A Bad Fiction Novel

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PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Just ahead, she saw the alley in the sunlight. If she could make it she would be safe. Her heart pounded and she felt the package tucked inside her sweater. Father Daniel had trusted her and she couldn’t let him down. She heard footsteps behind her but didn’t turn to look. Father Daniel said if she could make it to the Cathedral, a Friar would be waiting to take possession of the package. Suddenly she felt like she was in a bad novel. She stepped into the sunlight and turned right. Hopefully her story had a happy ending.

The Shoe Diaries

I’ve just spent the weekend in bed and let me say there’s nothing worse than laying in bed watching TV all day when you’re forced to rather than when you’re just lazy and it’s your choice. (Ok, that was a bit dramatic. I’ve been known to embellish for effect. And for sympathy. I got out of laundry duty today. Go me!)

I’ve got an injured foot. A rather vague description I know but I’m not convinced the Urgent Care doctor got it right when he diagnosed an arthritic toe joint. (I’m waaay too young for THAT word.) And the pain is in my arch not just my toe. Besides, according to WebMD my condition is near fatal. So I’m reserving judgment until I get into my family practice (which was booked last week) for a second opinion. And probably a referral to a podiatrist if this pain doesn’t let up soon. And with luck something stronger than ibuprofen.

In the meantime I iced, elevated and hobbled my way through the weekend, cringing every time I stepped the wrong way. And laid in bed flipping through 7000 channels of nothing to watch. And cried over my shoe closet. At least for the foreseeable future my feet will be flat on the ground. I had to reassure my beautiful heels that I wasn’t abandoning them. Even if they did almost kill me. Well, at least according to WebMD. Now where did I put my Will?

Waiting For A Star

She lived a charmed life. That’s what everyone thought. She was a shy girl from a small town who always wanted to get out, and she did. She told glorious stories about the places she had lived, sixteen cities and counting. She dressed impeccably, wore designer clothes, and considered mascara and jewelry to be both necessary and logical. She traveled to Paris, Rome, London, Spain, Athens, Vienna, her passport was filled with stamps and her mind was filled with memories. Her favorite color was Tiffany Blue. She lived a charmed life. That was the illusion. What they didn’t see was the nights she sat alone, staring at the dark sky, waiting for a star to wish upon.

Lucky Charm?

ted-struts-in-the-rainPHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. If you’d like to participate click here for more information.


Lucky Charm?

“There’s a hurricane coming. You should stay home.” He stared at the darkened sky, inky black in the distance.

“This interview is huge. I can’t miss it. And I have my lucky charm.” She jangled the bracelet he’d given her for their anniversary. “Besides, they won’t run the ferry if it’s not safe.” She kissed him softly, sweetly. “I’ll be fine. Call you tomorrow.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Turning on the morning news, his coffee mug fell and shattered, hot liquid rivulets snaking across the tile floor when he saw the lead story.

FERRYBOAT CAPSIZES – NO SURVIVORS

The Loop of Grace

I’m not a particularly religious person. But I do have faith. And I believe in the basics of humanity, that everyone – despite our religious differences, despite our ethnic differences, despite the many other differences that drive us apart – has the capacity for grace. Father Robert Barron describes The Loop of Grace: “The more we give back to God, the more we get, and then we must give that back again, so as to get even more in return. This is the loop of grace.” I believe this has a more practical application in these troubled times. Substitute “others” for “God”. See how much your life changes. See how much you change the world.

Fourth of July Eve

It was a tradition dating back to high school. Every year on July 3rd we gathered at the river, drank beer, and lit bottle rockets; a “Fourth of July Eve” of sorts. Thirty years later and we still gathered, the sound of 80s hair metal mixing with laughter carried on the night air, soaring as high as the fireworks we set off. Our numbers had dwindled, some had moved away, some had moved on from this world. We toasted to everyone who couldn’t be with us, and remembered the days long gone. Days we thought would never end, and days we knew would never last.

Cowboy’s Delight

Leaning against the door-frame he quietly watched her, his heart-shaped lips curling gently upward. She was so beautiful when she was sleeping. Her light copper hair fell in messy waves across the pillow. The moonlight cast a soft glow on her face and highlighted her upturned nose and pursed lips, forehead creased as if in deep thought. He wanted to be in her mind, wanted to know what she dreamed about. He hoped it was about him.

Her emerald green chemise clung to her curves and the deep V neckline emphasized the soft curves of her breasts. He resisted the urge to go to her, to touch her, to caress her. He wanted to drink in the sight of her in the stillness of the warm summer night. He had ached for her on the long away. The nights he spent on the road, singing his love-struck melodies in nameless bars and faceless clubs. The words meant for her, wasted instead on strangers. When he had wanted only to return to her.

Now he couldn’t wait one more second. He slipped between the sheets and pulled her tightly against him, burying his nose in her hair and savoring the fresh smell of cherry blossoms. She shifted and murmured his name then melted into him. He sighed. He was finally home.

The Real Grown-Ups

I always wondered who made up the names for nail polish. No, really. That has to be the coolest job on the planet. Please sign me up. I’m pretty sure I would just come back from a long liquid lunch and pull out a thesaurus or a box of crayons. Or both. I’m looking through my personal collection of polish now. ‘Madison Ave-hue’ (This is just downright lazy – it’s a bright pink and isn’t Madison Avenue more glam??) ‘Splash of Grenadine’ (It actually looks kinda like grenadine so I’ll give them that) ‘Koala Beary’ (I was expecting an earthier tone) ‘A Rose At Dawn’ (Is this a cheap play on words?) ‘Dim Sum Plum’ (I’ve never had dim sum {mini shocker} but I guess they serve it with plum sauce???) ‘Boom Boom’ (This one-two punch doesn’t quite hit the mark) ‘Outrageous’ (Ummm, I’m not sure what outrageous looks like, but I picture it much darker) ‘Chicago Champagne Toast’ (The color is right but did it have to be in Chi Town?) Apparently I missed my calling. I could have been making up nail polish names for a living. It seems kinda random but kinda fun at the same time.

Reunited

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Sophie pushed through the crowded terminal. She had to make this flight. In ten minutes the doors would close. She picked up her pace and prayed she didn’t clip anyone with her rolling carry-on bag.

She thought back to their conversation the night before. She and Nate had a nasty fight and she’d said some awful things. The kind of things you can’t un-say. She’d tried to call him back to apologize but all twenty calls had gone straight to voicemail. She’d done the only sane thing she could think of – booked the first flight to Boston. Sane is in the eye of the beholder.

Downtown traffic was heavier than usual and she was close to missing her flight. Just ahead in the crowd she saw a pocket open and she rushed forward, hoping to move past the lollygaggers. She stopped abruptly when she saw it – the statue of the lovers, reunited and locked in a passionate embrace.

She thought of Nate and imagined him holding her in just that same way. Kissing her and telling her all was forgiven.  A wistful smile crossed her lips and she moved again with renewed energy toward Gate 47A. Toward her future.

Things We Lost In The Fire

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PHOTO PROMPT © Karuna

“You shouldn’t put yourself through this now.”

She ignored his plea and stepped out of the car into the cold December air.

Standing in borrowed clothes before the charred clapboard skeleton, she took tentative steps forward in the rubble.

She felt confusion and frustration at being lost in her own home.

Finally, she found the playroom and fell to her knees, hands sifting through the burned remains.

There – underneath a broken rocking chair – the children’s toys.

A hand on her shoulder held her back. “Don’t do this.”

Her teary eyes met his. “It’s all I have left.”