Indulgence of Tradition

006The sun shone brightly through my window as I sat on the couch looking at pictures. We seem to do that at the loss of someone. Often, we’ll look back to another time, trying to figure, why that life is over.

As children we were taught traditions. Don’t speak unless spoken to, honor your Father, and call your Mother every day. The elements wear away our fragile outer selves, until we spend most of our time building hard shells, lest the erosion reach our tender, vulnerable hearts. So, like many, he was taken down by the illness of ‘not living up-to-par’,  he tried so hard to protect himself from.

written for Rochelle-Wisoff-Fields ‘Friday Fictioneers’ prompt

photo copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Halloween Horror Offering (Very Flash Fiction)

So….. here were the rules. Write a scary story in 3 sentences, under 100 words. This came from Terrible Minds … (Chuck Wendig) great fun, resources, and challenges, btw.

Chuckie

Annie could see the rage building in Chuck with every slash he made.

Struggling, crawling, she stretched with all her might before he could strike with his mighty weapon.

But she couldn’t reach him in time, and she watched in horror as her story ran red from the gash of his pen as he sliced through her entry, because it was more than three sentences.

Don’t Park Here

This is my entry for a ‘flash fiction’ contest. 24 hours to write 150 words or less, on something strange that might happen in a parking lot.

The sultry voice seemed to come out of nowhere as James slid his sleek midnight blue convertible ‘Bathtub Porsche’ carefully between the two white lines. He had become so attached to her, that friends were beginning to wonder if he’d ever have a life again, let alone a woman! Even above the pleasing groan of the slowing engine, he heard it again. Looking behind him, he felt the smooth pavement tingle as she drove up. Her curvy black lines rippled as her door opened, releasing the tall blond beauty that matched her interior. “Excuse me”, she said, again the silky tone, “that’s my spot”! James looked to the woman, who threw her hands in the air as she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do with her. She has a mind of her own?”

the suit

i watch him go to work each day
his briefcase in his hand
i wonder does he leave his mark
does he make a stand

when lights are out and doors are locked
does anyone know he’s been there
when books are closed and pens are dry
does anybody care

“i do” a voice cries from within
“i’m not just another suit,
this work’s not easy every day
not every man could take this route”

at night he sits, computer bound
his fingers buttons push
his mind the wheel his thoughts the tape
that calculate the truth

tomorrow he will walk again
but i know where he’s (you’ve) been
and the passions of a dreamy man
sit home and wait
for him