(Author’s Note: None. Just enjoy today’s fictioneers! And Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms.)
© Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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)
(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!)
© 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!
(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.)
by Miles H. Rost
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.
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.
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 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.