Posts Tagged ‘friday fictioneers’

dales-restaurant-photo

The pub  is off a side street between a takeaway and a cramped alleyway. Step through the door and hear the ring of an old ship’s bell and see something beyond imagining.

A whale skeleton stretches across the ceiling, vast and white and overwhelming. Tanks flutter with bubbles and sealife churning and creeping amongst strands of seaweed and bright coral.

There are never many customers, but the proprietor is always there, a secret smile on his pale face, dusting an ancient harpoon.

Remember what you can. You will never find this place again. Your memories fade, dreams in daylight.

Word Count: 99


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

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ted-strutz-plane

Mr. Ulysses seemed an ordinary man pushing the far end of his fifties. He waved to his neighbours on his way to the grocer’s, read his newspaper on the porch in the mornings, and fished in the afternoons.

You could almost overlook the bullet holes in the door of the seaplane if you didn’t know they were there. The guns in the library and the cultural artifacts–Egyptian, Mayan, Mesopotamian–lining the halls seemed the harmless trinkets of a collector.

But on dark autumn nights, when he told his stories, everyone remembered that Mr. Ulysses was far from ordinary.


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

Word Count: 99

train-station-sandra-crook

When she was a little girl, Claire hopped on a train and rode far as she could, watching the countryside roll past the carriage windows. The castle ruins loomed as the train rounded the hill, wheels click-clacking on glinting tracks.

Claire’s mother remembered before the ruins, when it was just a hill. Claire loved sitting in the ruins, running her hands through the grass, feeling glue and newspaper beneath.

The train passed through a tunnel of shadows and corkboard, then whistled into sunlight. Claire sighed. The station was coming up again.

She’d gone far as she could. A full loop.


Word Count: 100

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

 

piano-anshu

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.


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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gold-tipped-anniversary-rose

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.


Word Count: 100

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

bonfire-anshu

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.


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!

from-renee-heath

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.


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!