Friday Fictioneers – Ice

(Author’s note: Was gone last week, due to issues related to work. I hope to be a bit more consistent when I finally get myself into my own place again, instead of having to drive 45 minutes from work to get home. Anyhow, here’s special music to go along with today’s Fictioneers…)

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© Prior House

Ice

by Miles H. Rost

Another morning, another bucket of ice.

It didn’t matter what happened, Juanita always had to bring a bucket of ice upstairs to her employer’s chambers.

She knocked twice. That usually woke him up.

After a minute, she opened the door to his cavernous bedroom, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. She brought the ice over to the bed, and pulled the comforter off him.

A sea of black, purple, and blue caused her to gasp.

She reached down, trying to wake him up. The moment her fingers hit his skin, she recoiled.

He was as cold as the ice she brought in.

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Friday Fictioneers – King Of Wishful Thinking

(Author’s note: Late on the story tonight. In the middle of cleaning the apartment for the next tenant, and getting all my stuff ready to move out. I hope to have a bit more time coming up to get things done, and to do more with the blog. 

My time in Korea is ending. I will have a celebration post coming up, along with a State of the Blog very soon…likely while waiting for my flight in 2 weeks. Anyhow, enjoy today’s fictioneers.)

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© J.S. Brand

King Of Wishful Thinking

by Miles H. Rost

“What would you do with $10,000,000?”

The longtime fisherman dusted off his hands, and smiled.

“I’d fix this boat up properly, and then take it on a world tour.”

Laughs bubbled from the kids that sat on the dock, watching the old man.

“Your boat won’t go. Hasn’t for two years,” one of the snotty ones remarked.

Henry looked down.

“Sometimes gotta look at reality before experiencing it.”

The kids were silent, as Henry scraped more paint off the keel.

“Can’t work on a boat when your wife is sick, right? King of wishful thinking, y’know.”

They got up and left.

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Friday Fictioneers – Bambou

(Author’s note: I am hoping to be posting more in the upcoming summer season. Especially since I won’t have TV to watch, and hopefully I won’t be tested and tired more than I am already. Enjoy tonight’s music and fiction!)

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© Dale Rogerson

Bambou

by Miles H. Rost

He took in everything from his corner of the bar.

He noticed a man of his size walking into the bar, and beelining towards him.

“So, ‘Hank’, why am I here?” the man asked ‘Hank’.

“It’s my place for meetings.”

“In the middle of the Caribbean? I had to plunk down a chip to get here.”

“You’re wanted for a job.”

The man sat down, his eyes never moving.

“They want you to take a singer out.”

“Out to dinner, a movie?”

“Out.”

“Who’s the singer?”

“Me.”

The man blinked. ‘Hank’ gave him an envelope.

“Do it quickly, please.”

Silence.

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Friday Fictioneers – A White Sport Coat…

(Author’s note: Hoping to publish some actual stories in the near future. It’s more that right now I just need to survive the next three months at work. Once I get that done with, it’s all better sailing from there. Enjoy my throw back to the past. )

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© J. Hardy Carroll

A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation)

by Miles H. Rost

40 years ago, I met a beautiful young lady named Michelle. We were in an art class at a local community center.

We grew close. We dressed up fashionably, to go out dancing and impress our friends on campus.

After each night of dancing, we’d doff our clothing and work on our art, painting each other in all that God gave us.

I told her that I would love her forever.

40 years later, I have bought the building, the old art hall where we met. The art hall that was destroyed by grenades fired by national guardmen.

The hall where she died.

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Friday Fictioneers – Another Place

(Author’s note: I am hoping to do some cleanup and addressing of things in the upcoming future, but I’m unfortunately having to focus some of my off-time to completing the creation of tests and development of school related things. I plan to have an updated “State of the Blog” coming sometime around late April. Otherwise, here’s today’s fictioneers.)

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© Fatima Fakier Deria

by Miles H. Rost

Chengcheng looked up at the mast of her small junk. She knew it wouldn’t get her far.

 

“I must try. If I do not, I die.”

She looked out at the sea and smiled as a seagull took off in flight, exactly in the direction she wanted to go.

“A gull’s wings fly with the wind.”

She slowly moved the junk out into the harbor and along the coast. She figured it would take a day to get to Taiwan, to freedom.

The craft cleared and charted it’s course. It was up to the winds to get her to freedom.

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Friday Fictioneers – Three Of Me

(Author’s note: Starting next week, I will be taking a social media break. It will not impact writing, but contact on Twitter, Gab, and Facebook will be curbed for one month. E-mail will be alright, if you need to. Here’s today’s Fictioneers…)

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© Liz Young

The Three Of Me

by Miles H. Rost

 If you could see what I’ve seen, you’d swear I was not normal.

I’m not.

On one hand, I see like a child. Innocence, virtue, trust, all in one place. One another hand, I see death, vindictiveness, the decay of the world. And on the third hand, the one never seen, there’s pain, deception, and even love.

Every slap a betrayal, every push a declaration of love, every tear a cry for relief and comfort. And each time I am asked the same question: Is it all worth it?

For these children marked from substance abuse: You’re damn right.

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Friday Fictioneers – Whatever Happens

(Author’s note: I will be doing some updates on this Chuseok weekend. I will also post a big personal non-story update, to give people an idea of what’s to come with Music and Fiction. In the meantime, here’s today’s fiction!)

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PHOTO PROMPT © Shaktiki Sharma

Whatever Happens

by Miles H. Rost

 Devon plopped the lump of clay on the wheel.

She cut and removed pieces she didn’t need, like pieces of her life that were unusable. She slowly formed the rounded lump with her hands. Pushing and pulling the clay, smoothing it out with water, she slowly developed it into a shapely, beautiful vase.

She pulled out a brush and some glaze. She pulled out a small tin, and mixed the grey powder into the small jar of glaze. She painted the fired vase, and put it back in for more firing.

The final product stood in the entryway, a tribute to her dearly lost husband, who was now a part of the beautiful vase.

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