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Friday Fictioneers – Gloria

(Author’s note: I was off for a month. I’ll be honest, work got hectic and things just got really buggery. I am happy to be back, though, as today the weariness has been removed (with a change of case.) Here’s today’s fictioneers!)

© Anne Riga

Gloria

by Miles H. Rost

A vinyl record careened by Luigi Binalli’s nose.

Hearing a commotion, Binalli had entered the radio studio to see the great Giuseppi “Gus” Lombardo frisbee The Eagles Greatest Hits album against the wall.

“Stupid Americans!” Gus spat, while shattering a copy of Chic’s “Good Times”.

“Gus! Why are you destroying our records?!”
“They stole our songs! They took Tozzi’s song and ruined it!”
“They’re making Italy’s music world known!”
“They’re destroying it! Can they not leave our music alone?!”
“Not if Tozzi’s getting royalties.”

Gus’s eyes grew wide, as he threw a Donna Summer record at him.

“You’re fired, Gus.”

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Friday Fictioneers – I’ll Wait

(Author’s note: A lot of my delays between weeks has usually been due to either busyness or other items. I’m hoping things will get better, but until at least November, it likely will not. I’ll do the best I can, though. Here’s today’s offering!)

© Sandra Crook

I’ll Wait

by Miles H. Rost

Fabrizio grimaced as he started cleaning the remains of Hurricane Belinda.

A large storm, she threw the nests of seaweed up in front of his restaurant. He knew if he didn’t get it done, it’d stink up the neighborhood.

“Fabrizio! Where have you been?” she called out, Fabrizio jumping at her voice.
“I need to clean this up. I need to open so I can help people.”
“But what about our promised night out?”
“Do you want to help me clean this up in your Chuta Gabrola?”

Marina’s eyes grew wide, as his suggestion sunk in.

“I’ll wait.”
“Thought so.”

RIP Eddie Van Halen (1955-2020)

Friday Fictioneers – One More River
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Friday Fictioneers – One More River

(Author’s note: It’s hot. It’s sweltery. It’s insanely weird outside. And there are thunderstorms on the way. All I can say is…time to write!)

One More River

by Miles H. Rost

Sweat.

It got in Giuseppi’s eyes, down his striped shirt, and soaked through his beret.

He made sure none of it got on the bottles of milk he was ferrying. One last bridge, one last load, then homeward.

He saw the dock, and started to guide his gondola over.

“LOOK OUT!”

Giuseppi looked to his right, in time to see a yacht twice his size ram him, cutting clean through the gondola.

Shock. Fear. Anger.

He glared at the yacht, grabbed a bottle of milk that hadn’t sunk, and chucked it at the yacht.

He went down with all the milk.

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