(Author’s Note: One of the primary reasons I haven’t written here in the last little bit has been because I’ve been involved in National Novel Writing Month. I have been spending a lot of energy on writing 50,000 words, in the hopes that I can not only do it, but maybe surpass it and get it into editing (the hard part). I’m inspired, funny enough, by Val McDearmid. She is a good Scottish writer who has had some of her work turned into streaming programs (Britbox’s “Karen Pirie” is the latest). So, I am working my hardest. But, I decided to take some time out today and write here. So here’s today’s work.)
Sound Of Silence
by Miles H. Rost
Marie sat in her chair, working on the same loop of crochet that she’d been working on for the last minute.
Her daughter, Margaret, sat by her with her hand on her knee.
Marie put down her crochet and looked into Margaret’s eyes.
“You don’t know what it’s like. To do something, then forget you already did it.”
Marie smiled sadly, and put her hand on Margaret’s head.
“Time to get back to my crochet work.”
Margaret looked up as her mother picked up her project and started on the same loop, yet again.
(Author’s Note: Things are getting busy at work. It’s starting to go very strange, so I am going to do what I can to get ahead of things. However, I can’t say much more than that. Here we go, it’s Fictioneers day!)
(Author’s Note: Things are stable down here in Melbourne, for the time being. Grades are starting to come in, so we’re waiting to see what happens. Due to my job search, I haven’t have had much time to actually do other writing besides Friday Fictioneers, but I plan to once things get further stabilized. In the meantime, here’s today’s Fictioneers piece.)
The clouds boiled up in the south. The seas were calm, but they would become wild. The man stood near the edge of the craggy sandstone cliff, watching it all unfold.
The first storm of the season was about to hit his small Australian fishing village, and people were getting things ready for the haul that would come in: Felled timber from the western hills, fish from the bay.
“Fiona, you’d be proud of the people you’ve led,” the man said, as he opened the small urn. He tossed the contents into the air, nary a tear being shed.
Apologies for no posts in the last two weeks. Vacation and depression do affect a person. Here’s the latest Fictioneers offering, albeit a couple days late due to birthday stuffs.
copyright Jean L. Hays
by Miles H. Rost
“So this is where it all started?” Marina asked her grandpa.
“Yep. This is where the famous Route 66 got it’s start,” Grandpa responded, with pride.
“Not that, silly! This is where you started your journey, wasn’t it?” the child said, smiling like she was sharing a secret.
“Ah, child. This was the start of my journey. I lived in that brown building back there, and one day I decided to move west. I packed up a ’55 Bel-Air, picked up your grandma in Des Moines, and we made our way to Oregon.”