(Author’s note: Life is treating me a bit better. Spring has sprung, and so has the mood to write. Here we go, starting with Today’s Fictioneers!)
When Summer Ends
by Miles H. Rost
Looking down the hill, Itaewon Street was packed for a Sunday afternoon.
Clubbers, university students, foreign workers and teachers, all were gathering in this international section of Seoul. A cross-section of Korean society could be found here most weekends.
Nigerian farmworkers and South African university teachers mingle with Koreans, of both South and North varieties, at barbecue shacks. Americans and Canadians milled about, looking for respite from the arduous week of teaching.
This was the place to be on the weekend, to not feel so alone in a foreign culture. A place to belong.
(Writer’s notes: Most of you have seen that my output has been low lately. I’ll make it easy and simple: My work is mentally exhausting. I generally like to write, but when I get home from tough days of figuring out problems, I sometimes don’t have the capability to write. I am working on it for 2020, however, and hope to have more. I definitely have ideas. Here’s today’s fictioneers…)
(Author’s statement: My apologies. Last week’s miss of the Friday Fictioneers was due to having back to back medical treatments and getting home VERY late. So I will try to make up for it this week. Anyhow, here’s today’s fictioneers:)
(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.)
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.
A little note saying sorry for no posts this week. Due to some rather weird health issues, as well as lot of stress, I was in a bad place for a bit. Now that I’m better, however, I am ready to post and have fun with things. Make sure to keep a watch on this site, as you will have more stories coming soon. Now, on with the show!
copyright Renee Heath
Candle On The Table
She was entranced by the music. Elton John was always her favorite.
Hearing him sing “Candle In The Wind” was one of the highlights of her day when she sat down to relax after work. In fact, she played the song so much that she would sing it even at work.
This night, she was so entranced by the song that she didn’t notice what was happening on top of the table on the far wall.
The candle she lit had melted down, and the burning wick slowly fell onto the table. Catching a piece of paper on fire.