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Friday Fictioneers – To Live And Die In L.A.

(Author’s note: You probably noticed that I was absent for the last couple weeks. One reason was because I turned 39, and celebrated my birthday in Los Angeles. I got to see sights, have a great time, and do a lot of different things. The other reason was because I was in the middle of a big move, and didn’t have internet at the new place until I was on vacation. So now that I’m back, let’s have some good fictioneers work.)

dales-broken-door

© Dale Rogerson

To Live And Die In L.A. 

by Miles H. Rost

One cop car in Canyon Park was routine.

Seven meant someone wasn’t coming home to their family.

Three officers looked over and made sketches of the deceased, the massive hole that showed a liquefied heart and a half-torn stomach.

Two officers sat with a grandmother, uncontrollably sobbing, crying out “I’m sorry” in Korean. Nearby her, in another officer’s hands, a .223 rifle.

Three more officers are chatting with the medical examiner, who had taken one look at the body and motioned for the gurney.

Two officers stood by a police line, making sure reporters and their ilk didn’t get through.

Grief.

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Friday Fictioneers – Ice

(Author’s note: Was gone last week, due to issues related to work. I hope to be a bit more consistent when I finally get myself into my own place again, instead of having to drive 45 minutes from work to get home. Anyhow, here’s special music to go along with today’s Fictioneers…)

 

dinner-table-prior

© Prior House

Ice

by Miles H. Rost

Another morning, another bucket of ice.

It didn’t matter what happened, Juanita always had to bring a bucket of ice upstairs to her employer’s chambers.

She knocked twice. That usually woke him up.

After a minute, she opened the door to his cavernous bedroom, overlooking the Pacific Ocean. She brought the ice over to the bed, and pulled the comforter off him.

A sea of black, purple, and blue caused her to gasp.

She reached down, trying to wake him up. The moment her fingers hit his skin, she recoiled.

He was as cold as the ice she brought in.

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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 – Sounds Of Silence

(Author’s Note: None! I am back to life, back to the writer’s gallery. I have 13 more months in Korea. Let’s celebrate with a story!)

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© Roger Bultot

Sounds of Silence

by Miles H. Rost

It was a shock to the Garbarthian space crew when they heard nothing.

For 27 earth years, they were able to study and learn about its inhabitants and the various strange things that were around them. They had gone to sleep on the eve, waiting to see what would come.

There was no sound that next morning. Nor the morning after. They heard faint horns, faint chatter, but the small cactus they used as their listening device heard nothing.

For 11 days, they heard nothing. They went back into the playback to hear the last moment.

*click* BANG! *click* BANG!

Nothing more.

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Friday Fictioneers – Fellowship Hall

(Author’s note: I am currently in the beginning stages of transition from Australia to my next assignment, which will be in…I actually do not know where. We’ll see what happens. Here’s today’s Fictioneers offering, again not based on a true story.)

 

©Roger Bultot

Fellowship Hall

by Miles H. Rost

20 years.

Everyone was finally together. All 85 of Mitchell High School’s class of 1995. And the stories were flying.

“Do you remember Joan Snart? Apparently, she’s directing adult films in Hollywood.”
“Can’t be anything like my ex-boyfriend, Russell Graves. He’s the undercarriage cleaner for Greyhound in Seattle.”

The laughter was palpable, and the stories continued. That was, until the name was brought up.

“Anyone heard from Brian McLaurence?”

The entire place had become silent at that instant. The class looked at each other, and bowed their heads.

“Robbery,” someone said, “I was on duty. I found him. Died on scene.”

A sniffle started the flow of tears in the room.

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So Far Away – Friday Fictioneers

Welcome back for another Friday Fictioneers set. If you haven’t already read the latest (and according to some, my best) Mayumi story so far, please go check out “We All Sleep Alone”

*Author’s Note: Some have been having trouble seeing the video. If you are having trouble, go to Youtube, and look up “So Far Away” by Dire Straits. You’ll get the feelin’.

copyright Jan Wayne Fields

So Far Away

by Miles Rost

Everything was ready on the table.

Danny got home from work, and expertly prepared a beautiful crown roast of lamb, with mint sauce, lightly fried potatoes, and thin-sliced green beans. All of her favorites.

He set the table with the good plates, the excellent glasses, and everything. His crowning achievement of making dinner, a big one, was complete.

He looked out the window towards the street, the patio bereft of life. He looked out the window for a long time.

It was after about 30 minutes of looking that he realized he was eating alone for the night.

His beautiful wife, his love, would not be making it home for dinner.

Ever.

 

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Friday Fictioneers – The Letter

I’m back, though still at limited action for a short bit of time. I will be up fully this week when I can pull my head away from other things.

copyright- Jan Wayne Fields

The Letter

The young lady looked at the paper in front of her. She sighed, as she pushed the chair away from the old desk. Putting the quill back in the ink well, she stood and grabbed her bag that was sitting off to the side.

She expected that her husband would read the letter and get the message. She wanted to get away from the boring nature of life, and this would give some excitement.

She waited for his phone call. And waited. And waited.

She waited a year, and finally said no more. She entered the house, and walked to the study. Her husband lay on the floor, a pool of blood under his head, dried blood on the corner of the small table.

The letter was untouched.