Runaway

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

phone-booth-jhcPHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Her backpack and duffel bag sat at her feet as she slouched in the seat. She had been staring at the pay phone for hours.

She had gone through every emotion – anger, frustration, fear, hurt, rage, and confusion, now back to fear.

She stood and quickly closed the distance between her and the phone.

“I’d like to make a collect call.”

She waited what seemed an eternity to hear the familiar voice answer.

“Mom?” Her frightened voice was a whisper.

“Lindsay, I’ve been worried sick. Are you okay?”

“I’m at the bus station. Will you come get me?”

(98 words)

Reunion

“I’m home.”  I hear his voice and excitedly drop the pot I was washing back into the sudsy water. I turn the corner from the kitchen into the living room and my heart skips a beat. He’s been gone for six months and seeing him now – cornflower blue eyes, spiky hair, heart-shaped lips – I realize how much I’ve missed him. He drops his guitar and duffel bag on the floor and shrugs off his jacket. I run to him and bury my face in his neck, savoring the smell of soap and sweat. Our bodies fuse together as if they’re tailor made for each other. For months I’ve been bumbling along, stringing hours into days and days into weeks.

He kisses the top of my head and I sigh into his chest. I’m whole again.

True Destiny

My old friend you’re back.
In such an unwelcome way.
Taken up residence once again
In my heart and in my head.
My casual smile belies the bitter anger
Rising in my blood.
I had come so far.

But we all have our limits.
Invisible tethers designed to keep us
From straying too far from our destiny.
And that’s all it is after all ~ destiny.

In Memoriam

Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! If you’d like to participate, you can find more information here.


claire-sheldon
PHOTO PROMPT © Claire Sheldon

She was six years old sitting on his knee while he balanced the checkbook.

She smiled, the sudden recollection warming her. It felt as if it was yesterday, but nearly fifty years had passed.

Now, he was in a different kind of home and she sat at the same desk and packed up his belongings.

The decision had been painful but necessary. His rapidly declining memory had become an increasing danger.

He had been angry when she moved him, and thrown a tantrum.

She sighed.

She wished she could go back to being the child in their relationship.

Sailing

I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and take flight. My mind a willing partner with my heart as I sail through the air, escaping the stifling loneliness of my invisible prison walls. Up here freedom flows through me, lifting me ever higher. My heart dances and my mind finds peace. I am at once unchained.

A noise outside the window jars me from my reverie. A hitch in my breath and I fall back to earth, settling again into my dreary routine. Forlorn eyes reflect the hollow soul within me. I await my next flight.

Mindless

I haven’t been writing lately. I think about it every day. I get my daily word prompt and stare at it hoping for something. I tell myself that writers push through. But I don’t want to write if it doesn’t mean anything. I like my words to have feelings and connections. So I sit on the fence between beating myself up and letting myself be. And every so often I dash off a few words to stay in practice. Hello world, I’m still here.

Disconnect

**PLEASE NOTE** This is not a personal cry for help. It’s my social commentary on the breakdown of communication and fellowship that is largely lost in an increasingly digital and technological society.


 

She could count her friends on . . . well, she didn’t even need fingers. She was certain the people she knew LIKED her, but the late-night phone call on a Saturday night friend? That she didn’t have.

Do you really wonder why people leap to their deaths? It’s because in a world of 8 billion people, they can’t make a real connection to a single soul. And it’s not their fault. And it’s not your fault either. Not really. On this supercharged, high-pressure, success-driven, always plugged-in highway, some people never quite master the rules of the road – mere passengers in life. And, in their quest for the best, the ones in the fast lane drive right on by without a glance in their rear-view mirror. Each passenger on his own path, each driver worried about her own destination. Neither giving a thought to the basic and indispensable humanity underneath it all.

So, she sits alone every Saturday night. She stopped listening for the phone to ring a long time ago. And she always knows the location of the nearest bridge. It gives her a strange sort of comfort.