  The last star had flickered out, the sky an endless mass of shadow.

An old man sat in the firelight and thought of worlds that had been, lives lost, the stories there was nobody left to remember. The night closed in around him. There would be no dawn.

“Is it over?” the Voice asked.

“Almost,” the old man replied.

“A shame. But nothing lasts forever.”

“A good universe. Still. There’s always the next one.”

The fire went out and there was only night.

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Word count: 95

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Anshu Bhojnagarwala for providing the prompt photo!

Authentic Tourism

The three watched the teepee like owls watching a rabbit hole.

“Very authentic,” said the first, skin like wrinkled paper, glasses perched on a thin nose. “A splendid recreation.”

“I love the little campfire,” said the second, bluing hair in unnatural curls. “So primitive.”

The third, splotched red with sunburn, snorted, making his mustache tremble. “Fire’s nice. But where’s the Injun? They promised me an Injun.”

Inside the inauthentic teepee, Biashan checked his bank app. The money had gone through.

Time to entertain a few more white fools, he thought and pulled on a headdress he’d bought from the Halloween store.

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Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Renee Heath for providing the prompt photo!

Jumping Too Far

Verity hangs in the air, gravity tugging, orange curls flaring behind her, the deep water so far below and she remembers what her mother said: “Never jump unless you know you’ll land on your feet.”

But the rocks were placed so perfectly, one after the next, each just a little further, the waters between them a little darker, until at last she jumped and knew she wouldn’t make it.

The waters give way, tearing like silk, and she falls on, down into another sky, strange wind on her face, song in her ears, and a kaleidoscope of stars in her eyes.

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This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Nattu Adnan for providing the prompt photo!