(Author’s Note: My job is a tough one. It doesn’t leave me with much time to actually spend writing more things. I come home from work, and I am really tired. We’ll see what happens. In the meantime, here’s today’s fictioneers.)
© Liz Young
Grandpa was never the same after we discovered the faded tombstone out back.
“I loved her. Love was the only crime I was guilty of. They can’t take that!”
We didn’t know what happened, but the words “throat cancer” and “1965” were constantly on his breath.
For weeks, he wouldn’t do anything except sit on the bench near the makeshift grave he made all those years ago.
One morning, we walked outside to see him hugging the gravestone.
“Grandpa, breakfast is ready!”
We walked over to shake him. He was cold, and he was gone.
(Author’s Note: I have one or two things that need to be addressed this weekend, but I am planning to work on some new longer works coming up soon. Otherwise, here’s today’s fictioneers…if you dare read…)
© Magaly Guerrero
“Eric, you better come home this instant!”
“But, honey! I just got a promotion, and the boys are celebrating.”
“Not tonight you aren’t. You may have been promoted, but you’re still my husband. Get back here now!”
“If you don’t come home, I’m putting on the red shoes.”
“Yes, Eric honey?”
“You don’t have to put on the red shoes. Or the red dress tonight. I’ll be home shortly.”
Roxanne sat back, chuckled as she looked at the box with the magic butt-kicking shoes inside.
“Best five dollars I ever paid.”
(Author’s note: After having 2 and a half of the toughest weeks that I’ve ever had, including fighting off illness and dealing with a crapton of stress that just wouldn’t quit, I’m largely doing okay. Here’s Today’s fictioneers.)
by Miles H. Rost
The couch was the point of no return.
Harvey sat, his legs curled up underneath, exhaustion seeping from every pore of his body.
It was so bad, he couldn’t eat properly. The gourmet pizza, and bottle of expensive wine, sat barely touched on a counter. He could eat it later, but by that time, the wine might have turned to vinegar.
He sat, staring at the blank wall in front of him, the couch being his place of refuge.
He wanted out of his life, but had to return to the 9 to 5 the next morning.
In his exhaustion, he cried.
(Author’s note: None. Enjoy the Fictioneers!)
© Jellico’s Stationhouse
by Miles H. Rost
Ron Bellio wheeled up alongside his pals, his small wire bike with big monster wheels in the back overshadowing the others.
“Hey, Ronny! Where’d you get the mutant?”
“Oh, the bike? Yo mamma!”
“What you say?!”
The sound of teasing filled the air, along with laughter and music as they rode down the street.
“Did you hear about Ali?”
“What about her?”
“She hit number one on the dance charts!”
“Auntie Ali?! Fat Ali?!”
Ron looked at his friends, smirking that his friends were talking about his cousin.
“You shouldn’t call her fat. She’s got more muscle than all you now.”
Alison Moyet, of the duo “Yazoo” (aka Yaz)