R.I.P.

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Friday Fictioneers – Sharp Dressed Man

(Author’s note: Post-trip, work’s been crazy. Hence why I haven’t been on here. But I’m back for today. And here’s today’s fictioneers)

© Roger Bultot

Sharp Dressed Man

by Miles H. Rost

“I met her at one of the writing club’s outings.”

Delvin adjusted his tie, making sure that it was straight and neat.

“She had interesting ideas about characters, and I wanted to find out more. So we’re going out tonight.”

Delvin turned from the mirror and presented himself to his sister.

“You look good. Getting older, but looking good,” she said, while crossing one of her stitches.

“If we’re going to go see a nice play, I want to shine.”

“If you wanted to shine, you’d have shaved and polished your head.”

Delvin stifled a chortle.

“I’m gonna use that.”

RIP Dusty Hill of ZZ Top. 72 years young, on the way to La Grange.

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Friday Fictioneers – Children

(Author’s Note: None. Just enjoy today’s fictioneers! And Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms.)

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© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Children

by Miles H. Rost

The park was full of them. Each and every one of them a precious life.

It was always this way after the first warm-up of the season. Kids in their sweatshirts and jeans were playing. It was great for us adults to see.

I just turned onto 45th when the sun blazed between the two large buildings ahead. I squinted and got my visor down as quickly as possible.

That’s when I heard the thump.

Then the screams.

I stopped my car immediately, got out, and looked behind me.

She wore orange that day. I didn’t see her.

She was 12.

R.I.P. Roberto Concina (aka Robert Miles)

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Friday Fictioneers – Kicks

Took last week off because, after the September from Hell that was unleashed upon me, I needed a bit of a break. Now, I’m back to doing what I do, and hopefully will be less tired and do more other writings. Here’s the latest Fictioneers story for y’all:

copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Kicks
by Miles Rost

“I know it doesn’t look pretty, but we’ll do fine with what we have.”

Paul and Mark looked around at the studio, and smiled.

“We don’t care. We’ve got some ideas, and the studio will be fine.”

Mark looked over at the engineers, and pursed his lips.

“Just curious, why didn’t we get the normal studio?”

The engineers smiled.

“Apparently, the last folk that were in the studio,” he chuckled as he relayed what he saw, “They smoked it up in there.”

“Weed?”

“Heroin.”

Paul shook his head.

“Those kicks just keep getting harder to find, man.”

Mark smiled, as he looked at the sheet of music in front of him…

“Seems appropriate…”

R.I.P. Paul Revere (1938-2014)