(Author’s Note: None. Just enjoy today’s fictioneers! And Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms.)
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
by Miles H. Rost
The park was full of them. Each and every one of them a precious life.
It was always this way after the first warm-up of the season. Kids in their sweatshirts and jeans were playing. It was great for us adults to see.
I just turned onto 45th when the sun blazed between the two large buildings ahead. I squinted and got my visor down as quickly as possible.
That’s when I heard the thump.
Then the screams.
I stopped my car immediately, got out, and looked behind me.
She wore orange that day. I didn’t see her.
She was 12.
R.I.P. Roberto Concina (aka Robert Miles)
As per normal again, Friday Fictioneers! Here’s my contribution, after nearly 3 long months of rest and agonizing over grad school applications:
copyright – Douglas MacIlroy
Bright lights shone across the sky.
The beam blasted from the tower into the room of one Marc Lavagneur, paparazzi extraordinaire and general pain in the butt.
“Gah! Can’t they just stop with the light already? I get the picture!” he yelled out the window.
He walked over to his phone and dialed up a number he never wanted to call.
“Hello? Creative Arts Agency? This is Marc Lavagneur. I give up. I’m done.”
The light stayed on.
“AND TELL LONI ANDERSON TO CLOSE HER MOUTH! IT’S BLINDING ME!”
The light suddenly went off.