My Name’s Annie – Friday Fictioneer’s

If you’re reading this my name’s Annie.

If you’re reading this then I guess the worst has already happened.

Maybe not. Maybe it’s 50 years from now and you’re in the woods with a metal detector and by some miracle the little clasp on this plastic bound kiddie journal hasn’t rotted off yet.

Most likely you’re mom and dad, in the middle of my room, surrounded by pink bunnies and blue gnomes … I always said I was too old for those.

If you’re reading this, my name’s Annie and I’m a good kid … I killed that boy because I had to.

dawn-in-montrealPHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers every week.

Word Count: 100

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Dead Leg – Friday Fictioneers

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.

leg-up-jhcPHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Word Count: 100

Thank you as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for putting together Friday Fictioneers.

It Sounds Like Blue

The violinist swayed like smoke. The small crowd followed suit as he laid a spell over them with his dance. The beat of the small drum set vibrated through the ground just enough for the man to keep time along.

He squinted as the bow struck and slid across the strings while the violinists’ fingers moved devilishly quick. The young girl beside him slid a crumpled piece of paper into the palm of his hand.

“It sounds like blue, light not dark, like watching storm clouds or flying towards the stars with wind in your hair. It feels like love.”

music-roomPHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Word Count: 100

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields as always for wrangling in Friday Fictioneers.

Friday Fictioneers – At Last

Fat raindrops rolled down the window pane accompanied by the ever present haze of city living. Ghosts of years gone by stood silently silhouetted against a dark, starless sky.

Lights from the spire sprinkled to life in a dazzling glaze. A gasp caught in her throat. The sign she had been waiting for.

Her Prince Charming casting a wide arching call for her to come.

At last.

She shoved the suitcase closed around three stuffed animals and a bag of Cheetos.

Fading photos, her momentos of a life forgotten, would have to stay behind.

The nurses quietly blocked her door.

nyc-jill-wisoffPHOTO PROMPT ©Jill Wisoff


 

A special thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for wrangling in Friday Fictioneers.

I did a few of these then stopped for several weeks due to my work load (at my actual job and my grad school work). Luckily I’ve found myself with a slight bit of breathing room … or the possibility of killing men just watch them die if I didn’t get a chance to space out soon … So here I am.

Friday Fictioneers – Slip

Edna twisted the chains with her aged knotted hands. It was strange, she thought, how people attached memories to such seemingly insignificant things.

“When I was younger …”

Suddenly, she was falling away; slipping through time and space. Shanghai-La, she thought, always attached to these chains.

She scrunched her eyes closed and let the tide take her. It was like falling through water; warm, peaceful, silent.

Then it wasn’t.

Edna’s eyes burst open. There were storm clouds on the horizon beyond her father’s new truck. She turned the chains in her now youthful fingers, “So funny the memories we cling to.”

disc-golf-basket
PHOTO PROMPT © Douglas M. MacIlroy

Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who wrangles in Friday Fictioneers every week.

Friday Fictioneers – Rays of Gold

Sometimes she sits on the gilded edge of the time before and the space after, watching people scurry below.

Ants unaware of their instinctual march, if they were to rip their eyes from the path would they see me?

Unaware of his mother’s harried calls a boy lets his toy train crash to the wooden floors. The glowing specter upon the golden spiral lights, reflecting and refracting shimmering beams, flickers then vanishes.

“Mommy did you see that?”

He points, though he’s suddenly unsure of the space where the dancing rays of gold once were.

His mother hurriedly leads him away.


dales-symphony-2PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Many thanks to Rochelle Wisoff Fields for wrangling Friday Fictioneers

Friday Fictioneers – The Fleeing of Juliet

“I will not marry him.”

Destiny did not prepare the gardener for the sight which greeted him in the morning sun. The noble daughter, sweetly sipping tea while admiring roses, and her gentleman courter writhing in dewy grass. Life did not prepare him to grab the unwitting belle and drag her to a horse.

“You have to go.”

“I will not.” Thin arms surrounded his neck.

Romeo ushered his Juliet onto the nearest mare with a promise he would not be far behind.

I wish I could say the story is only similar in name.

Alas, it ends the same.

fatima-fakier-deria-3PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

And thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for rounding Friday Fictioneers up.