Gracie’s Fall
Gracie drifted from the sky and landed, quite elegantly, on the point of one toe, then smoothed the pleats of her milk-white skirt with a satisfied sigh.
The sole spectator to her amazing feat (and her lifting skirt), Matt gaped.
“Hello there!” Gracie said gleefully.
“Are you an angel?” Matt asked. Gracie giggled.
“You’re silly,” she said. “Goodbye!” And she skipped down the street with a look of wonder on her face. Read the rest of this entry »
Philosophy
The philosophers stood in their burgundy robes and burgundy slippers, hands clasped and eyes downcast. At the center of the white, marble floor, a pool of crimson blood was creeping from the youth like a halo in some medieval triptych.
“What was his error?” the Master asked. Fingers of red found the stony cracks and raced outward. The philosophers stepped back.
“His conclusion didn’t follow from the premise,” one proposed. “The logic was weak.”
The Master sniffed. Read the rest of this entry »
Too Many Flowers
The bee loomed tall in the evening sun: 25 feet long, with a black and yellow frame and wings of molded plastic.
“Cool, huh?”
“You sure get worked up about your ichthyology,” Bann complained.
“Entomology. How do you still not know the right word after twenty years?”
Bann shrugged.
“It reminded me of our first date… Remember the bees at the orchard?”
Bann nodded.
“Where’s the stinger?” he asked, but then his eyes went wide Read the rest of this entry »
Erosion
The rain made a sound like the drumming of fingers, as if a host of demons had climbed the cabin to probe for weaknesses, shrouded in water and darkness. The storm spit down the chimney and the fire hissed and flickered.
“It’s getting worse,” Kendrick decreed, a sour look on his face. There were fifteen of them gathered around the hearth—a family of five from the house next door, three college students from the opposite cabin, a single mother with two kids from further down the beach, and Kendrick’s own wife and children. This was the most any of them had spoken in hours.
They had thought it wise to band together for company and warmth, but that was three days ago. Now the firewood had nearly run out, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. Read the rest of this entry »
The Bells
The old man stands on the lighted stage, stooped and shaking. Others, mere knobby shadows, wait their turn in the darkness behind him.
The bells ring, and the man’s eyes begin to water.
For this weekend’s Trifextra challenge, the folks over at Trifecta gave us three words: ring, water and stage. The challenge was to add 30 words to these to write a story.
Check out the other stories and, of course, have a great weekend!
Resurrection and Digestion
“I don’t like it standing there,” I said. “It’s an ill sign. Satan takes the shape of a goat sometimes, doesn’t he?”
“I say it gives me hope,” Jim replied. “Thor’s chariot was pulled by a pair of goats.”
“So?”
“So, every night he would kill and eat them both, but making sure to keep the bones intact. Then, every morning, the goats would come back to life again.”
We were silent a moment, as the wind pushed the shadows of the elm. The goat grunted and nibbled the grass.
“Guess we should’ve eaten Frank,” I said.
Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with a Friday Fictioneers picture, and this is what we end up with. It’s also incredibly late! But read the other stories—they’re bound to be better (Photo courtesy of Randy Mazie).
Operation Charnwood
The young man led me by the arm through the rubble, helping me over fallen walls and crushed motorcars. I could have made the way myself, but the bombs had rendered the place unrecognizable.
“The historic district is mostly gone, I’m afraid,” the soldier explained as we walked. The corners of his mouth went up a bit, with pride for the might of the Allies, I suppose.
“The rest of the city held more for me,” I said. “But that’s gone now, too.”
The soldier nodded, and the shadow of his smile faded.
I had lived my entire life in Caen. I had scraped my knees on the schoolhouse cobbles as a child; stolen kisses (and more) behind my mother’s patisserie; there was a wall—or there had been—where my first husband and I had been photographed by the elder Lumière himself. But even the photo was gone now, under the pile of stone and glass that had been my home. The city was a graveyard, and my whole world lay beneath its stones. Read the rest of this entry »
Scaffolding
“I used to work at that grocery store,” Sue says. She crosses her legs and a shoe goes tumbling to the roof below. The scaffolding sways.
“Yeah,” I say.
Way up here, we’re weathervanes. We’re aligned with the wind and following it out, fleeting. Our words disintegrate and become silence.
“I used to smoke behind that fence,” I say, “between classes.” Sue nods. The gray clouds roll overhead.
“Sad how things change,” she says. “Sad how nothing’s what you remember.”
We look at our town, our memories stretched upon the frame of the present. We’re not ready to climb down. Read the rest of this entry »
Shrimp ‘n’ Grits
“Oh darling, you’re so wonderfully crude,” the senator’s wife exclaimed. “But shh, he’s coming.” She tilted her head to indicate the approaching waiter.
“You folks know what you’d like?” the waiter asked. He crossed his hands politely.
“How do you like the shrimp and grits?” the senator’s wife asked with only a hint of a smile. The waiter smiled broadly.
“Just about my favorite dish on the menu!” he said. “Real nice; like what I had growin’ up.”
“You grow up around here, son?” the senator asked, solemn as a sermon. The waiter nodded.
“’Bout five miles down the road, yessir,” he said.
One of the senator’s party leaned across the table. Read the rest of this entry »
The Original Sin Inn
The hotel was called the Original Sin Inn, partly because of its location in the Garden District and partly because of its reputation for depraved debauchery. If even half the stories I’d heard were true, there wasn’t a crime that hadn’t been committed under Philippe Bonté’s roof—and Bonté, for his part, had more than enough clout to keep the lawmen away.
Well, he couldn’t keep me away, not when it was a matter of life or continued death. I pushed through the front doors and into the white marble lobby with as much swagger as I could muster, and called out to no one in particular: “Where’s Bonté?”
My voice came back to me in crisp, cold echoes. The lobby was deserted. Read the rest of this entry »
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