Tag Archives: friday fictioneers

Feeding My Children

easel

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

“I want this all cleaned up,” said the Manager to his labor group. “You’ve been issued work gloves, shears, rakes, and trash bins. I gave you instructions about trimming these plants at orientation. Any questions?”

“Excuse me, Mr. Manager,” said Evie, a portly black mother of three in the front. “What about that painting and easel?”

“It’s junk,” he said, “Just throw it in a bin.”

“My oldest likes to paint,” she said. “I was wondering…”

“Your kids need to eat and so do you, all of you,” said Manager. “You want your SNAP benefits loaded to EBT or not?”

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Two For The Price Of One

rainy night

PHOTO PROMPT © David Stewart

“Change the past to save the future,” complained Simon as he trudged through Queens in the October rain.

“Go back to 1946 and kill him as an infant, they said.” He patted the loaded pistol in his pocket. “At least they got me off of death row and out of the joint,” he snarled.

“I’ll show them change. Yeah, I’ll do the kid, but I know where the other guy is in Boston right now.” He turned a corner and headed toward Jamaica Estates. “I’ll hop a train and do him, too. History’ll be really messed up without both Presidents.”

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The Listening Tree

tree

PHOTO PROMPT © Lisa Fox

Sixteen-year-old Keaton sat facing the bow tree as he did every day after school. Another tree to his back, he drove the lead pencil, its tip making familiar scratchy sounds across the paper in his sketch book.

It was his favorite tree and it listened. “I argued with my girlfriend again,” he told the tree. “Dad and step-mom are divorcing.” He was only six when Dad left his real Mom. “My grades suck and I can’t get to sleep anymore.”

He finished his sketch, stood, and nodded to the bow tree. “See you tomorrow, friend.”

Bow was a good listener.

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The Lord Will Go Out Against The Nations

synagogue

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Ari’s gaze was transfixed by the ner tamid just in front of the Aron Kodesh. Sweaty hands gripped his rifle as sirens continued to wail outside. He’d hoped to marry Esther here, but now it was too late. There would be no stopping them this time.

At least his fiancée was safe in the shelter along with both their parents. He’d been separated from his unit during the last bombardment and was drawn to the synagogue. His family had made Aliyah when he was four. Now he was a soldier about to die when France’s nuclear missiles obliterated Tel Aviv.

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Vive la révolution

tower

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

“So, what does it do?” Alex shifted the weight on his shoulder for balance while looking at the giant glass “Tetris” piece. The sun was just coming up. Time was running out.

“It doesn’t do anything,” said Giselle. “It’s just another tourist trap.”

“La Tour du Port de Montréal.” Alex sighted in on the center of mass through his viewfinder. “A waste tax money.”

“I think it’s pretty.” Giselle smiled coquettishly.

“It comes down,” snarled Alex.

“Pity,” frowned Giselle.

“For mouvement souverainiste du Québec.” Alex pulled the trigger on his portable rocket launcher. The explosion and collapsing tower were spectacular.

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Going to Shea Stadium

guitars

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“Have a seat.” Jackie’s voice was young and encouraging.

“Learn to play guitar at my age?” Anxiety from the time he tried learning the trumpet when he was ten surged in his seventy-one-year-old chest.

“Learning something new will keep you young,” his granddaughter said. “It sharpens the mind and…”

“There’s nothing wrong with my mind,” he complained. “I’m still inventing and just made a breakthrough.”

“I know you like music,” she said.

“Sure, as a consumer,” he said. “Look, I know you’re trying to help, but my time machine’s warmed up by now. August 15, 1965 and Shea Stadium await.”

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Another Morning Alone

sitting room

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Another morning alone sitting in front of the window. Another morning with my wee table absent of a decent game of checkers. Dim, gray light pours through the window while the desk lamp emits a warmer, golden glow.

I wish I’d gotten more sleep last night but the missus continues to refuse to admit she snores. The sofa was comfortable, but then she started banging around the kitchen fixing breakfast.

Finally, she and the grandchildren are off for the day. No use avoiding it.

I get up and transfer my lazy, tuchus to the computer chair. Time to start writing.

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The Night The Music Was Murdered

guitars

PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior

Olena came to America from a war-torn country in Europe for a better life. Home was hardly the place to encourage her, but then great music comes from pain.

The last thing she felt in her life was pain. Riding a light-rail home she didn’t know she was in danger until the first stab. He stabbed her six more times before running. Five passengers watched as she bled out.

Templar stood at the statue he made to honor her but that wasn’t enough. Tonight, he would begin his hunt for all the murderers out there who prey on the innocent.

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One Sweet Ride

Teds-Car-in-the-Woods

PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Larry hurt all over. He was too old to be tramping through the woods.

His legs felt as wooden as his cane. He’d fall without the support and even if he didn’t break a hip, he might not be able to get back up.

“Made it,” he croaked.

He had no idea how the remains of the ’48 Dodge Sedan had gotten out here. He did know the first time he sat behind the driver’s seat decades ago, it took him back to the days of his youth.

He didn’t want to die in the insanity of the world today.

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The Last Visitor

melt

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Another séance, another summoning, another mystery solved, or whatever. Robert lost count of all the spectral visitations he had performed in order to pay for his modest home in the suburbs (ridiculously overpriced).

The clients and spirits had all left half an hour ago, the candles were burnt out, and he sat back on the patio sipping a brandy. He could already feel tomorrow’s hangover.

Robert had hardly closed his eyes when a new voice disturbed him.

“The gateway to the beyond is closed,” he complained.

“Not for the Angel of Death.” Her words were ice. “This is your time.”

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