Posted in flash fiction

Cinnamon Roll

“It has that old world charm.”
“It smells like death.”
Anise inhaled the bitter air. Remains of buildings, and their citizens, dusted the ground in an ashen snow storm. In the distance an alarm still blared, signaling catastrophe. Something sweet and savory mingled with the distinct smell of smoldering wood.
“Do you smell that?”
“Delicious.”
The sweet smell pulled Clove and Anise forward. In the center of the destruction a small bakery’s ovens hummed away. An old woman pointed her cane at the creatures.
“You. Are you responsible for this? Have a cinnamon roll, I fucking hated this place.”

Word Count: 99
For the flash fiction challenge at
Carrot Ranch

Posted in flash fiction, friday fictioneers

The Floozy

The floozy next door thought she was perfect. Mia could tell by the way she smiled and let out that noise she called a laugh. It was nauseating and often accompanied by a playful hand on your shoulder.

Today there was some kind of shindig. Her overly bleached hair was piled on her head. She pranced down her drive with a glass of red in hand. 

Mia’s husband ventured, like a moth to a boozy flame. The floozy’s red nails slid over his shoulder as her laugh trilled through the air. 

Mia grabbed the hose, “I’ll take care of this.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields

Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneers (greatly inspired by Patsy of AbFab)

Posted in flash fiction, friday fictioneers

Voyeurs

We must all be voyeurs at heart but, surveying the waiting area, I see no one else people watching like me.

A middle aged woman scurries past carrying the group coffee haul.

A family of five desperately attempts to redirect the youngest before the situation descends to tears.

Then his eyes.

They meet mine across the noisy space. Maybe there’s a smirk dancing over his lips; caught in the act as we are.

Like tunnel vision, I see nothing else.

Someone pauses before me, an imprint on the outskirts of my mind.

I peer around the figure but he’s gone.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Word Count: 100
For
Friday Fictioneers (on a Thursday!). Click the link for the rules and more flash fiction pieces.

Posted in flash fiction, friday fictioneers

Day 339

Sometimes I forget to breathe.
It’s not that I don’t want to.
The air is just so heavy now.
Like at the end of it all we only had sins left
And they’re trying to smother the few of us that remain into non-existence.  
Of course I survived, heaven nor hell wanted me.
I wouldn’t have pushed the button if I’d have known …
I’m forgetting again.
Today I saw it.
Squat pale sandstone in the distance and figures bobbing in and out.
The lab notes said they have a way to go back,
If they’ll let me in.

on-route-66-jean-l-hays

Word Count: 100
For Friday Fictioneer’s, to read more click the link.

Posted in friday fictioneers

No Business for Friends

Words blurred in and out of Delia’s focus. She slammed the book into her lap and glared towards the younger woman bound by ropes in the backseat.

“See, this is our problem. You never shut up.”

The woman blinked as the statement hit her but the gag prevented her from responding.

“Even now I can just hear you whining.”

The woman stared towards the slouching fabric above her despondently.

“I thought we were friends.” Delia mocked. “You know you can’t have friends in this business.”

The woman sighed.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I’ll pretend I never knew your name.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

Word Count: 100
For the always fascinating
Friday Fictioneers, click the link and blue frog to read more.
I realize this is a beach and not a pier that you drop bodies off but you know … artistic liberties.

Posted in friday fictioneers

Best Laid Plans

The plan was fool proof.

I picked up the dress – white lace and satin – and called the priest, well, six. That’s how many it took before I found a priest rogue enough to perform a Catholic ceremony in the dead of night.

All the man had to do was show up.

His bike leaned politely against the building as always. My knock echoed loudly only angering me more.

“Can I help you?” I stared at the woman peeking over his shoulder. “My wife and I were just leaving.” Rage burned through me.

That’s the last thing I remember.

PHOTO PROMPT © CEAyr

Word Count: 98

Friday Fictioneers, many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Click the link to read more.

Posted in friday fictioneers

Chicken Little

Sia tapped an unsuspecting puddle with her toe. Startled it rippled away, gently distorting the realities reflected on its surface.

The ripples transformed her brother, straining to peer into the dark general store, to a boy scavenging after Christmas. Barren trees became crumbling sticks, not even good for fire.

The sky was falling.

“Something’s wrong.”

Marta’s back spasmed and her lungs burned as she coughed. Thin strings of blood stretched from her lips to the palm of her hand.

Only her son caught sight of the panic in Marta’s eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong Sia. Stop daydreaming and come on.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays

Word Count: 98
For Friday Fictioneers courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff Fields. Thank you as always.

Posted in friday fictioneers

Fire in the Night

“What do you see?”

I see the future. I see you and me. I see my heart exploding. I see a million fireworks. I see galaxies.

I feel it all within me.

I see our first kiss, unintentionally wonderful. I see awkward laughs and gentle embraces.

I see lives intertwined, threads to a needle connecting time. 

I see my past fade away at your touch.

I see light fill empty spaces.

“What do I see?”

I see I’m in love with you but I can’t tell you that.

“It just looks like a fire dying in the night to me.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

Word Count: 100

For
Friday Fictioneers, massive thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for wrangling this massive flash fiction challenge in every week.

Posted in friday fictioneers

Knotted Hands

My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war.
His father watered it, the seed which came before.
My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber.
This tree grew ever higher.
Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me.
She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down,
Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground.
It falls to me, as this tree must be fed;
A living sacrifice of a life never lead.
I toss my children as far as I can;
Mutter the same empty words my mother offered
Over knotted hands.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Word Count: 100

A write for
Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.

Click the blue froggy to read more!

Posted in friday fictioneers

The Wild Things

The girls stared across the table at each other. Each clutched a brightly colored piece of paper in dirty fingers.
The warden tapped his watch.
“Which one’s it gonna be?”
Hana watched as her younger sister slowly unfolded her small pink slip. Janey’s face contorted into a silent victorious howl as she shot up from her old chair to take a lap around the room.
Hana slumped, defeated.
“Ok Hana, let’s go.”
“No!” Without thinking, Hana was up and running towards the muddy grass outside. “You’ll never take me alive!”

Her father groaned towards the sky, “It’s just a bath.”

PHOTO PROMPT © Priya Bajpal

Word Count: 100

A write for Rochelle’s weekly Friday Fictioneer’s. Thank you Rochelle for keeping it in line as always.

To read more click the blue froggy