Friday Fictioneers

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Friday Fictioneers – You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet

Merry Christmas from Music and Fiction. More stories to come in the next couple weeks!

 

© Scott VanNatter

You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet

by Miles H. Rost

“Now, Bobsie, stay out of the tree.”

My cat, the little furchild named Bobsie, looked at me with a blank state, before finally meowing. I took that to be a sign of acceptance, as I started wrapping my gifts.

I didn’t want a repeat of last year’s tree debacle, so I kept one eye on elusive Bobsie and one of my tape dispenser.

Things went swimmingly after that, until I finished with the last present, and threw the empty wrapping paper tube to the side.

I watched Bobsie leap from the table, catch the tube in mid-air, then cannonball straight into the tree. Half of the ornaments dropped, one or two cracking.

He found his way into the tree, and I am the one getting in trouble for it with my girlfriend, who just arrived home.

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Friday Fictioneers – Brimstone

(Author’s Note: I am currently working on some new story-work to add to the blog, outside of the Fictioneers realm, but complications with real life have decided to take over and cause issues. So I am not sure when I’ll be putting up more original longer-form work. But, give it time, and I’ll be able to have more for my audience to peruse. In the meantime, here’s a work that I hope gives you some peace over this holiday season.)

 

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Brimstone

by Miles H. Rost

“Mom! Come here!”
“What is it?” Mom asked her son, as he looked out the kitchen window.
“Look at the sky!”
“It’s beautiful, honey, but we see the sky all the time.”
“But Mom, look at the color! Don’t you remember what Brian told us?”
She thought back to when her eldest son was still at home.
“When the sky looks like brimstone, you know I’m on my way.”
She smiled, as she heard a familiar sound roll into the driveway, the exhaust of an old 1975 Harley.
“He kept his promise.”
She smiled, as she walked into the living room, awaiting her eldest son’s first hug in 8 years.

 

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Friday Fictioneers – Sour Girl

(Author’s Note: Things can change in a week. Currently, I am waiting for my visa number to be issued. Upon that, I apply for a visa and head back to teach students in Korea yet again. I will likely be gone by the end of December and starting to teach at the beginning of January. So, I will be back to writing lots of newer stories, along with writing other things that won’t be published here. Today, we have another fictioneers event that seems like it’ll be quite fun.)

© Luther Siler

Sour Girl

by Miles H. Rost

The crunch awoke Paul from a dead slumber. Grumbling, he walked down stairs. He nearly reached the bottom when he froze.

“Dad!”

Paul looked into his 16 year old daughter’s face, surprised that she found his old college mascot costume.

“Charity! How did you get that?”
“I found it. Now tell me about this!”
“Well, I went to a local college here. You know it as the big university now. Our mascot was a yellow chicken. I did this to help pay for my tuition.”

Charity flipped her hand, knowing there was more.

“It was also the costume I wore when I first met your mom.”
“And there we have it.”
“She didn’t like it. She was a sour girl the day that she met me…”
“And how many years now?”
“19 wonderful years…”


(R.I.P. Scott Weiland)

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Friday Fictioneers – Fellowship Hall

(Author’s note: I am currently in the beginning stages of transition from Australia to my next assignment, which will be in…I actually do not know where. We’ll see what happens. Here’s today’s Fictioneers offering, again not based on a true story.)

 

©Roger Bultot

Fellowship Hall

by Miles H. Rost

20 years.

Everyone was finally together. All 85 of Mitchell High School’s class of 1995. And the stories were flying.

“Do you remember Joan Snart? Apparently, she’s directing adult films in Hollywood.”
“Can’t be anything like my ex-boyfriend, Russell Graves. He’s the undercarriage cleaner for Greyhound in Seattle.”

The laughter was palpable, and the stories continued. That was, until the name was brought up.

“Anyone heard from Brian McLaurence?”

The entire place had become silent at that instant. The class looked at each other, and bowed their heads.

“Robbery,” someone said, “I was on duty. I found him. Died on scene.”

A sniffle started the flow of tears in the room.

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Friday Fictioneers – I Am A Rock

(Author’s Note: Things are stable down here in Melbourne, for the time being. Grades are starting to come in, so we’re waiting to see what happens. Due to my job search, I haven’t have had much time to actually do other writing besides Friday Fictioneers, but I plan to once things get further stabilized. In the meantime, here’s today’s Fictioneers piece.)

Photo Caption © Sandra Crook

I Am A Rock

by Miles H. Rost

(Not based on a true event or story)

The clouds boiled up in the south. The seas were calm, but they would become wild. The man stood near the edge of the craggy sandstone cliff, watching it all unfold.

The first storm of the season was about to hit his small Australian fishing village, and people were getting things ready for the haul that would come in: Felled timber from the western hills, fish from the bay.

“Fiona, you’d be proud of the people you’ve led,” the man said, as he opened the small urn. He tossed the contents into the air, nary a tear being shed.


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Friday Fictioneers – Do What You Do

(Author’s note: There’s a lot of things going on, and my production of fiction hasn’t been very productive because of other factors. I shall have more stuff up soon, but at this time, all I am able to do is Fictioneers stuff. To which, here’s today’s offering.)

 

© C.E. Ayr

Do What You Do
by Miles H. Rost

“So, I noticed that you came in with only one shoe. What happened?”

Bridget Moroney bit her lip as the question hit her with full force. It was the one question she didn’t want to answer.

“Well, I was rushing to get here, and a man pushed me out of the way. My foot stepped onto a drain grate and the heel got stuck. I couldn’t pull it out.”

“Did you think of breaking off the heel?” the interviewer asked, her voice in disbelief.

“It wouldn’t have done much good. So I just took off my other shoe and walked the rest of the way here.”

“Where did you walk from?”

“56th and Broadway.”

The interviewer’s eyes bugged out.

“You’re hired.”

 

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Friday Fictioneers – I’m Not Home

(Author’s notes: Sorry for not being as productive lately. It’s been a really tough time here in the land down under, and because of all that’s going on, my attention has been on getting myself stable, then getting myself out of here. I want to thank each and every one of you for reading my stories the last two weeks and giving me great feedback. You all make me so proud. Here is today’s fictioneers story.) 

 

© J. Hardy Carroll

I’m Not Home

by Miles H. Rost

Heidi Markham glared at her mother.

“We’ve been coming to Dad’s grave for 14 years. I’m about to graduate. You never told me what happened to him.”
“I guess it is that time,” her mother sighed, sitting down next to the flat gravestone, “Your dad came back from the Gulf, and he wasn’t right. But he always told me he was, so I didn’t say much about it.”

Heidi slowly knelt down by her Mom.

“He never told anyone. He never told me!”

She started to sob. Heidi hugged her, tears flowing down her face.

“He was too stubborn to ask for help, and he took his life. He never truly made it home.”

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Friday Fictioneers – Heart Of Glass

(Author’s note: Greetings and meetings! Exams are over for me, and that means I’ll be posting a lot more as time goes along this month. Excellence will come this month. Besides that, last week’s offering was the best by far. 98 unique views within 1 week. Excellent job, readers! Keep up the good work! Here’s today’s Fictioneers offering!)

Heart Of Glass

by Miles H. Rost

“Found one!”

Maizie walked down the dirt path, and crouched down.

“What did you come up with, Trish?”
“Must have been an old Heeregard hospital. Take a look.”

Maizie picked up the small tube that was on the ground. She clinked it against a piece of metal and sighed. She knew exactly what the place was, and it was not good news for the explorers.

“Not a hospital. A burial ground.”
“Heeregard?”
“Nah. Broken-hearted New Humans. As they die, their hearts turn to glass.”
“Seriously?!”
“What you found was an aorta. Let’s go.”

Trish looked up, quizzically

“I’m not staying around for the ghosts of the lonely…” Maizie flatly stated, as she turned around to leave.

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Friday Fictioneers – I Will Remember You

(Author’s note: Well, exams are coming to an end. I will be able to do some new fiction in the very near future, and am preparing a few stories for publication on this blog. In the meantime, I am attempting to fundraise to start my full Master’s program here at the University of Melbourne. If anyone is interested, go ahead and visit my GoFundMe page, so you can contribute. Here’s today’s offering for Friday Fictioneers.)

© Dale Rogerson

I Will Remember You

by Miles H. Rost

Pete Meyer shut down the fan boat, as he traveled through the Everglades.
“Hey, Berkeley! Look over here.”
Berkeley Bryant turned his head to the swampland and stared.
“That’s a pipe. And it’s not an irrigation one.”
They slowly moved the boat over to the pipe, and attempted to pull it up. Taking 20 minutes to do so, they finally wrenched it out of the slop.
“What type of pipe?”
Berkeley looked down, blinked, and looked out amongst the swamp.
“Fuel intake for a DC-9.”
“DC-9? Wasn’t that…”
Berkeley took off his hat, and put it on his heart.
“It was.”

Valujet Flight 592 – Crashed May 11, 1996

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Friday Fictioneers – They Rage On

(Author’s note: Exam week and essay week is coming next week. That means I may have new stories to put on my blog. I’m not sure, however, due to the X factor of a new job and timeframe. So, here’s to seeing what comes. Otherwise, here’s today’s Friday Fictioneers piece!)

©Ron Pruitt

They Rage On

by Miles H. Rost

Diana Cheung looked around, and quickly boarded the bus.
“Dee! Over here!”
In the middle, next to the window, was her man. She smiled, and rushed to the open seat next to him.
“Did anyone see you?” he asked her.
“No. If they did, they aren’t coming.”
Her beau sighed with relief, as she laid her head on his shoulder.
“Are we going to be safe, honey?”
“Once we leave this town, we’ll be fine.”
She looked up at him, a tear falling.
“Was it our fault?”
“No. Love is not our fault.”
He looked out the window as the bus pulled away, the light reflecting off his pale skin.