Posts Tagged ‘friday fictioneers’

The Black River

In Fiction on June 27, 2013 at 9:54 pm

fire truck

The Black River

The old desert tortoise took slow, deliberate steps. One leg up, one leg down, with a dull scrape as his shell dragged along.

“Before the black river came, the crossin’ took ages,” he told the young ones that scrambled in his wake. “Of course, these days it’s hurry, hurry, hurry. Go, go, go.”

The sun was high and they cast no shadows.

“Technology…” the tortoise muttered.

Then suddenly the ground began to rumble, and the pebbles skipped and snapped on the quaking road—and a great red beast went screaming past.

“Hey!” the old tortoise bellowed. “Where’s the fire, Bub?”

Tomorrow is Friday, so that could only mean one thing: Friday Fictioneers! This is my response to this week’s photo prompt, above, taken by Indira.

Click the blue guy up there to read the other stories, and have a great weekend!


The Post

In Fiction on June 20, 2013 at 1:43 pm

Guard, copyright Managua Gunn

The Post

Elizabeth stood with pride, ennobled by her place in the city’s secret history; through every hour of every day—on every day of every year since 1372—a guard had stood at this spot, and now the post was hers.

Her gun was loaded; her bayonet was sharp; her orders were simple: Kill anyone who willfully pursued the Secret.

Not that the tourists knew this. To them, she was a quaint anachronism. But the ornate government offices behind her were a decoy, built to deflect attention from her true charge: the grate upon which she stood.

Far below, the Ancients fumbled in the dark, roaming the catacombs in search of light.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Goodnight Song

In Fiction on May 30, 2013 at 10:01 pm


The Goodnight Song

I am.
I start to dream
and suddenly
I am
this passing thing.

Tall windows
light up the walls
the shadows cast
will guard my bed.

It’s gathering out
upon the street
a girl walks by.

An easy heart-
is lulled to sleep
by a memory. Read the rest of this entry »


In Writing on May 24, 2013 at 11:38 am



“Pick up the phone.”

“This phone?”

“It’s ringing.”

Colin listened a moment, to the far-off sound of the freeway and cars driving through the mist.

“Is not.”

The stranger made no reply, simply inclining his head toward the phone. Colin shrugged and grabbed the broken receiver.

“There’s not even an earpiece on it, mate. How’m I supposed to hear?”

The voice that replied sounded digital and broken, like a recording from some earlier era, but the feeling of hot breath as the stranger whispered in Colin’s ear was distinct:

“The better question is: How am I speaking without a voice?” Read the rest of this entry »

Tough Guy Bobby Caduzo

In Fiction on May 9, 2013 at 11:32 pm


Tough Guy Bobby Caduzo

“A little… light for a mob joint, isn’t it? I mean, watercolors? Artsy mirrors. Glass eggs in baskets? I thought we were here to meet ‘tough guy Bobby Caduzo.’ This don’t strike me as a place for no tough guys.”

“Hey shut your mouth, would ya? Show some respect. Bobby’s right over there.”

“Where? I only see the broad at the counter.”

“Bobby is the broad at the counter, stupid. Barbara Caduzo.”

“Sal, I’m in deep with these guys, man—how’s some chick supposed to help?”

“Heh. Tony, sometimes it’s real obvious you grew up without a mudda.” Read the rest of this entry »


In Fiction on May 2, 2013 at 9:37 pm

Casa Battlo in Barcelona by Antonio Gaudi


I tried to give the form of nature to the works of man. The organic curve, the subtle softness—an answer to the harsh lines and right angles we use to distinguish ourselves from the beast.

The Segrada Familia, Park Güell, Casa Batlló: these were my life’s work.

Perhaps the world laughs at me now, struck by a tram and left to die in the street—literally a victim of the industrial age. But, if so, they misread these symbols.

For in my death I will reveal what man truly is: an object. Inert.

But a work of art. Read the rest of this entry »

Lighter Fare

In Fiction on April 25, 2013 at 10:22 pm


Lighter Fare

Each evening I would find the ladder moved—and a book or two from the shelf displaced. Kant and Thoreau, Marx and Neruda; I would find them open on the floor, on the desk… by the cat bowl.

Naturally I became concerned, so I left work early and drove home, determined to catch the intruder in the act.

I entered quietly and climbed the stairs. Hearing a noise in the den, I prepared to pounce.

My gray tabby, Gary, met me with mild surprise, crouched by a first edition Dostoevsky.

“Got anything lighter, buddy?” he asked. “This stuff is murder.” Read the rest of this entry »


In Fiction on April 18, 2013 at 4:48 pm



Lane braced his palms in the beach rocks and studied the hive.

“Maybe it floated from Africa?” he said. “Killer bees.”

“Don’t joke,” Warren complained with a pout. “Is anything in it?”

Lane thought he heard a faint buzzing, and even smelled a sweetness like honey, but there was no movement in the golden lattice.

“Nah…” he began, but suddenly he felt a sharp pain and he jumped. When he pulled his hand away, blood began to pour from a deep gash in his palm.

In the rocks, a thousand stony carapaces turned, and Warren sprinted down the beach. Read the rest of this entry »

Salvage Artist

In Fiction on April 11, 2013 at 9:19 pm

A salvage art trike at Fairview Estates

Salvage Artist

The man leaned heavily on his staff but, weary as he seemed, his eyes shone. He shook his head.

“I thank you for the offer,” he said. “But I’ll make my bed out in your field, if it’s all the same.”

He turned, and as he looked up in wonder at the darkening sky, I saw that his back was roped with scars.

“Why aren’t you bitter?” I asked, but he tottered off into the tall grass without a word.

“I guess you might call me a salvage artist,” he called at last from afar. Read the rest of this entry »


In Fiction on April 4, 2013 at 11:37 pm

gnarled tree by scott vanatter


Despite this darkness and the uncountable years that have passed, the scene is still before me: the hill running up into nothing, the grass yellowed with mustard flowers, and the swollen tree standing deformed and defiant against the blanching sky.

Snapshots taken by my mind in panic as they pulled me into the car.

I am not me, I remember thinking. I can’t be.

And now I understand: The boy I had been was taken by that tree and hidden away in its gnarled trunk to keep him from evil.

Someday I’ll go back and I’ll find him again. Read the rest of this entry »