Archive for the ‘Flash Fiction’ Tag
Photo Credit —–Douglas M. MacIlroy
Every Wednesday he sat here and pondered the image on his computer screen. He was not alone in this obsession. People from all over the world made an appearance here.
They all worshipped this divinity. The ONE that provided their inspiration was in session in HER domain.
Their stories were different. Faced with the same problem they came to difference interpretations. Was it a craftsman at his work station? A recluse with plans to take over the world? Why the tattered globe? What were those pliers used for?
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PHOTO PROMPT © Dawn M. Miller
“It was your father’s only way to feed us. Coal was king in this part of Kentucky. We didn’t care about no black lung disease. Lord knows we never heard the words “climate change” and won’t make no difference if we did.”
“When he entered that mine shaft he had no idea it would be his last day on earth. Not only his last day but the last day for 37 other miners.”
“But I tell you one thing boy about your father. I knows you had differences with him but he would be proud that you became an environmental engineer.”
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Photo Credit Susan Spaulding
“This ship was made to withstand this type of weather!” Captain McSorley exclaimed. He based his belief because the ship had made over forty voyages in its seventeen years of service taking ore pellets from Superior Wisconsin to the steel mills near Detroit.
First mate Pulcer wasn’t so sure. He had a bad feeling when they left the port at Superior Wisconsin. Leaving this late he knew they could encounter some bad weather. Some of the other 27 crew members shared his belief.
Two days out his nightmare was beginning to become a reality.
Dawn came and the ship’s cook said “Boy’s it’s too bad out there to feed you mates. Captain reports winds of 35-50 knots and waves 3 meters high.”
Pulcer decided to join the Captain on the bridge. He knew that the captain had chosen the route that took advantage of the protection offered by the lake’s north shore in order to avoid the worst effects of the storm.
“Reduce speed,” said the captain.
“Do respect sir, but with full speed we can reach the safety of Whitefish Bay.”
“Negative First Mate, reduce speed.”
Every year a bell tools 29 times at the Mariners’ Church of Detroit.
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PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
“Yes child, I remember.”
Her horrible memories return nightly. The long lines with whole families lined up together with all their belongins. As she got closer to the end of the line she could see the soldier asking questions and then pointing either right or left. Sometimes the families were split up with the mothers and daughters directed to go one way and the father and sons going another.
Suddenly she realized they were the ones being questioned. Her husband and son were quickly shoved to the right.
“My daughter and I were the lucky ones. We got the water.”
****************
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Photo Credit: Susan Spaulding
The telephone call came at 6:04 p.m. I remember the exact time because the national news was beginning and the ringing of the telephone irritated me.
It was Sara. “Jeff passed away last night,” she cried.
I was speechless. My mind going from full speed ahead to a full stop in a nanosecond.
Jeff was diagnosed with frontal lobe dementia four years ago. I was a witness to this disease’s rapid progress through his mind and body.
We were both terrible golfers. But Jeff started to have difficulty keeping his score. As the disease progressed we would tell him what he scored. He would say, “That sounds about right.” At one point he took a swing at an imaginary ball. He went through all the motions: put the ball on the tee, took a practice swing, then took a full swing with a beautiful follow through. But he forgot to take the ball out of his pocket. “Mike, you forgot the ball!” Mike went through the same procedure again without the ball.
As this terrible disease progressed he would lose the ability to recognize family and friends, forget how to use eating utensils. Four years from diagnosis to death. Jeff was 62 year old.
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This post submitted to Friday Fictioneers.
“The illegals live there, officer.” The homeless man motioned ahead.
Here on the southwest edge of the city it was quite dirty and the area under the bridge oozed with feces and muddy water mixed with trash. The people were huddled together in a sprawling mass that covered the entire area shaded by the overhead bridge.
“Stinks like hell,” the border agent said.
“Just the beginning from what I hear. They say many more of their kind are on there way. Fleeing from gang violence and poverty. Can’t say that I blame them. Welcome to my world Amigos.”
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This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © J.S. Brand
His carving could wait. Irving was late for service. Entering the parking lot he heard gunshots.
Rushing into the building he saw David and Cecil face down inside the entrance. The brothers were always first to meet worshipers when they arrived. Twenty feet in front of the brothers was Rosie. “Rosie, Rosie, 97 years young sure to make 101” was the familiar chant that we sang to her. This can’t be happening. To his right were Bernice and Sylvan. They were married in this same synagogue 60 years ago.
Another shot rang out. Irvin never heard it.
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