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Friday Fictioneers – Salesman

(Author’s note: It’s rare that I do the same artist twice, but the pictures just throw everything together. Which reminds me, if you haven’t done so already, go on back to my previous story and take a gander. Here’s the second story with music provided by the great Stan Ridgway.)

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© Jean L. Hays

Salesman

by Miles H. Rost

“…and for only $15 a month, you’ll get the package delivered to you with no questions asked. You just need to sign on the line, and it’s all yours.”

“One question, Burt.”

“It’s Brett.”

The customer rolled her eyes. “Brett. One question. Where are we?”

“I don’t understand.”

“What city are we in?”

“Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“What’s the temperature right now.”

Pulling out a “handy dandy thermoguide”, he took a second.

“It’s a balmy 102 degrees.”

“Now tell me, why would I want to buy a space heater when it’s going to be 105 degrees outside?!”

“Throw in an ice maker for free?”

“Deal.”

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Friday Fictioneers – Cruel Summer

(No note. Just right.)

dawn-in-montreal

© Dale Rogerson

Cruel Summer

by Miles H. Rost

“It’s way too hot.”

Midori looked up at the hazy afternoon sky, the big yellow disk broiling the city of Aomori.

The worst summer on record, and Midori couldn’t go out to enjoy it.

“The pool, the arcade, the beach. All my places, and I can’t go.”

She stared up as the sun slowly meandered across the blue carpet, until she heard a knock.

Her dad walked in.

“Honey, wanna go to the pool?”

Midori’s eyes opened wide.

“You bet!”

As she moved her wheelchair, she grabbed her swimsuit from the bed. The pool was fun, even with no legs.

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Friday Fictioneers – Grazin’ In The Grass

(Author’s Notes: None. Write and go, as they say. Enjoy the fictioneers this week!)

 

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© Sarah Potter

Grazin’ In The Grass

by Miles H. Rost

Summer.

Hot and humid, but also quite a beautiful time for listening to music.

I’d spend many hours sitting in the breezeway of my house, listening to the radio and recording the disc jockeys doing their thing. It was something that really inspired me.

It went everywhere I would go, but it always returned to that breezeway, close to where Dad did his accounting work and where he’d grow hot peppers. The music of my youth, the soundtrack of my life.

Until I was sent outside to play by my mom. Then I had to take my music with me.

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Friday Fictioneers: Memories

By Miles Rost

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copyright-managua-gunn

Memories

I remember the day very well.

I was standing at my post, looking out at the rest of the city. It was a warm day, and I sometimes cursed the fact I had to wear such an unappealing uniform on such days.

It was the day when I could do nothing. I stood as a young man drove across the bridge I was facing, and ran over a child.

I wanted to help, I pleaded in my head to help. But I was sworn to a duty to protect this place.

That was the first day when I started to hate my job.