Last week was our own reunion; this week plays with the same theme. Do you recognize anyone in this bunch, perhaps even yourself? As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting the Fictioneers crew. More stories await; Froggy with lead the way.
Reunion – 101 words
They gather in the clearing, restless with anticipation. Wolf and Cougar post their guard.
Cricket chirps his canticle by Firefly light; Mouse critiques the song with squeaks. Raccoon and Mink resume their hide-bound rivalry, Skunk disdains them both.
Owl, the eldest night-child, calls, assurance and admonition. A billowing ribbon of daughter Moths subdue their fears and light; Owl will not hunt them tonight. Bat is not so principled.
Clouds snag on treetops, shred on winds aloft, unveil the face of ancient Mother Luna.
Bathed in moon-glow her children’s eyes open wide to receive her blessing. Bat alone cannot see her beauty.
Sorry to miss last week, Fictioneers, but himself and I were family reunion-ing far enough up in the mountains that connectivity of the electronic variety wasn’t going to happen. Fifty of us managed to connect in much more human fashion. Fire-roasted corn, three-legged races, and sticky marshmallow hugs from the newest generation trumped the internet and it was a wonderful thing. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this weekly party. It’s good to be back.
She wanted a road-trip; I wanted a cruise. We had a flat in the middle of nowhere.
She wanted bubble tea; I wanted a bacon biscuit. She slurped her gelatinous lumps through an over-sized green straw. “All that glass make me nervous,” she said. “Breakable bottles on breakable shelves. Who does that? One clumsy toddler equals disaster.”
“Those bottles have survived hundreds of years, and the shelves are attached to the wall.”
“Can’t you indulge my delusions for once?”
My stomach growled.
The door-chime announced the new arrivals. Distracted parents, frazzled kids, one untied shoestring.
Welcome back to the Fictioneers’ Playhouse. Wednesday–another photo, it must be time for another bit of flash. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is our gracious hostess, and a talented author. I’ve been staying up way too late (3:00 a.m. – or is that early?) reading her latest, “Please Say Kaddish For Me.“ Good read.
This place and Sandra’s picture are far too lovely for the melancholy that follows. You’re allowed to blame my fit of gloom on sleep deprivation.
Welcome back. Wednesday–another picture, another story. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is our hostess. I’ve just downloaded her recent release, “Please Say Kaddish For Me.“ I’m looking forward to the weekend to jump in and read. Speaking of reading, this week’s Fictioneer tale clocks in at 100 words exactly. I like when that happens. Please let me know what you think!
The Colonists – 100 words
The Light? No-one believed that myth. We could barely see. Scent, touch, taste: these were real.
And hearing. I discerned Lepta’s off-beat gait, a counterpoint amid the echoing shuffle. My heart warmed at her scent. Then she vocalized. “Parapon, come. I’ve found it!”
Fragrant, but oh, so loud. “It?” I shrugged.
She stroked my back, “The Way.”
I held, uncertain.
“Come, and see.” She wove a path; I had to follow. We slipped through a new crack into an ancient tunnel. I heard hundreds—thousands—more trailing behind.
Up, up we climbed, into Light, and learned what Eyes were for.
Success, I think, is centered in attitude. You know Friday Fictioneers? Every Wednesday a new picture, and by Friday, or thereabouts, a new story of 100 words or so. I’m grateful to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for the weekly attitude adjustment. I appreciate your stopping in to read. The greatest compliment is to share with a friend.
My Name is Art – 100 Words
To be elsewhere!
On a boxcar, mayhap? To traverse ever-changing landscapes. Meeting others of my kind, if only in passing. How do you do and goodbye.
Or a café, yes. To be among the regulars. Morning papers, evening lamps. Commerce, coffee, scones.
Or a book. To be lap-held, and loved. Jam-sticky fingers, apple-scented pouts pleading, “Mummy, read it again!”
Yet here am I. My view his rusted underbelly.
But who is this? Visitors? Welcome! So pleased you stopped by.
A photo? My pleasure!
“Mummy, look at his funny mustache!”
A kiss. A breath of apples.
My name is Art.
Froggy will lead you to the Fictioneer’s home base. All are welcome.
Who doesn’t love trains? The Friday Fictioneers, conducted by our hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields are once more at the station, our ticket courtesy of Kent Bonham. This is where my train of thought took me. Perhaps you’ll enjoy the ride. Comments and criticism are welcome. If you like what you read, please share with a friend. Thanks for stopping by.
Love triangles, talking in circles, leading parallel lives. It’s the geometry of relationships, and I suck at maths.
How could I have been so obtuse?
The thing about parallels is, if you take the long view, they come together. Just keep heading in the right direction, and eventually you’ll intersect. It’s right in front of you. Just keep moving forward.
But the vanishing point keeps vanishing. Farther and farther away, as elusive as the end of a rainbow.
Geometry brought me to this platform, bags in hand. Geometry will take me away. The pain that accompanies me is acute.
Good to be back after a week off… didja miss me? This week’s prompt comes from our own gracious hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I’m getting a crick in my neck from thinking about examining this fixture up close. This piece hits close to home. (Which is why you won’t find me back at NaNoWriMo this year.) I owe a huge debt of thanks this week to my friend, the hyphen. I couldn’t have done it this week without you, buddy.
Inspiration – 100 Words
You pound on the keyboard for hours. For days. Ones and zeroes of electronic blood and there is no sense in it. The muse, the bitch, mute. Still you type, reduced to transcribing snippets of sex-sells advertising and sound-bite commentary and canned-laugh one-liners seeping through the floor from the soul-sucking wide-screen monster downstairs just to keep your fingers in motion.
Mustn’t stop. To keep the oxygen-starved dreams at bay, the ones of choking on gum and hair and rags, you must write, and white pages fill with finger-vomited brain-sludge.