Friday Fictioneers – You Are The One

(No Author’s Note this time around. Enjoy! ^_^)

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© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

You Are The One

by Miles H. Rost

Arches. Too many arches.

Donna Argento never liked her ancestral home. The arches of the city made her feel like she was being led to slaughter like a lamb.

Until she saw the incredibly handsome man who turned down “Arch Avenue”, for lack of a better word, that is.

She couldn’t stop staring as he disappeared under the first of the 160 arches that comprised the street. And she finally told herself that she had enough.

A few minutes after he turned, Donna started walking after him. She didn’t care what fear might do to her, she was going to get her man, like the mounties!

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Friday Fictioneers – The Bug

(Author’s Note: Getting things ready for a new 1000+ word story for the blog. Thanks to Lisa Young, my colleague here in Korea, who is also doing a story as a two-person challenge. Shapes will be abounding. In the meantime, here’s your Fictioneers.)

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Photo Prompt © Shaktiki Sharma 

The Bug

by Miles H. Rost

“Daisy, I told you that I’m just going to sit up here until someone notices me and screams. Then I’ll fly off.”
“Trent, realize that you’re a mantis wasp. People will be afraid, but you’re going to get smacked.”
“Bah. I’m big and people don’t smack big things around. They just run like crazy and we get our jollies off of them.”
“You’re gonna get killed. I’m not watching this. I’m outta here.”
“But wait, Daisy…”

Trent looked out at the people in the temple.

“Oh well, looks like I’ll just have to…”

Crunching was the last sound he heard.

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Friday Fictioneers – Taking This Town (Again?!)

(Author’s note: Hidiho, neighbors! Currently training my replacement in anticipation of a new position coming up. In the meantime, doing my duty with putting a Fictioneers up. This one reuses music that I’ve used before, but I think it’s appropriate. Enjoy!)

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© C.E. Ayr

Taking This Town (Again?!?!)

by Miles H. Rost

 Melbourne.

City of culture, finance, and interest.

The 20 students snuck in overnight, flying into Tullamarine Airport, looking like smiling tourists. They walked past immigration, past the taxis, onto the nearest train platform. They smiled as they got on, and in unison, looked out the window.

As the trains eventually pulled into the Southern Cross Yards, each of the students looked towards a blonde haired girl with Chinese features.

“We have been selected for a great future. We are the future of Australia’s education.”

The train slowed to a stop.

“Time to take this town, girls!”

They rushed out the doors, onto unsuspecting businessmen and college registrars.

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5 Steps

5 Steps
a mini-fiction story by Miles H. Rost

 20150809_132610Picture ©Miles H. Rost

5 steps. Two platforms.

That’s all it is. You tell yourself that as you walk around the corner. Looking up in the midnight sky, there it sits. It calls to you, beckons you to cross underneath it’s latticed metal and rusted rails. The area underneath is totally dark. Very few lights behind you, and in front of you, if any at all.

You’ve taken a deep breath, imagined this moment for a long time. The time when you would have to cross underneath this potential death trap. The red staining on the rails, mixed with the gray metal, reminds you of a mouth with teeth full of silvery-gray fillings. Decayed teeth coming down upon the jaw of the ground awaiting the tiny morsel of sustenance that is you.

You’ve put your foot in front of you, the sound of your foot landing on the paving stones echoing down the seemingly long corridor. The sweat on your forehead is starting to rain down lightly upon the bridge of your nose. A bridge, not unlike that of the rails that are threatening to consume you, heart and soul.

Getting up your last milliliter of courage, you quicken your steps and blaze quickly down the brick-lined tunnel of buildings. You look up at the grey and red metal steps, the five steps in between two platforms, those steps that you think will be eating you momentarily. As you pass under, you look forwards to the other side and you see what looks to be freedom.

At last, you reach the corners of the building. You’re made it past the gauntlet, the metal mouth has not eaten you this day. You breathe a sigh of relief as you turn to your right. That is when you realize the horror is just beginning.

You have now stumbled upon a maze of paths, with jungle-like trees in the middle of it, the door of safety that you have to reach so far away. As you look at the next task at hand, the many possibilities of danger flood into your mind like meat into the mouth of a velociraptor, which may be in those trees there.

Don’t Answer Me

Don’t Answer Me
by Miles Rost

The screech of a car horn right outside the window barely made Daisy flinch.

In the small ground level apartment, she sat on a bed. With her arms around her legs, she sighed with hesitation. She didn’t look up from her pajama-covered legs, focusing only on all the feelings she held inside of her.

All of the feelings she had bubbled up from the reserves that were stuck in her system over the last week. Combine that with a combination of heat, losing people she loved, and a new job that was incredibly laborious, the cocktail of stress caused her to break.

She pulled her legs closer, feeling the weight of her loneliness and isolation. She wanted to go and meet people, but she was in an isolated area of the city, far from the other people like her. The feeling made her turn inward, thinking of what she lost when she left her old location.

As her long, apple-colored hair touched her knees, she saw her cell phone light up on the counter. The telltale sound of her ringtone chimed through the largely empty apartment.

Don’t answer me
Don’t break the silence, Don’t let me win
Don’t answer me
Stay on your island, Don’t let me in
Run away and hide from everyone
Can you change the things we’ve said and done…

It repeated, one of her favorite songs suddenly turning into her biggest tormentor. She felt a tear fall down her face as the words hit her hard. One right after another, like the start of a waterfall as winter becomes spring. She let it ring, as she felt those emotions build up even more with each tear that fell.

The phone rang again, the same lyrics resounding around her head.

Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!, she cried in her head, trying to block out the sound. Finally, after the third time the phone rang, she picked it up.

“Hello?” she said, stifling a sniffle.

“Hey! Daisy! It’s Barb. You okay, child?” her friend Barb replied. A southern belle through and through, and her genteel nature was one of the reasons her and Daisy were able to be good friends.

“I’m living.”

“And I can tell that you’re not doing very well. Your sadness is showing. Care to have a friend to talk to here?”

It was no use. Daisy couldn’t hold it in any longer. Through wracked sobs and screams, she relayed everything she felt at that time. She laid out all the fear, the feelings of isolation, the disappointment, and all of the other feelings. For 30 long minutes, she talked to her, putting it out there for one of her long-time friends.

After a few moments of silence and breathing, Daisy gave a long sigh.

“Felt good to get that out, didn’t it, child?”

“Yeah, it felt good. I just don’t have people down here to deal with, that would share experiences with me.”

“Aw, sugah, do you remember when you met me? Remember how you thought I was a bit weird cause I was from the south?”

Daisy put her palm to her forehead, as she remembered the first thing she said to Barb.

“Anyhow, child, remember something. No matter how far we may be from each other, you can always talk to me. And don’t forget your other friends back here, too. The pastor, Jimmy, and even Pele the gardener are always here to talk with ya.”

Daisy smiled, the first smile she had shown to people in a week. As she kept talking, the tears of pain and sadness, hurt and all other feelings, turned to happiness, relief, and joy. She was very thankful for her friend, and she was incredibly grateful that she was there…even if she was going to be going home soon.

(for David Stewart, one of my great friends who has helped me on one of the biggest transitions I’ve had to deal with. Ever.)

Poor Boy Long Way From Home

Poor Boy Long Way From Home
by Miles Rost

I found myself in a strange land.

The night before, I was just putting my head down to sleep comfortably on my pillow, dreaming of when I would travel the world and be a beach bum.

I woke up to find myself in a strange land, where the smell of fermented food accented the air and the sounds of crazy drivers screeching their tires on the street as they drove like wildmen.

I got out of my bed, and found that I was already dressed in a nice shirt, a pair of jeans, my tennis shoes. You know, the usual dress for a guy like me. I decided that I was going to go for a walk, but when I opened the door, I didn’t see a hallway to an apartment, or an entry. I saw…classrooms.

I walked down the hallway with classroom doors, and I found one with my name on it. Curious, I opened the door to see what awaited me. It was a man, a few years younger than me but who looked strangely like myself.

“Ah, good! You have arrived! I was hoping that you weren’t going to be delayed by any issues. So all you need to know for this job is to keep the kids happy, teach them something educational for a bit of time, then play with them the rest.”

I looked at this young punk with a strange look and my face twisted into a mark of frustration and worry.

“Job? What job? I’m supposed to be awake and working on my applications for college.”

“Oh, aren’t you the guy who signed up to teach a whole bunch of students who may not really care about you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Well, here you are. You get to do the job, because I have to catch my flight out,” he said, as he put the clipboards and the colored pencils in my hand. He grabbed a big rucksack, put it on his back and started out the door.

“By the way, your class starts in five minutes. Have fun with the elementary kids!”

I looked at him, incredulously, as I saw him trundle away to a waiting elevator. As the elevator door closed, my classroom door also slammed shut. I tried to open it, but there was no escape.

“Teacher! Teacher! English-ee!”

I looked behind me and saw a great number of students rushing into the classroom, all of them screaming “English-ee”.

There was nothing I could do. I am now their teacher. A teaching monkey. Lord help me.

Friday Fictioneers – Open The Door

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Open The Door

*bang bang bang*

“Carole, why won’t you open the door?”

“I don’t want to come out! I’m scared!”

“Scared of what?”

“I’m scared of what the world will do to me?”

“Honey, that was 15 years ago. The people who accused you of the crime have long since left the area.”

“But everyone else is still there!”

“Sweetie, if you don’t come out of there, I will have to come in and get you.”

“You don’t want to do that, James. You could be the next one.”

“Carole, I made you a werewolf. What could you do to me?”

“I could have your litter…”