disbelief

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Friday Fictioneers – Rose Colored Glasses

(Author’s note: I had some family issues pop up in the last couple weeks, and when it comes to family, I will always give focus to them. Here’s today’s fictioneers…)

© Roger Bultot

Rose Colored Glasses

by Miles H. Rost

“I have a great life where I’m working, living, and being,” Goro said, putting on his hat.

“You’re in a camp house. You can only walk at certain times of the day. You have to be given tests,” Miyoko spat, disgusted.

“I have to have this attitude. If I don’t, I don’t survive. At least I can give everyone something to think about.”

“You let them treat you like good little cattle. They took us from San Francisco to here. They don’t care.”

“Miyoko, I know. I’m not wearing rose colored glasses. But, to help them, I’ll do what I do.”


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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 – Kashmir (Sweater)

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© Bjorn Rydberg

Kashmir (Sweater)

by Miles H. Rost

Mark lifted his head up from his book, as he heard the sweet sounds of a cello waft over him. Within the confines of the coffee shop, this was a perfect sound at a perfect moment.

He looked around and spied the young cellist, wearing a beautiful white cashmere cable-knit sweater and a flowing brown skirt. She looked up at him through garnet-rimmed glasses and strands of wavy brown hair, smiling.

“So, I finally got your attention.”

“Cindy? Why did you want my attention?”

“You told me you didn’t like cellos. They didn’t rock.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m here to prove they can.”

The first strains of Led Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” rose from the cello, and Mark instantly knew he was going to eat humble pie.

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