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.
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. If you’d like to participate click here for more information.
“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
My pen is my voice and it seeks to be heard. The paper listens to my cries as my thoughts pour out, a silent guardian for the emotions streaming wildly forth, it seems to arrange the words just so.
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.
The In Between
I do not meddle in affairs of the head.
I prefer to dwell in the land of the dead.
The murky place ‘tween wake and dream,
Where truth and lies, love and hate all teem.
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.
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 nights 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.
A Writer’s Life
In my mind, on my page, I can create a world where pain does not exist. Fairy tale endings do occur, Cinderella meets her Prince, the shoe fits, the fates align to create destiny. After all, everyone deserves a happy ever after.
© C E Ayr
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
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.”
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
She stood in the rubble, memories flooding back like ocean waves. She was twenty-two and dressed to the nines. The sounds of jazz and laughter filled the air. Then she saw him and the room faded away. The melody that rang out from his trumpet was like a siren call. She knew he was the one. Sixty years later, after the funeral, when she was alone, she returned to the place where they first met, where she first fell in love. She found the place in shambles, much like her heart. And she said her final good-bye.
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
Blurry eyes struggled to focus. A very late night and too many tequila shots led us to this late-night diner.
“You shouldna given ‘im your number.” Tessa’s slurred words rang true and regret filled my veins.
“I got this.” I made a zigzag path down the aisle. “Scuse me. Y’want my phone?”
The girls’ shocked looks never registered as I dropped my phone on the stained Formica counter and wobbled away.
“See. Problem fixed.” I brushed my hands together and dropped into the booth, stuffing a handful of fries into my grinning mouth.
Secrets and Lies
Click here to participate in Sunday Photo Fiction.
Dark, ominous clouds matched the fog in her head. The statue looked vaguely familiar, as if she’d been here before, but she wasn’t sure what she was doing here now. Sitting on the marble pedestal below, she held her throbbing head and searched her memory. Images ran wildly like an old carousel slide projector. A small hotel room overlooking a piazza. A cup of cappuccino at a sidewalk café. Holding hands with a man near a fountain. A Celtic tattoo on his forearm. A shiver of fear ran through her. Why couldn’t she remember more?
“Are you okay love? That bump on your head looks bad. I can take you somewhere to get it checked out.” She looked up into a smiling face. He spoke with an Irish brogue and seemed friendly enough. She reached for his outstretched hand and noticed the tattoo on his forearm. A memory flashed through her mind. A struggle inside the hotel room. A broken lamp. Running down a stairwell and disappearing into a crowded piazza. His smile was suddenly sinister and she pulled her hand back. A shiver of terror ran through her. “Now Abigail, let’s not put up another struggle.”
A Walk in The Clouds
We’ve almost reached our destination. We’re on final approach. The flight was unforgettable. Mostly smooth with a few bumps, some unexpected turbulence. But that’s what made it so entertaining. We soared to such heights you and I, on our journey together. But we always knew there would be an end to our story. So, take my hand as we glide back to earth. Take one more look through the clouds at the vast blue sky. Too soon we will alight and become strangers once again.
I saw that. ~ Karma
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“My mom is gonna kill me.” Abbie surveyed the damage to the car she had sideswiped while her best friend sat texting.
Without looking up from her phone, Olivia said, “You’re totally right. We should bail.”
“What?!? You’re kidding right?”
“We’re alone. If we leave fast you’re clear. Nobody has to know.”
Abbie scanned the empty street and debated, but the angel on her left shoulder won.
Tucking a note with her name and cell number under the wipers, she saw a good-looking boy exit the house across the street and walk toward her.
Karma isn’t always a bitch.
A huge thanks to Mrs Completely for introducing me to Friday Fictioneers. You should check out her blog. It’s one of my favorites.
Feast – A Mother’s Lament
Daily Prompt – Feast
The linens had been pressed and neatly draped across the cherry table. The china was removed from the cabinet and carefully washed and dried then meticulously arranged. The silver retrieved from its chest and polished to gleam brightly, placed just so in a precise order. Crystal goblets of various sizes came from the highest shelves of the cupboard and found their places at each place setting. Five in all, four for her son’s family and one for her. Last years candles were replaced with fresh new white candles bought yesterday, their white wicks standing stiffly upright.
The timing had to be perfect. Her list in hand, she began to check off each item one by one. As the time neared, her heart began to quicken and a smile formed on her face. This year she was nearly impeccable. She moved quickly to pull food out of the steamy oven, place it neatly onto serving trays, positioned appealingly. The feast was arranged exquisitely on the table. She lit the candles and waited. They were sure to arrive any minute. The invitation had been set for 7:00. And it was precisely 7:00.
She poured herself a half glass of white wine. She knew they would come. Perhaps they were stuck in traffic. She looked at the clock and it was 7:15. Perhaps one of the children’s soccer games ran late. They could have called but it must have slipped their minds.She looked at the clock and it was 7:30. She poured herself another half glass of white wine. Perhaps. Perhaps. She sighed and finished her wine then stood and blew the candles out. Happy birthday to me.