It’s been awhile since I’ve visited Sunday Photo Fiction. It’s nice to be back. Thank you, Alistair!
Holding a Lifetime
In those days the air was combustible, ions churning, light fragmenting into auroras that blazed through night’s boundless sky, laughter sweet, gentle like soft blossom petals falling. Continue reading
Thank you, Rochelle, for providing us with Friday Fictioneers!
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Thanks to Alistair at Sunday Photo Fiction for hosting. If you’d like to participate, click here.
Friday Fictioneers for 5/26/2017
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?”
“You must be excited.”
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.
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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Objects and How They Appear
My stomach roils when I comprehend the mirror.
© 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.”
photo by Clay Knight via Unsplash
Three Line Tales, Week 65
Fish Out Of Water
The instant the caught fish is removed from water, he begins to drown.
Here in urban sprawl without the mountains, I begin to suffocate.
You take my hand, tell me to breathe, and I believed I could do anything for you.
Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.
For more stories, visit here.
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.