Month: November 2017

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Friday Fictioneers – Skating

(Author’s note: Doing something dangerous. Took off my splint and am writing this properly. Putting splint back on after it’s done, but so far…no problems. Anyhow, here’s today’s fictioneers…just for all y’all.)

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© The Court Jester of Friday Fictioneers, Russell Gayer

Skating

by Miles H. Rost

Running from the frozen lake, Brian Gerlach saw the open shed and the toilet.

“Brian, come on! We’ve only got another hour before our moms call us for dinner.”
“But I really gotta go!”
“Fine, but you’re on your own!”

He didn’t need their help. He’d use the toilet and get back to skating. It was winter after all.

He sat down on the snow-colored commode and did his business. He tried to stand up, but his behind wouldn’t budge.

Worse yet, the water around his skates had since frozen up.

He cried for help, worried that it wouldn’t come.

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Friday Fictioneers – Sweet Dreams

(Author’s note: Still in a splint. Things acting up, but I’ll be fine. 84 calendar days until I end my working career in Korea. As for today’s fictioneers, I originally was going to go with “Stuck In A Closet With Vanna White”, but I felt like something…more. Enjoy today’s fictioneers! )

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© R.W.F.

Sweet Dreams

by Miles H. Rost

“Desi…”

Desiree and Mike had been picked by lottery to end up in the closet. Mike was fully sober, but had been intoxicated by something much stronger than booze.

And he could not see anything.

“Mike…keep going.”

Hot and heavy it was, heightened by Air Supply on the portable radio beside them.

“Desi, my finger…it’s stuck.”

Everything stopped, except for the guitars in the song.

“That’s my bra, Mike. Take it off.”

Another moment of slight movement, and a sudden shift of things crashed down, including a clang.

“Mike?”

She felt around, finding a clock beside Mike’s head.

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Friday Fictioneers – The Red Plains

(Author’s note: I am writing this in a hunt and peck form due to my left wrist being cracked. I will likely be in a splint for 4 weeks, then in a wrist brace for 4 more…depending. Anyhow, here’s today’s fictioneers.)

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©J. Hardy Carroll

The Red Plains

by Miles H. Rost

Rubble.

That is what was left of the old brownstone building in downtown Lincoln, Nebraska.

Andy Patridge looked at the charred papers strewn about the grounds. His 40 years of law and life, gone in 20 minutes.

“Any idea of who caused this?”

The fire chief looked at Andy and furrowed his caterpillar brows.

“You keep thinking someone did this. We have no clue how this was done.”

“Actually,” the arson examiner popped up behind them, “I can conclude that it was likely his ex-wife that did it.”

“How’d you know that?” The chief balked.

“Spraypainted message. Says, “Die, you arseluch.”

“Great…”

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Friday Fictioneers – Puttin’ On The Ritz

(Author’s Note: Well, things are about to get busy with me regarding my eventual move back to the United States. Currently whittling down the cities that I may move to, and hoping that I’ll be able to find something upon my return. Otherwise, here’s today’s fictioneers…with a little extra spice.)

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© Marie Gail Stratford

Puttin’ On The Ritz

by Miles H. Rost

“Excuse me, can you tell me how to get to the Ritz?”

“Down two blocks, left one block, on your left.”

The brown-skinned man in the top hat gave him a bow and smiled in thanks.

“Say…haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He smiled at the question, thinking.

“Oh, maybe.”

“What’s your name?”

“I am Taco,” he replied, a slight bit of Dutch coming out of his throat.

“I asked your name, not what you ate.”

He laughed, and gave him a salute.

“Look on MTV tonight. You’ll see.”

He turned, smiled, and whistled an Irving Berlin tune.

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Friday Fictioneers – Mama Can’t Buy You Love

(Author’s notes: Learning new stuff coming up. We’ll see what happens! Here’s today’s fictioneers!)

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© Sarah Ann Hall

Mama Can’t Buy You Love

by Miles H. Rost

“Why are we in a bowl shop?” Harley asked.

“Mom told me to pick something, and she’ll buy it,” Clarissa replied.

“But, sweetheart, whenever she buys you something, you’re depressed for weeks.”

“It makes me happy.”

“Clarissa, it doesn’t. Your mom doesn’t want you happy. She wants you obedient.”

“Then what do you propose, Harley?”

“Why not let me make you happy?”

“How would you make me happy? Can you buy me things?”

“No, but instead you’ll have a home to call your own. And a husband who loves you.”

“A what…?”

“Would you marry me?”

Clarissa dropped the bowl.

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