Is it the same moon we see?
Do you watch it roll slowly above the horizon, arcing gracefully?
I trace its path with an uncertain finger, lingering on the point where I dream our palms should meet.
A perfect intersection, a crossing of the souls. A perfect arcing destiny, straight into the heart from Cupid’s bow.
I wonder which plane you left on and if you’ll ever return. If you ever do, I wonder should our hearts meet again, perhaps under glistening Sun?
Dreams come true, if only for a night, a moment. If only under the perfect arcing moon.
PHOTO PROMPT © Gah Learner
And thank you to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneer’s every week.
Word count: 100
Lanky and odd with gentle features, Johnny’s pa called him “sissy boy”. He served bloody noses and fat lips in hopes of toughening the boy up.
Johnny collected forgotten dresses from his older sister’s closet and hid them in the old shed. When he thought no one was peeking he slid their silken fabrics over his skin.
One night nosy Mary-Ann wouldn’t leave him alone.
He tried to escape his older sisters prying eyes but found himself cornered when she threw open the creaky shed door.
“You really should ask before borrowing clothes, that zipper is tricky, let me help.”
PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers grandson of our own Dawn M. Miller
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers
This here’s a true story.
The moment I realized what rock bottom looked like as I barreled from above.
And tried to hit the brakes but just wasn’t strong enough.
I wasted drunken moments counting lighters scattered around, at least ten collected in my dead flower jar.
Then the music stopped and that moment of eerie silence …
Right before girls screaming and wild stampeding.
“There’s a boy on the bedroom floor. There’s a boy dying through that door.”
In my apartment.
High on my drugs.
Drunk on my liquor.
I wasted moments counting lighters … I spent seconds wishing on stars.
PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior
Word Count: 100
Many thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
I honestly do not know if this will work in 100 words, I like it but I also know it seems kind of abstract.
“Do you think it’s fake?” Shanna focused on the neon green moving in the breeze.
Dena’s eyes focused beyond the grass on one Ms. Leroy. She was tall, blonde and, as their mom said, “100% plastic”.
“Like a barbie.” Dena whispered.
Shanna tilted her head while staring at the stiff blades. No matter how she turned, tilted or squinted the grass looked nothing like a barbie.
“I don’t see it.”
Dena grabbed at her non-existent chest.
“But don’t you see? One day I’ll have some just like that.”
“Are you sure?” Shanna never thought her sister liked plants all that much.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio
Friday Fictioneers courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Word Count: 100
Freddy lost his leg again.
The town drunk hops down the street. His backpack, wearing thin from years of service and homelessness, flops ungracefully with each wavering leap and land.
“Fred, where’s your leg?” The shopkeeper is a kind man with fluid soul in his eyes.
I imagine Freddy has soul in his eyes but through overgrown, matted hair there’s no telling.
He hops past the shopkeep, visibly shaking as he lands.
“Fred, your leg?”
Freddy freezes, we all know he’s a stubborn man. His mouth works silently, formulating words he doesn’t quite have.
“That’s Dad to you.” Freddy mumbles.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Word Count: 100
Thank you as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers.
I saw the sign. I heard her small voice say, “we should turn back.”
Jermaine, I chastised, always too sure of yourself.
The sky sure is blue from here. Small clouds, formed into puffs of slight dog fur, float by casting their shadows among the scattered glass.
If I could speak … a thousand things I know I should say.
An impromptu apology to my momma, for what I don’t know.
Maybe all the years of grief … maybe all the years to come.
Beside me her eyes stare like glass, reflecting rolling hills and jagged cliffs.
Her lips are so blue.
PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg
Many thanks to the wonderful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rounding up Friday Fictioneers
When I was a little girl I pressed my nose against the glass of my dad’s old Volkswagen as we passed under bridges in the city. I puffed great smokey blasts of fog to draw little hearts and “hellos” in as the sleeping men tossed in their bags.
“Dad, why don’t we help them?”
“They have to help themselves first.”
There was a woman beneath the bridge today snapping pictures of our homeless communities. Preserving our tents and bags in rough black and white photos for exhibit.
“Don’t you want to help yourself?”
I hear they feed you in jail.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
And Friday Fictioneers courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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