Friday Fictioneers – The Icehouse

(Author’s note: Bronchitis, a cracked wrist that will soon be able to be out of splint permanently, and lots of work to do before winter camp next month. All of it is making me go crazy and want to get my vacation week that much sooner. Anyhow, here’s today’s fictioneers.)

 

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© Dale Rogerson

The Icehouse

by Miles H. Rost

“Winter is coming, Aunt Miranda.”

“I know.”

“You know that I have a place open for you in Coos Bay. It may not be warm, but it’ll be better than this place.”

Miranda brushed her slightly graying hair off her face.

“I know. But, I am going to stay. If my Keith comes back, where is he going to go?”

“But Uncle Keith is M.I.A. I don’t know if he will come back. At least if we get news, we can guide him to our home.”

“Thank you, child. But I’ll wait for him.”

Icicles started forming on the tree.

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Friday Fictioneers – Waiting In My Dreams

(Author’s Note: Dealing with a sinus infection, headache related to, and all this other jazz. Forgive me if things seem a bit off.)

 

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©Peter Abbey

Waiting In My Dreams

The pathway was dark, surrounding me with the litter of my mind. Things said, things written. At the end, I saw a solitary man.

“Let me through,” I said.
“You didn’t do things right this time,” the man said
“Want to make a bet?”

I pulled out my tazer and made him ride the lightning. After a good 10 second jolt, I stepped back and waited.

He didn’t move an inch.

“I am not afraid of you,” I said defiantly.
“Probably not. But you’re still not getting through.”
“Why?”
“Not your time yet.”
“Then I’m sitting here until my time comes.”

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Friday Fictioneers – Cold River

(Author’s note: Nothing major. Still toiling on 10,000 words. Work’s getting in the way. Here’s today’s fictioneers.)

PHOTO PROMPT – © – Georgia Koch

Cold River

by Miles H. Rost

The winter came early for the people of Charleston-upon-Avonlea. Bitter cold came in mid-September, unannounced.

By early October, the river Avonlea had frozen over. 4 of every 10 people got supplies.

November came quickly, and the cold persisted. The river seemed to be nearly frozen solid. Attempts to do some ice fishing came up with very little except more ice.

The people were so used to doing their own thing, they didn’t ask for any sort of help from other places. They didn’t know how.

By the time the soft rains of April showed up, there was no one left alive. Even as the bustling village of Newport, 7 kilometers away, went about it’s own business.