Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Tag
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
The snow was unexpected. It was not in the weather forecast. The yard was like a large whiteboard waiting for the artist. The snow presented a problem.
Sara’s husband Richard worked third shift at the factory. Normally Peter could spend the night and leave with no trace early in the next morning. The affair had been going on for some time. He had become comfortable with the arrangement. He would arrive around eleven thirty at night and leave around five in the morning. Plenty of time to enjoy the company of Sara and leave no trace behind.
Normally!
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© Eric Wicklund
He did the math in his head. It was just over 60 years ago that he carrier her over the threshold in an overpriced semi-clean motel in San Mateo, California.
Then their respective careers took off resulting in them being transferred numerous times. After retiring they spent a good part of each year traveling abroad. A dozen years ago they had travelled to China. She was past 70 then and still feisty and lovely in her own way.
Now her memory is failing. Her once beautiful dark hair is now nothing but white wisps. She can’t walk, and can’t stand up without help. Every little move can result in another fall and the possibility of more broken bones. She sleeps most of the day. Now she seems halfway gone mentally.
Modern medicine has kept her alive despite the fact she has expressed her desire to die. She is surrounded by teams of doctors and nurses, medical students, respiratory therapists and countless other health care providers. She is too weak, and too meek to protest.
My fear is someday we will look back and say: “What in the hell were we thinking?”
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This post is written for Friday Fictioneers.
“Apartment 7B, you remember Helen?”
“I remember Aunt Iris.”
“When you get to the elevator use your left elbow to hit the up button. And once you get on the elevator just use your left elbow to hit the button for the seventh floor. “
“Got it! Seventh floor button. Use my left elbow.”
“When you get off on the seventh floor just turn left and I will be the third door on your right just use your left elbow to push the doorbell.”
“Why do I keep using my left elbow?’
“What, you would come visit without any packages?”
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This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.
Note:
I live 85 miles northwest of Orland, Florida. Irma is taking dead aim at us. Being inland we do not have to worry about storm surge, but winds will be a major concern. We are taking all precautions.
In his mind, he could not picture what this area would look like if their predictions came through. It was so peaceful now.
“Wind gust up to 135 miles per hour, with sustained winds of 90 miles per hour. Residents are ordered to leave the area immediately. Not tomorrow, not in a couple of hours, but NOW”, the governor’s statement blasted from the television.
He had already made up his mind to stay. He was too old he told himself to just up and move. To where he asked himself? No family reached out with welcome arms offering refuge.
The only highway into the island was now shut off by the State Police. The passing police cruiser warned that if he stayed they would not be able to rescue him.
***** ***** *****
“This is Troy Bridges, television 5 news reporting. One of the victims of recent hurricane Irma was found in front of his television today. Apparently, he made no attempt to leave the area. Efforts are underway to contact family members.”
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This post is submitted to Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bulltot
The old stone Abbey loomed up suddenly through the early morning mist. A cold chill suddenly made my bones feel brittle. I knew I had been here before. Long before.
A shape stepped out of the dark so close in front of me that I nearly bumped into it.
“Tis me, my lad” a voice called. “Ye be a tad late I’m afraid. The battle is long over. But your great grandfather stood his ground until they kilted him. He fought for Bonnie Prince Charlie until a Redcoat thrust a bayonet through his heart. All Scotland loves the McKenzie Clan.”
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This post is submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction.
© Eric Wicklund
John entered the forest at precisely 11:17 a.m. on August 2, 2016. He knew this by double tapping on his new fitbit bracelet. He tapped again and was informed he had taken 1,257 steps so far this morning. He planned this walk to reach his goal of 10,000.
After an hour on the trail he noticed an interesting looking tree. The large branches formed what looked like an eye socket with a missing eyeball in the center.
Climbing in he was amazed at how large the enclosure was. The eye socket he was now standing in was huge. He went to the edge of the socket and stood up and still did not reach the top of the arch.
Looking out he saw a scene like something out of Jurassic Park. Hugh animals of all descriptions ranged the landscape as far as he could see. Sounds of animal welfare, sounds so loud they made him fear for his life.
He felt the need to return to the trail and quickly. Somewhere were everything made sense.
Raising his left arm to check his progress in reaching his step goal his fitbit indicated the date was December 19, 2021 and his step counter read 103,254,615 steps.
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This post is written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.
According to the dashboard clock on his car it was 7:09 p.m. when he entered the motel parking lot. He had driven over 400 miles today and he was weary. Even the sunset looked dull to his tired eyes.
Their marriage had been deteriorating for the last year so it didn’t surprise him when she ordered him to leave their home early this morning.
He took out his cell phone. No new calls or messages. He realized that he did not know if that was bad or good. He knew one thing. She had expressed her anger by flinging his phone across the room where it hit with a dull thunk against the kitchen cabinet.
The phone had caused his troubles. He had left it home when he went for his morning walk. Upon returning his wife informed him he had a message, which she had overheard, from Pauline, describing in detail their last time in bed.
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