Friday Fictioneers – Closing Time

(Author’s note: No note, just write!)

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Closing Time

by Miles H. Rost

“We’re locking up.”

The waitress teared up as we put on our jackets. I grabbed the last piece of biscuit on my way to the register.

“$24.50.”

I looked around at the reminiscent decor, all the things I loved that were on shelves just below the ceiling. I pulled a $100 out of my wallet, and gave it up.

“Are you sure…”
“Honey, this place gave me memories. Whatever isn’t for the bill, split it among you three.”

She finished ringing us up, smiling through it.

We walked out the door and saw her turn the sign to closed.

Forever.

Nothing more.

It’s a common thing nowadays, the last person out tips the best. With the virus, you never know when you’ll have to go home.

Friday Fictioneers – I’ll Wait

(Author’s note: A lot of my delays between weeks has usually been due to either busyness or other items. I’m hoping things will get better, but until at least November, it likely will not. I’ll do the best I can, though. Here’s today’s offering!)

© Sandra Crook

I’ll Wait

by Miles H. Rost

Fabrizio grimaced as he started cleaning the remains of Hurricane Belinda.

A large storm, she threw the nests of seaweed up in front of his restaurant. He knew if he didn’t get it done, it’d stink up the neighborhood.

“Fabrizio! Where have you been?” she called out, Fabrizio jumping at her voice.
“I need to clean this up. I need to open so I can help people.”
“But what about our promised night out?”
“Do you want to help me clean this up in your Chuta Gabrola?”

Marina’s eyes grew wide, as his suggestion sunk in.

“I’ll wait.”
“Thought so.”

RIP Eddie Van Halen (1955-2020)

Friday Fictioneers – Dance Hall Days (Short Story)

(Author’s note: Took last week off due to the fires in Oregon. Back today. Enjoy!”)

© Roger Bultot

Dance Hall Days

by Miles H. Rost

Stickball.

A staple of New York youth. A way for the kids of the neighborhood to have fun and forge long lasting friendships.

When us kids needed to hash out things, we didn’t take to our fists. We took to the sticks. Whoever ended up scoring the most, or when our moms called us in after the sun went down, they would carry the day.

Once we moved to the west coast, there was no more stickball. You moved up to the sandlots. The skills learned translated well for the batting, but the running killed us.

We were still friends.

Friday Fictioneers – Who (Are You)?

(Author’s note: Hey! You’ve probably wondered where I went over the last month. Well, honestly, with all the stuff going on in the world, I have been weary and tired. Haven’t been inspired. So, hopefully after today, I’ll be more inspired by the world around me. Here we go!)

glasgow

© C. E. Ayr

Who (Are You)? 

by Miles H. Rost

Pete rushed into the house, happy that Sunday service was finally over.

He ran as quick as his legs could to his room, pulled out a magazine and his notebook from the closet, and quickly returned to the living room.

“Why are you so quick today?” his mum inquired.

“I’m not gonna miss this episode for the world!” young Pete replied, looking at his pens and readying himself.

“You know it doesn’t start for 3 hours, right?”

Pete blinked, then sighed.

“I have to get this letter right, if I want to be the president of the Doctor Who Fan Club.”

Capaldi Who

It’s true. Peter Capaldi DID try to become the head of the Doctor Who Fan Club. The BBC disliked his persistence, and put someone else in his place. But who got the last laugh? 

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Friday Fictioneers – Train of Thought (Redux)

Author’s Note: It’s a redux of the post from April 10, 2015. Why? Because I can, and I’m having to work on stuff outside of posts today. Enjoy!

copyright Jennifer Pendergast

Train of Thought

by Miles H. Rost

Obedience.

Lucas Milford hated hearing that word, in the modern context. His commute and his job, though, were the biggest forms of forced obedience for him.

He looked around the subway car, seeing all the gray and black suits and dresses. He wondered for just a moment whether he would be able to survive it all.

“Pulling into 92nd Street. Next stop: 112th Street – Broadway Station” the speaker droned out.

Lucas sighed as the train pulled one stop closer to his home. He started to close his eyes.

A flash of yellow streaked by him.

His eyes shot open, and he looked around. He spied the lemon yellow dress of a beautiful woman, whose green eyes bore into his, and red hair screamed out “different!” to him.

“Such…color…” he said, as the woman started moving closer to him.

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Friday Fictioneers – Salesman

(Author’s note: It’s rare that I do the same artist twice, but the pictures just throw everything together. Which reminds me, if you haven’t done so already, go on back to my previous story and take a gander. Here’s the second story with music provided by the great Stan Ridgway.)

the-gate

© Jean L. Hays

Salesman

by Miles H. Rost

“…and for only $15 a month, you’ll get the package delivered to you with no questions asked. You just need to sign on the line, and it’s all yours.”

“One question, Burt.”

“It’s Brett.”

The customer rolled her eyes. “Brett. One question. Where are we?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What city are we in?”

“Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“What’s the temperature right now.”

Pulling out a “handy dandy thermoguide”, he took a second.

“It’s a balmy 102 degrees.”

“Now tell me, why would I want to buy a space heater when it’s going to be 105 degrees outside?!”

“Throw in an ice maker for free?”

“Deal.”

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Friday Fictioneers – (The) Mission Bell

(Author’s Note: I have a feeling I know who A. Noni Mouse is, because I’ve seen that kitchen before. If I’m wrong, then someone has the exact same layout for a kitchen than others I know… )

anonymous-kitchen-photo

©A. Noni Mouse

The Mission Bell

by Miles H. Rost

“You finished the dishes, Harlan?”

“Yeah.”

Harlan didn’t say too much. He knew that when the bell rang, he’d have to be off to work. He didn’t want to leave many words behind.

“I baked a cherry pie. Want a piece?”

“Thanks, Caiera, but no.”

Caiera knew that Harlan didn’t want to say much. She tried to make him as comfortable as he could, before that bell sounded.

With long silence between them, it was cut by the church bell’s chime.

Harlan picked up his rifle bag, and went to the door where Caiera snuck a kiss.

A sniper’s life.

purple-inlinkz-frog

Friday Fictioneers – The One Thing

(Author’s Note: Nothing. Just good writing and good things. Here ya go!)

eggcelent-from-todd-foltz

© Todd Foltz

The One Thing

by

Miles H. Rost

Becky “Spins” Hoffman was going for maximum effect.

The captain of the women’s baseball team at the local uni, her arm was well known as a lethal weapon.

What people didn’t know is that when challenged, her pranks were the other weapon she would use.

Using a little chemistry knowhow, she prepared the eggs sitting in the carton to the right specifications for this night. As her teammate sped, Becky fired egg after egg. Red, white, and blue splatters showed themselves.

They contrasted the red of the fluttering Soviet flag, and the face of the angry professor who owned it.

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Friday Fictioneers – Blue Blue Sky

(Author’s note: Mental health is very important. I’ve had to take a few weeks off, again, because of too much information overload. As I grow older, it seems my capacity for information has grown to be lesser. I am doing fine today, but who knows how I will be next week. Let’s enjoy today, and this fictioneers piece. Please enjoy the music, and the story that goes with it!)

ronda-pov

© Ronda Del Boccio

Blue Blue Sky

by Miles H. Rost

2000 feet above the Yamhill Valley, Patricia breathed in the air.

“If I could stay up here forever, I would.”
“Not a terrestrial person?” Her husband responded, turning the valve to take them a slight bit higher.
“There’s just so much down there. So much going on, so much trouble.”

She didn’t seem wrong, in her husband’s eyes. The more peaceful a place, the better.

“We’re going to have to go down eventually.”
“I know. I just want to stay up here as long as I can.”

They started a very slow descent, mirroring the setting sun out in the distance.

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Friday Fictioneers – Groove

(Author’s Note: When work gets busier, I get less time to write. Things are starting to slow down, so that helps out. Here’s this week’s Friday Fictioneers!)

band

© C.E. Ayr

Groove

by Miles H. Rost

Vladimir and his band had everything ready within a minute of taking the stage. No need to tune, as it was already done.

This was Festival Saturday. This was their time to shine, as a new band with something his region never thought they’d ever hear.

With a nod, Bruska smashed the cymbals and broke into his steady 4 beat. Mariska joined at the same time, gliding over the Yamaha DX-7 with funky flair. Duma’s Nile Rodgers style guitar lick meshed with Vlad’s bass plucks, creating a groove pocket that was unmistakable.

The influence of American jazz and fusion had arrived.

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