Shattered

j-hardy-rubble

Friday Fictioneers for 5/26/2017


Shattered

The teenagers called me “crazy artist lady.”

The men loitering nearby called me worse when I refused their “offers.”

My lover called me stubborn for staying. “It’s not safe.”

I scoffed. “They’re just talk.”

 

I worked all day and into the evening, but flagged. Grabbing Gordo the Great Dane’s lead, we loped to the coffee shop; I hummed something cheery.

The barista smiled. “Your showing’s tomorrow?”

“Day after.”

“You must be excited.”

“And nervous.”

 

Red paint dripped down my door from the four-letter slur. Inside, three years of blown-glass artwork glittered in the light, innocently beautiful in its destruction.

 

end 5/24/2017

Sascha Darlington

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Just Another Monday #amwriting

inside-the-diner

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Friday Fictioneers for May 19. Click here for instructions on how to participate. Thank you, Rochelle, for hosting.


Just Another Monday

Most mornings I eat breakfast here, an egg white omelet with veggies and cheddar. Roberto now adds green chile sauce remembering I like it spicy. I sip coffee at the counter, my attention diverted from my phone to the conversation between Roberto’s dad, Felix, and three women.

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Rosemary for Remembrance

frost-on-the-tombstone-liz

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.

For more stories, visit here.


Rosemary for Remembrance

What would you say true love is?

Many say it’s fragile. I believe it’s strong, persistent, timeless.

The rosemary my great-grandfather planted, remembrance for the bride he lost in 1918 to the pandemic, thrives.

I note your apathy.

Let me convey a fact about rosemary: it cannot survive Vermont winters. Yet, almost 100 years after planting, this fragrant herb of the Mediterranean flourishes next to the grave of his beloved. Even in a hospitable climate, this would be a feat.

His diary said: “I fell in love at first sight and will love her with my last.”

I think…beyond.

 

end 4/29/2017

S. Darlington

Hindsight 20/20

Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.

For more stories, visit here.


shoes-and-books-by-magaly-guerrero

PHOTO PROMPT © Magaly Guerrero

Hindsight 20/20

A lie frolics here around shoes with ribbons for laces. The art book chuckles at my naiveté.

“Strawberry-flavored wine?” Duane asks.

I stare at the shoes wishing I’d accepted Will’s invitation for poetry and ice cream rather than Duane’s “romantic evening.”

“They’re my wife’s.”

“You said . . .”

“Ex-wife. She lives here,” he says. “It’s not ideal.”

I say, “No wine, thanks.”

“Perfect, on to bumping uglies.”

My jaw drops. “No.”

“Raincheck?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Dinner was expensive.”

Complete nightmare, I think.

Hindsight admonishes: Poetry and gelato with a funny caring man weren’t romantic enough for you?

 

end 4/23/2017

S. Darlington

Cocytus — Friday Fictioneers #amwriting

dale-rogerson-pizza

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.

For more stories, visit here.


Cocytus

“Why do they ruin white pizza with big plops of ricotta?” Sherry asked. “If they spread it around . . .”

She gulped her Rioja, emptying half the glass. Her gaze slid from the pizza slice to the empty chair. Her eyes grew shiny.

“No news is good news, right?” she asked, a tear escaping as she tried on a half-hearted laugh.

“Certainly,” I said.

We nodded. Rick chugged his pils.

“Brian hates ricotta on pizza,” she said.

“With good reason,” Rick said, seizing a slice. The ricotta, speckled with blood red sauce, spilled to the plate.

 

end 4/12/2017

S. Darlington

Dare

jellico3

PHOTO PROMPT © Jellico’s Stationhouse

Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.

For more stories, visit here.


Dare

For 63 mornings I’ve mounted this bike on an eastward journey toward the Outer Banks. If you’d asked me last year if I’d even consider this, I’d have laughed.

I’ve been the recipient of unexpected good: People willing to feed me, give me a place to sleep, or help repair my tires.

Ahead, the Wright Memorial Bridge intimidates, but it’s the last trek. A car honks, someone gives me the finger. I pedal faster as if I can smell the sea.

All the while Devon’s spirit guides me. His final words echo: I dare you, Sis.

 

end 4/7/2017

S. Darlington

 

Secrets

gateway-jhardy

Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.

For more stories, visit here.


Secrets

 

I was eleven when I kept my first secret.

I thought Adrienne, who lived in the mansion, was a beautiful, golden princess.

I saw her the day she crawled through the gap in the fence, carrying a knapsack, her blonde hair a halo.

“You can’t tell anyone you saw me,” she said. “It’s our secret.”

She darted through the woods and into a rusted red pickup. The driver looked at me, his gaze burning me with frost. He pressed his forefinger to his lips.

Fear pervaded my dreams. The princess screamed.

Her body was found a week later.

 

end 3/22/2017

S. Darlington

Mythbuster

grasshopper

PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma

Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.

For more stories, visit here.


Mythbuster

 

My brother called me “young grasshopper.” He practiced tai chi years before it became a fad. He vanished in 1972, two days before shipping out. Today he would be 68. When I was 21, I drove his ancient VW bug in search of him.

 

These are facts.

He became a roadie for Fleetwood Mac.

He ate donuts with Elvis the eve before Elvis died.

He was the graffitist known as El Doro.

He penned a novel if read backwards includes the lyrics of all Beatles’ songs

He watches Kung Fu and recalls, sometimes with regret, “young grasshopper.”

 

These are myths.

end 3/9/2017 (100 words)

S. Darlington