Its Friday! And I’m catching up on Friday Fiction. This week’s photo is from Shaktiki Sharma. It was hard for me t make out the image on my little phone screen, so I went with the old “say what you see” motto and the story below was created. Your comments are welcome.
Whatever you’re celebrating at this time of year, even if it’s ‘just’ Friday, I hope it is happy and peaceful for you.
The view from the bus was uninspiring – leering neon as unappealing as the darkness. People loitered around the shadows, but she fought the urge to fear them. She was safer among these strangers than she had ever been with Mark.
She clutched Eloise’s weary hand in hers and strode across the street towards a flashing Vacancies sign. The room rates posted below it were hourly, with a discount for the whole night. It was no place for her, and certainly not for Eloise, but her shoulders lifted slightly as she stepped inside.
“Come on,” she whispered, “Our new adventure awaits!”
Happy New Year to you, dear Readers. I must apologise for my absence over the ‘holidays’; it was a lovely couple of weeks with my little family, but didn’t afford much chance for writing and posting.
Melanie Greenwood‘s picture is our first prompt of the year, and Rochelle leads us all into 2016. I hope it’s a good one all round. I won’t be joining the concirt subgroup this week as I can’t guarantee time to offer to others, but I do welcome your feedback, good and bad, on my story.
The Thirty-Five Steps
Thirty-five yards, he estimated, and he’d be at the base of the staircase. Thirty-five steps, give or take, between him and freedom.
Because once he was on that plane, they wouldn’t follow: he was sure of that. Nobody cares about the little guy, not once he’s in the wind. Literally and metaphorically, he caught himself smiling, pulled down the corners of his mouth and the peak of his cap simultaneously.
Thirty-four, thirty-three … and finally one. He could almost reach out and touch the glistening handrail. An impulse made him stop, turn and look back, but only for a moment.
Rochelle’s own picture for our prompt today, and while I’m here CONGRATULATIONS to our great leader who recently retired from the job, ready to focus on the career!
There is a beautiful cacophony as I type – Dominic is grumbling at his jungle, which is singing back to him. About five of Sebastian’s toys are also singing / talking, an he is giving a running commentary on the game he’s playing with them. I cannot hear myself think, so this story is influenced by that, together with the fact it’s written in five word bursts in between dealing with one or other of them! The story stands alone, or as part of the series here and here.
Whenever a black sedan pulled into the lot below, Sandy felt sick. And in the rainy dusk, every sedan shone black. She turned back into the dinghy motel room.
He won’t come, she told herself. He doesn’t know where I am.
And if he did, he wouldn’t be in his own car; more likely he’d fly like she had, and rent one.
He could be driving anything.
She turned on the radio. Music drowned out the rain, the tires splashing into the parking lot, even the sex nextdoor, but it didn’t stop the voice in her head.
I’ll find you.
Sorry for my absence last week; I hope not to make a habit of it! This week’s story, inspired by The Reclining Gentleman‘s photo, could almost be a prequel to one I wrote months ago, but hopefully also stands alone. I’d love to read your thoughts.
“You’re doing the right thing,” Irene smiled gently at her friend.
“Am I? Every time I think I’m choosing the tunnel with light at the other end it turns out to be headlights on an oncoming train.” Sandy brushed away the tears. “What if I leave him and it’s just worse?”
Irene didn’t say anything.
“It could be worse though,” Sandy insisted. “He never hurts the kids.”
“Hitler never hit his dog.” Irene picked up the bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Next time, bring me stuff for them and then you’re ready. I’m going to miss you, babe.”
It’s Wednesday and recent photos make me suspect that Rochelle is as much over the winter as I am. This week’s greenery comes from Rachel Bjerke.
My story is an attempt to veer back into ‘proper’ fiction and as always I’d love to hear what you think. I am stuck for a title, so suggestions are welcome on that front too. After writing it, I was researching green for something that might work as a title when I came across this bit of slang. I suggest you read the story before clicking on that link, then you can decide whether it changes your reading of the story or not – it kind of did for me!
Happy Spring (on Friday, apparently)!
Exhausted, she leant against the stone fountain. The surface, polished lifetimes ago, was made smoother still by a slime of moss that covered everything. She knew it was staining her nightdress and skin with the evidence of her flight.
She’d once loved green – the colour of life and vitality, of new beginnings – a longed-for sight after bracing white winters washed away colour and hope.
But today, it was another wall in her prison. She had fled the house, only to find the forest never-ending, and this abandoned oasis further evidence that she was still within his territory. And his grasp.
Rochelle plays both hostess and photographer to us this week. Once again, I’m up to my eyes in life, NaNoWriMo and writing, so I probably won’t have much reading opportunity and may take a while to respond to comments. If you prefer fully-interactive Jen, please return in December, when (hopefully) I’ll be back to rights. ish.
In the meantime, here’s our prompt, and my story for the week.
I’m here! The text message chimed.
I admit I’d been worried. Last-minute flights to who-knows-where weren’t the sort of thing either of us did, but now I knew she was safe.
Err.. There’s a Starbucks … and a McDonalds … and a souvenir / gift store.
For the first time in years, I felt her smiling, laughing with me. I missed my best friend already, but every mile away from me was a mile away from Jason, and those miles would never be enough.
The hammering on my door started again. This time, I was ready to answer.
At last, we have Word its much-underrated word count tool back again. This week’s story is exactly 100 words long – thank you for your patience over recent offerings.
Rochelle is both our hostess and our photographer today. Her picture (black wing tips) reminded me of one I took a few years ago on a trip of a lifetime (red wing tips), and that led me to this little story. I hope you enjoy it, and look forward to reading your comments, good and bad.
There was no line where the clouds stopped and the Himalayas began. Peaks and troughs of snowy white gave way to more of the same as the plane soared westward. Its destination was surprisingly modern for a mountain outpost: evidence that Lhasa Gonggar airport was part of modern China as well as ancient Tibet.
“Meet me at LAX,” Steve had said. But he’d also said, “I love you,” and “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll never do it again.”
Some people would call it a mistake. But as her plane touched down at LXA, Lisa felt she was finally doing something right.