Okay, I just have to say that a fox is screeching really scarily as I write this intro and upsetting Louie the loaner dog.
Thank you Friday Fictioneers for keeping me out of trouble.
Nevertheless we carry on.
You are my sister.
From my first memory to 21 I semi-trusted you. I respected you. I even thought, sometimes, I loved you although you were as disparate from me as a penguin and canary.
You tossed that in the toilet with the first man you met.
“Rachel? My little sister? No significance.”
I heard your words the other day repeated by your girlfriend, not your boyfriend.
It occurred before my book reading.
I shrugged, lit a cigarette, which I seldom do anymore.
Life is short.
A shot of bourbon.
My words rang true.
Sascha Darlington 12/4/2017
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Thanks to Rochelle for providing us with Friday Fictioneers!
In The Way
Old Lady Henderson was the widow of a World War II hero.
Her house, with uneven pine floors, built in 1790, belonged to a famous Civil War historian.
Abraham Lincoln spent several evenings with the Custuses here strategizing possible outcomes.
The stone fireplace shows exquisite handiwork.
A tunnel leads to the nearby park, once a dense forest.
“Get rid of it,” says Morgan Baum.
Old Lady Henderson refuses to let it be torn down: so much historical value!
At the end of Morgan Baum’s day, the only thing left standing is an old stone fireplace and a tunnel.
Sascha Darlington 11/20/2017
PHOTO PROMPT© Jan Wayne Fields
Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to join in and read the instruction, please visit her site here. To read more stories with this prompt, click here.
cloud illusions I recall
Both Sides Now
We were at the “moons and Junes” phase where we danced, stared into each other’s eyes, and our heat coalesced. Passionate kisses lasted hours.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
For Friday Fictioneers. Thank you to the wonderful Rochelle for hosting this group. To read the instructions and join in, please visit here.
I met a Swedish boy on Christmas Day and kissed him on Boxing Day and felt the earth move at Kamala Bay.
I touched my fingers to my lips and smiled at this boy, my first kiss.
We were still holding hands, not comprehending when an accented man herded us and other tourists toward a packed bus.
“Tsunami,” someone said.
The joy of the kiss evaporated as my emotions unspooled like myriads of delicate thread concentrating on my parents and little sister at the pool. Praying.
The bus bumped up a steep road and the shore behind became ocean.
A to Z Challenge Reflections
This was my first A to Z Challenge so it was quite an experience. Fortunately I have done nanowrimo and octpowrimo so I do have some experience with the task of writing everyday. It was very, very nice to have Sundays off though, which you don’t get with the other two challenges.
What made this a tremendous experience for me was finding fellow bloggers who were also doing the challenge. Some bloggers I’ve been reading for months and some were new to me, but I enjoyed reading their works progress through the month.
Tate referred to everything as a “blast” but she didn’t take him literally until she was seatbelted in the spaceship.
To play, visit here.
S. Darlington, 5/2/2017
© John Brand
Thank you to Alistair at Sunday Photo Fiction as always for providing this prompt! To read more stories for this prompt, click here. The original prompt is here.
31 Wedding Anniversary
“The ivy, John,” Ramona says.
“Yes, dear,” says John while continuing his Sudoku.
“I hate to nag . . .”
“…but the ivy will kill the tree. It taps into the moisture around the roots and sucks the life out of it.”
“I know exactly how it feels.”
We each have our own truth.
I thought I knew you well enough so our truths overlapped often to become one truth.
And, yet, here I am, amidst the wreckage of your vendetta: ripped memories, broken souvenirs, walls stained with graffiti, realizing I did not understand that it wasn’t truth you were seeking nor justice in the way I understand it. Rather, you sought vengeance because I was born at all.
“Here we go,” he said.
“Oh, don’t start,” she said.
“It happens every bloody time we go someplace nice. You have to start sniping.”
“Not sniping. They’re observations.”
“Based on your insecurity.”
“It’s not my insecurity if you’re checking out the waitresses and smiling at them.”
“That’s not true.”
“Any of it. What I want to know is why it happens when we’re out at a fancy restaurant.”
“Because while I’m at home, blondes in miniskirts aren’t parading around for you to stare at their asses. Who knows what happens when I’m not there.”
“The check, sir?” the waiter asked.
“Why the hell not? I’m sure there’s not going to be dessert here or at home,” he said.