(Author’s note: Things are getting crazy! Here’s some Fictioneers!)
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Treasure Chest by Miles H. Rost
A summer day, and the sound of kids playing filled the air.
This day, it was an adventure. The youngest kid impersonating Sherlock Holmes, the middle kid pushing the swing while the oldest imagined she was a pilot. After the “flight” was over, they all ran around the quarter acre of property, looking for the treasure that their mother hid earlier that day. They peered in a hole in the tree. Nothing. They searched the camper. Nothing. Finally, the middle kid spotted the box under a rhubarb plant. They opened the box, and found… condiments. “KIDS! DINNERTIME! BURGERS!” “YAY! BURGERS!”
(Author’s note: I had some family issues pop up in the last couple weeks, and when it comes to family, I will always give focus to them. Here’s today’s fictioneers…)
© Roger Bultot
Rose Colored Glasses by Miles H. Rost
“I have a great life where I’m working, living, and being,” Goro said, putting on his hat.
“You’re in a camp house. You can only walk at certain times of the day. You have to be given tests,” Miyoko spat, disgusted.
“I have to have this attitude. If I don’t, I don’t survive. At least I can give everyone something to think about.”
“You let them treat you like good little cattle. They took us from San Francisco to here. They don’t care.” “Miyoko, I know. I’m not wearing rose colored glasses. But, to help them, I’ll do what I do.”
Click the painted frog for more stories like this!
(Author’s note: August and September are typically busy times for me at work, so my output may be less… not that it’s much of a departure from previous. Here’s today’s Fictioneers!)
© Krista Strutz
Walking On A Thin Line
by Miles H. Rost
Stewart grabbed his handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
He didn’t want to cry. Seeing the bald eagle that landed on the memorial above him, though, broke everything. He remembered walking off the plane all those years ago. The spit. The urine. The look of disgust on the faces of his classmates when they came to visit his mother, and found him there. The days alone in his apartment, wondering if that day was his last. It started looking up when Kristi entered his life, but there was still those memories. It was this day, though, where that eagle validated everything.
Thanks to Keith Hillman for the Frog
(Author’s note – Oh come on now. This is low hanging fruit! Enjoy!)
© Brenda Cox
Season of the Witch by Miles H. Rost
A spinster on a bike.
The classic trope of old-style writing was personified by Miss Jane Banfield. Miserly, grumpy, past her prime. Jane was not someone to cross, and this day, a young girl’s cat crossed her with its claws. She held the basket lid down, blazing as fast as she could on her bike, trying to look prim and proper while making sure the feline didn’t escape. She didn’t realize that she was going too fast until she hit the small hill before the intersection. Bike and person flew, as cat leaped out. They said the cleanup was gruesome.
(Author’s note: A lot of things have been happening. I hope to be back to weekly posting next week. Depends on everything. Here we go with today’s Fictioneers!)
© Lisa Fox
Chan Chan by Miles H. Rost
Ernie loved the wind in his hair as he rode his motorcycle across the dusty land.
He got his reputation for being a daredevil during his long journey through various lands, seeing people and doing deadly things “in the name of the Revolution.” It was one of the few things that allowed him the time away from the many jobs he did, to think and to let the steam off. It was one of the last times he rode, for he needed to start training the irregulars. He was always readied for the next day. The day he would die.
(Author’s note: Post-trip, work’s been crazy. Hence why I haven’t been on here. But I’m back for today. And here’s today’s fictioneers)
© Roger Bultot
Sharp Dressed Man
by Miles H. Rost
“I met her at one of the writing club’s outings.”
Delvin adjusted his tie, making sure that it was straight and neat. “She had interesting ideas about characters, and I wanted to find out more. So we’re going out tonight.” Delvin turned from the mirror and presented himself to his sister. “You look good. Getting older, but looking good,” she said, while crossing one of her stitches. “If we’re going to go see a nice play, I want to shine.” “If you wanted to shine, you’d have shaved and polished your head.” Delvin stifled a chortle. “I’m gonna use that.”
RIP Dusty Hill of ZZ Top. 72 years young, on the way to La Grange.
(Author’s Note: Family has been an important part of my life, and last week I was in Reno with my strong, beautiful, and courageous niece and my sister. It was a great time, and while I missed writing, I relished my time with my family even more. Here’s this week’s fictioneers:)
© Sandra Crook
The Dreams Remain The Same by Miles H. Rost
Paul woke up that morning, and called into work. He was taking a day. He left his phone by his workstation. He left his music device by his bed. He left his car at home. He left his shoes at the door, his socks at the end of the bed. He walked out back, through the woods behind his house, behind the school nearby. He found a nice stump, sat down, and took in the first breath. With no one around, Paul spent the entire day connected to nature, sorting out his thoughts. All in blessed silence.
This artist is a new artist, and he does a lot of work on Youtube. Buy his music, it’s some good stuff!
(Author’s note: It’s a little late, but better than none at all.)
© Alicia Jamtaas
Butterfly In The Well by Miles H. Rost
The first whiff of fresh air for Fred after being let free from the ghosts of 2020 was in the woods near his home.
For a year, the teenager was trapped, forced to stay inside because of his mother’s fears, her paranoia. She finally relented, as she left to visit her sister in the hospital. Fred sat in the woods, his bare feet connecting to the ground. The small lean-to above him housed a great number of butterflies. He put out his arm, and one landed on his finger. “I’m glad to be home.” The butterfly just flapped peacefully.
This ain’t Fred. This is actually me, in the Butterfly Gardens of Seoul Forest, from July of 2017. Picture was on my phone, but was taken by Andrew Contreras (a really good friend of mine).
(Author’s Note: Wahoo! Another week! For those who wrote related to my photo last week, I will be dropping comments this week. Thank you for all the creativity, and I cannot wait to actually respond properly. As for me…here’s this week’s work!)
© Liz Young
I’ll Let You Drive by Miles H. Rost
“Alright, Hye-Jin, put the car in reverse and slowly back out.”
Cho Hye-Jin moved her shaking hand to the gearshift, and put it in reverse. Slowly, she pressed on the accelerator, yet the car still lurched. “It’s okay, Hye-Jin. It’s your first day. We’re not expecting perfection.” She took a quick breath, and slowly maneuvered the car backwards. She put on brakes and shifted into drive.
“Okay, now turn right out of–“
A blaze of tabby orange.
The squealed meow across the hood of the car. The push of a gas pedal. *CRASH* “Wangjiangnim…” “Yes?” “I let you drive”
(author’s note: Well well well! Lookie what we have here! One of my pictures! Can’t wait to see what the stories prompt up! Here we go.)
by Miles H. Rost
The names announced. The hats thrown. All that was left were the people as they gathered and started leaving.
Outside of the main auditorium, Quan looked up at the sky as his mother and father were chatting with another group of parents. As they finished, they walked back over to him.
“We’re proud of you, Quan.” “You made salutatorian, that’s a pretty big honor.” Quan sighed, as his parents looked at each other, puzzled. “I could have done better.” His dad, a former Tianamen Square protester, squared him up. “Dragonfly, you did the best, and we’re proud. Don’t think otherwise.”