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!)

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© 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 – Reunion

(Author’s note: Well, I did it. I got the full-time job. This means a little more security, and means a little more stability for my writing schedule. I am hoping to be back up to speed fully. Also, my health has taken a turn for the better, so I am celebrating. Enjoy today’s fictioneers.)

barns-1-dawn-miller

© Dawn Miller

Reunion

by Miles H. Rost

20 years passed since I left high school. I did things many of my classmates didn’t, in that time.

I left Minnesota, I left the United States, I left the Western Hemisphere, and the Northern too.

The funny thing is: I missed some of my classmates.

Tarik, the funny man of my choir days, keeps Minnesota’s air pure.

Dave’s doing great farm work in the Dakotas. Margot is keeping America’s workers safe. Adrienne is helping people achieve their best, and Chad’s keeping the mail moving.

Some of our paths chosen, some chosen for us. But for one weekend, we are together.

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Oh hai thar! It’s a-me! And the school that I used to go to.

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Friday Fictioneers – De Plane! De Plane!

(Author’s note: For lack of a better term, July was hell. Lots of stuff going on, and on top of all of it…I got sick. Hence why I haven’t posted in 3-4 weeks. But I’m back, and here we go!)

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© Ted Strutz

De Plane! De Plane! 

by Miles H. Rost

“I won’t do it!”

“Herv, they love you. Everyone loves you.”

“They think I’m short. A cute doll! The audience…they love Tattoo! They don’t love Herve.”

“What about your fans from the Bond films?”

“Nick Nack! That’s all I’m known as!”

His agent looked at him and shook his head.

“You do realize if you do this event, you’ll be able to help children, right?”

He looked up, and his countenance eased.

“The children want to see Tattoo, Nick Nack, and Herve Villechaize. All together. One package.”

Herve smiled, as he slid off the chair.

“It’s for the children.”

Herve Villechaize, in the earlier days, would visit crime scenes where children were affected, and he would help comfort them. 

 

Friday Fictioneers – Angel In Disguise

(Author’s note: None. It’s Wednesday. Enjoy!)

cloister-roger-b

© Roger Bultot

Angel In Disguise

by Miles H. Rost

Tom looked over the large lawn on the British estate that he stayed at. He was about to turn around when he felt soft, silky hands wrap around his shoulders.

“Tomas, come back to me.”
“But I’m right here.”
“For good.”
“I want to, but…”
“But what?”

She spun him around and pressed herself upon him.

“I need to decide, Sandra. Nashville or you.”
“Why not both? You work for my dad’s business, then work with Nashville remote?”

She made sense. Her Spanish accent added another level to that sense.

“You’re an angel, Sandra.”
“In disguise, non?”

He enveloped her.

RIP Earl Thomas Conley (1941-2019)

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Friday Fictioneers – Hot Rod Hearts

(Author’s note: So, to honor the purchase of my first new vehicle (as in less than 5 years old), I am celebrating while writing something related to transportation. Here we go, enjoy today’s fictioneers…involving someone famous!)

ce3

© C.E.Ayr

Hot Rod Hearts

by Miles H. Rost

“Holy…Jan, is that you?!”

His voice rang across the Hollywood lot, as Jan turned around.

“Robbie?”

“I didn’t know you were here!”

Jan gave him that mischevious smile she always gave.

“Yeah, you did. You see me every Monday at 8.”

“Still…I figured I wouldn’t actually run into you at all.”

She stood tall and confident, the same rebellious spirit Robbie saw in her years ago.

“You know, I still have the motorcycle.”

“That old thing? Still runs?”

“Nah. Lots of memories with it. The shot that launched your career. Remember?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, “It got me to WKRP.”

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Friday Fictioneers – It’s Good To Be King

(Author’s note: I have to apologize to all my readers and others who I should be reading. The last couple weeks dealing with the run-up to winter camp left me with little energy to respond, and that’s all on me. I will be doing better, now that camp has started and I have an idea of what’s going on, to actually visit and remark on other people’s stories.

In the meantime, here’s my fictioneers story, and it’s a bit of a historical thing…)

derelict-building-sandra-crook

© Sandra Crook

It’s Good To Be King

by Miles H. Rost

Steve disliked working at the school. It was not something he wanted to do.

He was waiting for news that seemed to never come. Meanwhile, he had to teach these hormonal girls how to write. It was a Sisyphean task.

When he was called to the office, he thought he was in trouble.

“It’s your wife,” the receptionist said, handing him the phone.

“Tabs, what’s going on?”

“Steve, I just got a telegram.”

“Yeah?”

“They’re going to print. They are asking if $4200 is enough.”

Steve smiled. His work about the kids he taught would be published.

Carrie would be unleashed.

(courtesy of Wikimedia)

(Courtesy of the Boston Globe)

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.)

chicagomg

© 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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