100 Word Song-Slippin’ Into Darkness

the-dark-plantation-james-christopher-hillHands tied and pulled above me. My back freshly shredded from 100 lashes. Cicadas sang their summer song while blood seeped from my wounds. Fireflies burnished the fields where I would never toil again. Soaked in blood, sweat and piss, I quietly prayed for the peace of impending death.

From the Big House, my Master finally came. His sharp knife slid across my jugular and it was done. I slipped into darkness, taking with me the name my mother gave me. His task complete, Master strolled back to his porch. By gaslight he poured his whiskey, and enjoyed a hand-rolled smoke.

Robot-Badge

Thank you Lance Burson for hosting the 100 word song prompt. You rock my friend! You really, really, really do. I’m honored you asked me to contribute the song for this week.

People, go read his work. He’s fabulous!!!

Friday Fictioneers-The Writer, Pen and Paper in Hand

anelephantcant

“The good writers touch life often. The mediocre ones run a quick hand over her. The bad ones rape her and leave her for the flies.” 
Ray BradburyFahrenheit 451

The writer, pen and paper in hand observes his surroundings and creates worlds that others would never see.

To the left, the brown chairs become mahogany settees. The cane design splitting apart after being left in the summer sun far too long.

To the right, three strangers become old mates sharing a pint. They celebrate in the brutal heat. One of them is getting married, to a woman with burgundy hair and eyes the color of emeralds.

The writer’s bike is black but otherwise nondescript. After removing the lock, he pedals off. Searching for more inspiration, and far greater stories.

100 words/Genre: General Fiction (I think)

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Criticisms and kudos are most welcome. Bring it on my loves, bring it on.

Friday Fictioneers-The Cellist

sandra-crook

Copyright-Sandra Crook

A cellist sits across the street from a bike sculpture. His cotton shirt and skin are drenched with sweat.  He caresses the bow across the strings of his battered instrument. Belly held like that of his beloved. What emits from the instrument is a haunting refrain. One fraught with an ache so deep even the bystanders feel it. In the heat, they are enraptured and transported to an orchestra hall.  Somehow, the summer air turns cool from imagined air conditioning, and the acoustics are absolute.  They are spell-bound until the final note is played. Applause erupts and the musician beams.

100 words (Genre: general fiction (Narrative? Hell I don’t know!))

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for carrying on the tradition of Friday Fictioneers. You have been a considerable help to me and I’m honored to know you. Remember, I take kudos and criticism. Bring it on.

Happy weekend. Mwah!

The Chill of Autumn and The Death Of A Love

As Rita walks the path, she wraps her coat around her. Tries to stave off the chill in the air. She hates this time of year. Everything around her is dying. There is a gentle mist sailing through the air. She hold her umbrella over her head but it doesn’t help much. The wind has picked up and is whipping the mist in her face. It chills her to the bone. Just like the memory of him. Of her sweet punk. Rita thinks about him and her heart aches. He told her he loved her. It was summer. The day was warm, sunny and vibrant. She felt alive for the first time in a very long time.

She saw his name today. Read his words. Used to be he wrote for her. But not anymore. Those days are over. All that’s left is the bitterness of a love that once was. Of the love she thought they had. She pulls her coat tighter and keeps walking the path. The leaves on the trees are yellow where they were once so bright green and full of life. She longs for the warmth of summer. The warmth of him. But he is gone. What’s left is decay and the chill of autumn.

She thinks of him. His name. It is a word that dances on the tip of her tongue. Still. But then she remembers, and the name sours instantly. Rita remembers it’s over. She’s empty. She wishes she’d never uttered it. That name.

She speaks to the air, “Do you miss me? Do you wish for me? Do you still say my name at that exquisite moment?”

Rita holds out her palm from under the umbrella and feels that the mist has turned to rain. She lets the drops fall on her hand and keeps walking. The woods envelop her and she wishes she could forget. The words, the love and him.

The Joy of Walking in Wheat

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Photo credit: Steph Ellis

With her eyes to the Heavens, she looks at the clouds. She shields her eyes from the sun with the back of her hand, then lowers it. She breaks off a piece of wheat, pinches the stalk in her teeth, and grins. She starts walking through the field and feels the softness of the stalks on her hands, her fingers and her bare legs. She is clad in a short cotton dress. The tiny cilia at the tops of the wheat tickle her fingertips. The wind caresses her face like the hand of God. She takes her fingers and removes a tendril of hair from her mouth. She keeps walking through the middle of the field. She’s heading to the barn, but she didn’t want to take the path. She figures why take the easy way, when the unbeaten path is so much more fun? There’s nothing like the feel of the wheat caressing your hands, fingers and legs in the warm summer sun. These moments of joy are few and far between in this life. They may be simple, but some days they are the only joy we feel.

It’s Time for a Road Trip!

Almost Heaven, West Virginia-John Denver

It’s been about 30 years since I’ve seen one of my dear BFFs, split apart, soul-mate, love of my life. She and I were friends when we were in high school. Not close by any means, but we always ended up at the same parties. In the same social situations. I was in awe of her. She was a beautiful young woman. Blonde haired, blue eyed and gorgeous. Vivacious. Full of fun. Dangerous. The boys loved her. I wanted to be her. Wanted to be closer to her. She was older than I was by a couple of years, so we didn’t connect until years later.

We became friends on Facebook. We shared stories, laughs, tears, and memories. We also found out that we had dated a lot of the same guys from back in the day. We found that we were also so much alike. We write. We love to read. We find life to be incredibly exciting and cosmic. We live for adventure and love. She is a beauty. In mind, body and spirit. She completes me. I talked to a mutual FB friend who told me I needed to get my ass to West Virginia. I agreed it was time. It was time to pack up, load the car with another good friend or friends and head down the road in Candy Blue, the stripper mobile.

It’s time to find my split apart that I haven’t seen in 30 years. It’s time for us to hang out in an old cabin and look at all the beauty surrounding us. It’s time for us to sit at a campfire and contemplate the universe in all of our infinite wisdom. It’s time to get a little Thelma and Louise and have ourselves a kick ass time. To realize that life is still worth living and that we are still just as viable as we were when we were teenagers. To laugh ourselves silly and cry a bit too. To reconnect and find out why we love each other so much, even though we haven’t spoken out loud to each other in 30 years. It’s time for new memories. It’s time for some new ink. For an angel to sit upon my shoulder. Or possibly the top of my foot. So that I will always, always remember who has my back. Who always loves me. To remember that a bit of my heart belongs in West Virginia. I love you T, my angel, I’m going to be there to see you soon!