Friday Fictioneers – A White Sport Coat…

(Author’s note: Hoping to publish some actual stories in the near future. It’s more that right now I just need to survive the next three months at work. Once I get that done with, it’s all better sailing from there. Enjoy my throw back to the past. )

j-hardy-rubble

© J. Hardy Carroll

A White Sport Coat (and a Pink Carnation)

by Miles H. Rost

40 years ago, I met a beautiful young lady named Michelle. We were in an art class at a local community center.

We grew close. We dressed up fashionably, to go out dancing and impress our friends on campus.

After each night of dancing, we’d doff our clothing and work on our art, painting each other in all that God gave us.

I told her that I would love her forever.

40 years later, I have bought the building, the old art hall where we met. The art hall that was destroyed by grenades fired by national guardmen.

The hall where she died.

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Friday Fictioneers – Second Chances

(Author’s Note: Nothing major to report. Just working like I normally do. Enjoy today’s fictioneers, because I think it’s a good one.)

PHOTO PROMPT -© Vijaya Sundaram

Second Chances

by Miles H. Rost

“It’s been nearly 15 years, Rachel.”

“Since?”

“Since I’ve been on a date like this.”

“The last time you were on a rooftop, watching fireworks and drinking mojitos?”

Charles looked at Rachel with a wan smile.

Rachel’s eyes crinkled, looking deep into his face.

They both scooted closer to each other, her head resting on his shoulder.

“The difference this time is that I’m not in the middle of a war zone.”

“Which zone?”

“Kandahar.”

Rachel sighed, her displeasure obvious.

“Does it bother you?”

“Nah. I just miss Kandahar. But, I know I’m safe with my big Marine.”

He smiled, watching the fireworks go off.

Friday Fictioneers – Old Coal Town

(Author’s note: Nothing. I have stuff going on that’s taking up a lot of time. Here’s our stuff.)

© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Old Coal Town

by Miles H. Rost

Abandoned buildings.

The smells of dust, must, and nature filled my nose as I looked at the back of the old broken building. It was a great smell, and something I love coming back to.

Coming back to this place, getting away from the big city, it’s incredible.

And being able to restore something old is a great chance to help the people of the town my father destroyed.

His actions killed the coal town aspect of this town, but I am hoping the fortunes I made in tech will allow this town to become great.

Time to give back what they gave me. Love.

Friday Fictioneers – Life In A Northern Town

Author’s Note: Welcome back for another week. Since the week isn’t over, and tomorrow’s not a busy day, my next major story will hopefully be ready to go. Otherwise, enjoy this tune. For note, the picture below is courtesy of the man who got me blogging again, Mr. David Stewart at the Green Walled Tower

copyright – David Stewart

Life In A Northern Town

by Miles H. Rost

It wasn’t a normal day. The old timers in the band were finishing up their practice a bit later than they should have, and were not really interested in taking time with the stragglers outside the gazebo.

“…but we love your work! We’re your greatest fans!” two young children ran up, getting close to one of the tuba players.

“You’re my grandchildren! Of course you’re gonna be my greatest fans!” the crotchety old tubist replied, trying to get away.

“Lars! Get home this instant, your swedish meatballs are getting cold!” another older woman called, in a near scream.

“I’ll be there in a moment, Helga! Stop breaking the glass!”

Simple life, in a Northern town.

Old and Wise

by Miles Rost

88 years of life gave Emil Jacobson lots of wonderful memories.

He sat in his bed, looking out the window as the dawn started to rise. He couldn’t sleep that night, he knew that he had to write down his thoughts. He was in the last moments of writing his memoirs, “The Long Story of an Ordinary Man”. Emil had many years as a writer, and many years as a father and husband. As he went through his memories, he knew the last things he wanted to write.

To those I’ve left behind in my life, I wanted you to know that you always have shared my deepest thoughts. No matter where I have been in my life, whether it was in the shadows Dongdaemun with my brothers in arms, or in the people around Northridge after the ’94 quake, you follow my life where I go.

He set his pen down again, looking out at the garden below his window. He looked at the pumpkin flowers as they were blooming. He smiled as he saw the autumn winds lightly blowing the leaves on the trees. The tall oak tree that he saw behind the garden was gently swaying its branches in the breeze.

He picked up the cell phone next to his bed and slowly typed a message to someone listed as “Publicist”.

Stop by in a few hours,” he said out loud, with a creaky voice, “The manuscript will be finished. No need for edits. Publish it raw.”

He put down the phone and picked up his pen again. He looked at the brightening sky and smiled. His eyes became bright and glowing.

To those I leave behind, I want you all to know that you’ve always shared my darkest hours, no matter where I’d go. My sons and daughters, you saw me in the darkest of hours. When your mom passed on, when I held that 15 year old girl in my hands as she died in Northridge, when I was hospitalized after my beach house collapsed into the Pacific; you all were there for me, and saw me in the darkness. You lifted me out by just being nearby. For that, I will always be thankful.

He smiled, as he thought of his last sentences. As he thought, his lungs spasmed and he hacked. For a good 10 seconds, he hacked, his old age showing through in each cough.  Even with the coughing, he returned to a smile and he wrote again.

Shadows approached me in this last portion of my life, and I see them surrounding me. My life has been a good one, as I see it now. From being a father and being a news writer, all the way to being the old and wisened man that I am right now, I feel as though I have lived the best life that I could. It is time for the new generation to write their stories, as my generation is finishing. As the final curtain is lifted from my eyes, I can see my life in 20/20 vision. It has been good.

He put his pen down, and breathed lightly on the page. Making sure the ink was dry, he closed the book. He sat back in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chest. As the sun started peeking over the neighbors house and the hills of the small coastal town, he closed his eyes and smiled. He breathed in the air and sighed contently.

He took in one more breath, and the smile from his face slowly started to fade. He grew still and stony. His hands still holding the book on his lap, his body sat like a statue’s.

——-

Emil Jacobson looked down upon his body. He smiled, seeing the completeness of his earthly life for one last moment. He turned his spirit towards the rising dawn and smiled, as he was lifted up above the trees and above the houses. He continued to fly upwards above the earth. With a quickening pace, he flew upwards through clouds and through space. As he flew upwards, the years that were apart of his earthly life started to melt away.

Within what seemed like moments, he stood on a rocky cliff, looking out over a vast ocean. He looked down at himself and saw himself not as the old man that he was, but as a strong built young man.

“Welcome!” he heard someone call from behind. He turned around and looked at another man.

“Is this Paradise?”

The welcoming man looked at him and smiled.

“Emil, welcome to Paradise. Your arrival is the talk of the folk here. Let’s go meet them, eh?”

Emil smiled at Paul, and joined along with him as he walked from the rocky cliff over to other heavenly folk.

He had arrived.

Old

by Miles Rost

“Happy Birthday, Grandpa!”

Gordon “Pete” Stack would normally have been happy to see his grandchildren on this birthday, but he just was not very happy. He had all that he would have needed: a wonderful wife who had been with him for nearly 45 years, three great children who were credits to his family, and now he had a few awesome grandchildren who were becoming grandteenagers.

This day, his 69th birthday, he was just not pleased with anything.

He sat on the porch of his nice estate overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and studied the world. He saw what he remembered and what the world had become, and he was quite displeased by all of it. And it seemed to all land in his mind on this very day.

Two of his grandchildren, 12-year old Sasha and 14-year old Mariska, came out to the porch and sat down on a swinging rocker next to him.

“Grandpa, you don’t seem like you’re very happy to see us today,” Mariska said, looking over at him with concern.

“Bah. It’s not you,” he grumbled, as he shifted his weight in his chair, “I was just thinking back on my life a bit, and seeing where I’ve been. There were many things I missed, but many things that I also took delight in. Those days are gone now.”

“Like what?”

He looked over at them, and it was like someone clicked the detonator on a time-travel bomb.

“Well, let’s see. You have in today’s world some singer who sings like a boy, looks like a girl, and can’t spell beaver right…”

Sasha snorted at this, finding it a little funny.

“You have people who tell you lies and market it as the truth, while the truth from your ancestors becomes lies to be disbelieved…”

Mariska just sighed at this.

“…And you have a bunch of spoiled brats who aren’t willing to take care of their own families, expecting the world to give it all to them, all while they smoke weed. Do you know what I had when I was young?”

Sasha and Mariska looked at him, and leaned forward in anticipation.

“I had great singers like Buddy Holly, and great bands like the Rolling Stones.. The first time I heard “Peggy Sue” I was 12 years old. The Russians had their rocket ships and the war was cold. It was a different age at that time, kids.”

“Really, grandpa?”

Shoot, the first time I ever smoked. Guess what? Paranoid. The  first time I heard “Satisfaction”, I was young and unemployed.”

The kids looked at him like he was from another world, but still fascinated.

“Let me tell you. Things were much different, and in my opinion, much better. We had a lot more of the desire to create and build things. Big things, great things. Now, it’s all small stuff like microchips, processors, and other such junk.”

They looked at him, still riveted to his words.

Down the decades every year, summer leaves and my birthday’s here. Watch, all my friends’ll stand up, cheer, and say ‘Man, you’re old!‘”

Mariska smiled and patted his arm.

“But, Grandpa. You’re not old. You’re just an advanced teenager. You’re still young, you’re just still young with a different time period in your mind.”

Pete finally cracked a smile at this.

“Well, let’s just say that I have some things that your parents don’t know, and I’m willing to give you some of my wisdom. It’ll be my birthday gift to you.”

His smile became a wily grin, as Sasha and Mariska moved closer to hear what he had to say. Just as he was about to say something, one of his old friends started walking up the walkway. He turned his head towards the old friend, grabbed his shotgun, and walked up to the edge of the stairs.

His old friend started to say hello, when Pete yelled at him

Get off my lawn!