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Friday Fictioneers – Teddy’s Adventure

Teddy’s Adventure

Word Count:  99

Teddy stared forlornly through the gate. 

I guess they didn’t like me after all, he thought.

But it had been such fun!  He heard the music in passing one evening, had trotted up the stairs and through the open door.

People were dancing, it was infectious, and he felt compelled to join in.  They laughed and his presence seemed to electrify the room.

Teddy showed up every night and nobody minded. Until last Tuesday when he got so excited, he peed.

That’s when the gate went up.  And on the inside door, a sign that read “No Dogs Allowed”.

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Friday Fictioneers – Know Better English

Photo Courtesy Alicia Jamtaas

Know Better English

Word Count: 100

“…around 1840 and is considered an antique.”

Judy raised an eyebrow.  “I’m from England.  I know antiques and this is not…one.”

A collective groan arose from the group as Judy lectured the tour guide.

“Can’t you make her stop?”

“She won’t stop.”

“She’s ruining this whole day.”

“…and I’ve seen tureens and posset pots from the 1600’s. So this is not an antique. Silly Americans.”

“Thank you again, Ms. Fitzsimmons, for your continuing education.”  The tour guide said flatly.

The group ambled back to the bus, dreading the next stop – lunch at a saloon with roast beef on the menu.

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Mum

My mum passed away six days ago.

Six days is almost a week but it feels like two days.

The last thirteen years were so unfair. At 68, she became a paraplegic; the result of an aortic dissection. In 2018, she began to show signs of dementia and by 2020, she was full-blown FTP; paranoid, violent, uninhibited. My Dad could no longer care for her so social services had her admitted to a skilled nursing facility in Virginia.

At that point, my Dad couldn’t live alone anymore so he moved up here to Delaware with us.

I sent my Mum care packages regularly – puzzle books, magazines, chocolates and the occasional blanket or stuffed animal. Phone calls were fruitless; she denied it was me and usually hung up.

This past Christmas, I desperately wanted to hear her acknowledge me so I called her and yell-cried that I loved her and missed her and could she please call me by my nickname. She softened and did as I asked, said “I love you”, but I don’t think she knew who she was saying it to.

Last Tuesday evening, a good family friend, upon my asking, drove to the nursing home after I got the call that she’d had a heart attack and wasn’t going to make it. She sat with her and read poetry and would facetime me with updates. She’d turn the phone around so that I could see my Mum and talk to her. The last time I would do so was three minutes before she died.

I hope she’s free of those mental and physical chains that bound her here. I hope she’s skipping and dancing.

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Friday Fictioneers – A Tale to Tell

Photo courtesy: Krista Strutz

A Tale to Tell – 100 words

Frank couldn’t stop staring and he felt discomfited that it was a two-way thing which had continued for too long.

Wait until Phyllis hears about this, he thought, her eyes will pop right out of her head

He imagined the conversation. “Honestly, it was standing on the water…yes, the water…not the ground….right??….I know!!  Crazy!!”

Frank laughed out loud.

Bob heard the eagle utter some kind of chirrup sound and paddled gently toward it, wondering how close he could get.  In that moment, it lifted off the rocks and Bob would later swear that it cried “Phyllis!” as it flew away.

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Friday Fictioneers – The Victor

Mikhael Sublett

Photo Courtesy: Mikhael Sublett

 

The Victor

Word count:  100

Victor studied his wife; finally she had ceased her diatribe.

Retreating and breathing deeply in then out, he joined his hands above as if in tree pose then in front as if in prayer, and closed his eyes.

“Namaste.”

It had taken longer than he thought, and the exertion had increased Victor’s appetite.

He turned toward the kitchen and walked serenely through the debris.

Predictably, Myra had fought hard; foul words churned from red bow-lips, and pointed red nails clawed until the very end.

At the sink, Victor washed blood from his hands and considered turkey or ham with cheese.

 

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Friday Fictioneers – Italian Stars

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Photo courtesy – Dale Rogerson

Italian Stars

Word count:  99

 

“Can you close them?” Penelope pointed upward.

The waiter looked nonplussed.

Chris cleared his throat, “Ombrello vicino?”

The waiter snorted. “No, no…ees beeyooteeful, no?  No ombrello vicino, scusa.”

Penelope watched the waiter sashay away, disappointed that the Italian stars would elude her.

“It’s okay, honey.” Chris patted his girlfriend’s hand. “We’ll go for a stroll around the square after dinner.”

His other hand sought the box in his trousers pocket and patted that gently, also.

Later, as promised, Penelope marveled at the night sky, and at the new diamond ring on her finger held aloft among those Italian stars.

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Friday Fictioneers – Martha’s Mind

Dale Rogerson

Photo courtesy – Dale Rogerson

Martha’s Mind

Word count:  100

 

Martha inhaled deeply, held it momentarily then exhaled slowly.

She repeated this twice before settling into practice.  It was a warm evening with low humidity so she took the opportunity to meditate on the back deck while the mosquitoes were preoccupied.

The sun warmed Martha’s face; eased her frown lines, and smoothed her crow’s feet.  The cushion beneath cupped her bottom with ease which promoted a relaxed attentiveness.

Bird evensong and faraway car sounds floated by for her consideration but she paid them no mind.

For thirty minutes, Martha simply was.  Nowhere to go.  No-one to be.  Nothing to do.

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When there was nowhere else but down

Seven or eight years ago, life had become very difficult for my little family.  I could try to explain the whys and wherefores but the events are past tense.  To try to break it down, make it coherent, and string everything together would require more time than I care to give on the subject.  Suffice to say, things were a mighty struggle all around.

Local news today of a father who shot his wife and three young children before shooting himself reminds me of a day or two during that time when I had considered doing the same thing.

The man’s motivation appears to be that of concern over his marital problems and likely, the knock on effect it would have on the relations with his children.  But I presume; I do not know the truth.  I only know sorrow for the situation and relief for my own.

The details were loose.  I didn’t own a gun, and I didn’t know how to get one; I certainly didn’t have money to buy one.  But I remember standing in the living room of our little, rented house staring at the curtains in front of me.  Just standing and staring.  My husband was at work and our children, at school.  I had been crying.  Heartbroken.  My soul wrung out.  I felt desperate.  As if there was no way out.

In hindsight, I think I had a small breakdown that day.  I believed that if we weren’t here, the burden would be lifted.  I imagined if I had that gun, I would kill the kids first, upstairs, then I’d shoot my husband when he came home in the wee hours, and then I’d shoot myself.  I actually visualized it.  I visualized wrapping the kids’ bodies in blankets and waiting for my husband.

So disconnected was I from myself that I thought it would be easy.  I didn’t visualize the  fact that I’d witness my children’s brains scatter, or watch my husband’s body fall, or the last thing I’d see would be the barrel of a gun.  I didn’t pay any mind to family and friends who would be so shocked and saddened. I only visualized a world where our own struggle and suffering ended.

Dark times, indeed.

I am grateful for my own inner strength which pulled me through when my body and soul were limp.

And I hold this dear family in the light today.  I wish the Dad had found some tiny thread to help pull him through.

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Friday Fictioneers: Alan’s Apathy

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photo courtesy:  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Alan’s Apathy

Word count:  100

 

Alan’s finger idled through the bar chimes.  He stared at the wall and wondered what he might have for dinner.

Two months ago, Rachel had pouted in the doorway:  “I want something Beatle-esque.”

Then, she’d eyed the room with distaste.

“And, I want this room back after we’re married.”

She had flounced off to continue preparations – buying the dress; choosing the bouquet; finding the location, and deciding who sat where.  His only job (except to show up) was to create the music for them to exit the church to.

Alan sighed.  The only song that provided inspiration was “Yesterday”.

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Friday Fictioneers: Venetian Vixen

Fatima Faker Deria

Photo courtesy:  Fatima Fakier Deria

Venetian Vixen

Word count:  100

 

Sylvia cupped her chin in her hands and watched Louis.  Her elbows rested on the window sill while her bottom smooshed against the end kitchen cabinet.  It was a small kitchen in a small apartment.

Louis would visit this evening after he had finished unloading the barge, and his clothes would smell of fruit and vegetables.  She would help him remove his shirt then press her mouth to his warm, damp skin.  He would taste divine.

Across the street, Martha watched from her window.  She was not interested in her husband; only in the woman who had stolen his affection.