Friday Fictioneers : The bubble gum pink coat

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll


 

Mum lifts Danny onto the seat, the Umbrella car giddy under his weight.

‘Will you come?’ He isn’t scared, but Mum’s been sad for so long and fairground rides make everyone smile.

She shakes her head, tells him to hold the bar in front but he’s old enough to know that. The car moves – loud music shakes the air in his ears. Mum has already turned, her bubble gum pink coat a spot of colour growing smaller. When the ride has turned once, the pink has gone.

This is what Danny tells the police lady when she comes.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. See the picture and write a tale. Share yours and read others here.

 

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Three Line Tales : The Thrift Store Cat Whisperer

three line tales week 103: a sanitation van in front of pink graffiti

photo by Hans Vivek via Unsplash


 

Hey, Danny, look! See that old lady? The one pushing her world in a shopping cart. Thrift store clothes, shoes held together with string – your everyday homeless old bag, right? Keep watching.

Isn’t that the weirdest thing you ever saw? How many are there – five. … ten … sixteen … twenty-four I make it. Twenty-four stray cats all after the same hobo like she’s got fish tacos sewn in the lining of her coat. She talks to ’em too, says some weird garbled crap that sure ain’t English. Sal says she gives ’em all names, that they sit round and listen like they’re in elementary school and she’s the teacher. But Sal says his mom was abducted by aliens, so …

Sure see some weird shit in this job.

 


Written for Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a story. See here to read and share.

Friday Fictioneers : When the world froze

PHOTO PROMPT © Victor and Sarah Potter


 

Winter was hard.

The streets were slick and glassy, icicles sang from every tree – a high, unearthly tune – and even the harbour was clogged, jagged plates of ice knocking, sliding one over the other, only for their cold geometry to refreeze each night as the sun vanished.

We were standing by a brazier when we saw the strangest thing. Webs, the spokes and lines frilled white and at the centre of each, the crystal bauble of a spider, waiting for a last meal that never came.

‘A sad sight,’ said Barney, hands purpled and blotchy.

He’s a good man.

 


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers, the best prompt on the ‘web’. See the photo and write a tale and don’t forget to share and read the other contributions here.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers : The loss of Folly

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Fandango. Thank you Fandango!


 

‘Stay down. Stay hidden.’ A last flash of Poppa’s eyes in the darkness and he was gone.

Folly did as she was told. She knew the forest well, the creak of the trunks in the wind, the sound of twigs falling to leaf litter, the scurry of creatures smaller and more terrified than herself.

But she searched for other sounds – the soft rustle and pause of a lean wolf, the hiss of breath through his snout; the grunt of boar.

Most of all she listened for the Others, the clumsy thrash of their limbs, the hushed, garbled words, the scrape of metal just before …

Come the grey paling of the dawn, the Others had not come. Nor had Poppa.

She crawled from the hollowed out tree, brushed dead leaves from her skirts, evicted a beetle from her shoe.

A voice cried out, lifting the crows from their roosts. Crashing footsteps,  garbled words – sharp, ringing as a sword hitting stone.

She closed her eyes and wished …

 


Written for Priceless Joy’s FFfAW. See the pic and write a tale. See here to join in and to read the other stories.

 

 

 

 

 

What Pegman Saw : Lely the seal girl

 

Each day through the holidays, Tarek, Sami and I would walk to the waterfall.

Tarek would lead, long toes curled round the tips of his sandals, skin paled from the dusty road. Sami would take the middle, eyes on Tarek’s heels, towel trailing from his arm onto the path. As the youngest, I would bring up the rear, trotting to catch up when I lagged behind, when I had to stop to pull up my sagging hand-me-down shorts.

The oasis was a miracle, a splash of lush green, nodding grasses and pink flower spikes erupting from barren rock and bare dirt.

We met Lely there one day, swimming dark and sleak as a seal through the green water. We all loved her I think, all blushed when she splashed us, all wanted to catch her round the waist in our games of tag.

She never allowed herself to be caught.

 


Written for What Pegman Saw, the photo prompt that uses Google Streetview as its starting point. Today we visit Tel Saki in Syria. See here to join in and to read the other tales.

 

What Pegman Saw : On the fifth day

 

On the fifth day, the first snows of winter fell, deadening Artur’s mood along with the city. The traffic grew muffled and sluggish along with the dark slick of river – even the smoke from the refinery’s chimney grew leaden with the cold, sitting hunched over the rooftops.

He spent the next three days anxiously watching the snow settle and harden, the ploughs turn the roads into grey-walled canyons. Then despite his careful planning, the promises he’d made to himself, the waiting became too much.

Buka darted ahead when he opened the apartment door, the little terrier leading the way, following his nose along the beaten snow path between lines of garages, until they reached the One. At the padlocked door, Buka held back, sniffing, cautious, fuzzy tail drooping.

For a moment, Artur paused, key in hand. Then he heard movement inside followed by wet cough.

Artur smiled.

 


On Saturday, Pegman wandered to Talnakh, in Krasonoyarsk Krai, Russia, where I found this little scene and wondered what was drawing that dog towards the locked hut …

Do join in if the Muse moves you – share a story and read others here.

 

 

 

 

 

Three Line Tales : Midnight on the Champs Elysees

three line tales, week 100: a ferris wheel in Paris with soldiers patrolling

photo by Manu Sanchez via Unsplash


 

‘Are you ready?’ His voice is smokey in the darkness, profile sharp against the setting sun.

How can she ever be ready to leave her mother, already sagging under the strain of occupation, her little sister Adalie, all scuffed shoes and knees and lights in her eyes, her hair? How can she leave them, knowing they might break without her?

Still, Marielle takes one last look along the Champs Elysees, at the distant bow of the Arc de Triomphe. One day her city will be free again. She hopes she will live to see it, but if not … ‘For Adalie,’ she whispers and follows him into the night.

 


Written for Sonya at Only 100 Word’s Three Line Tales.

When I saw this photo of soldiers on the Champs Elysees, I was reminded of a famous, chilling set of photographs of Paris – taken by Heinrich Hoffman – of Hitler gloating in front of the French city’s beautiful landmarks at the beginning of the occupation. And so my mind drifted to the Resistance, to people like Marielle.