Copyright - Kent Bonham

Copyright – Kent Bonham

I’m back for another round of Friday Fictioneers. One picture, one story, one hundred words. It’s always funny that I manage to find time for writing when I’m in the middle of a semester, drowning in homework. Maybe it’s the one time I need the escape this allows. You’ll have to forgive the slight downer of this week’s story. It was inspired by the reports in the news about the first diagnosed case of Ebola in the US. In DALLAS! It hits too close to home here in neighboring Fort Worth and I’m a little freaked.

Deadly Assumptions

The mysterious pods showed up shortly before the Great Plague, the disease that cut the world’s population by seventy-five percent. Everyone knew the virus was deadly. Everyone assumed it wouldn’t get them. Until it did. Just like every plague in history, it was blind to race, gender, socio-economic status. It only needed human flesh to thrive.

The response was predictable. First came curiosity. Then fear. It took years to get past fear to find the gift in that strange little plant. It was almost eradicated. They eventually discovered it wasn’t cause of the virus. It was the cure.

ImageI wasn’t quite sure where I wanted to go with this picture. It took a little mindless retail work to get the creative juices flowing. I hope this is different than all the other wonderful writers posting to Friday Fictioneers this week. This image was also used a couple of years ago, long before I joined the addiction. It’ll be interesting to see how this stacks up to those posts as well. No pressure, right? ;) Oh, and photo copyright – Madison Woods

Okay. Without further ado and with hopes that I can keep up my flash fiction while also novel writing for CampNaNo, here it is.

 

Hide and Hide?

I was very close to losing my temper. We’d been at the exercise for almost three hours and I was no closer.

“It’s too hard. Let’s just move onto something else.”

“No, you can do this. You’re so close!”

“You said that an hour ago and I haven’t gotten any better. My blind Uncle Dave could spot me from across the street.”

“That’s not true. I could barely see facial features. One more try?”

“Okay.” I closed my eyes, harnessed energy, and visualized branches and leaves. “How’s that?”

“Umm. Maybe you’re right.”

“What? Why?”

“You have branches. And horns.”

“Damn!”

ImageI seem to be hit or miss with Friday Fictioneers, but here’s my next entry! I will probably be even more absent next month as July is another session of Camp NaNo and I very much need to start work on the cozy mystery series I keep threatening to write. Photo copyright – Mary Shipman


Starting Fresh

Cheryl worried about wiping away the remains of her childhood, destroying memories as sure as she was taking down the wall in the room. The home had been in the family for generations, each one adding to it without making major changes. Now she was breaking down walls, adding in modern amenities, throwing out old wallpaper and carpet. As much as she wanted to pass that down to the next generations, she couldn’t. For the sake of meeting damned standards of a neighborhood that built around her in the last twenty years, she had to gut everything and start fresh.

20140521-054937-20977138.jpg
Photo copyright – Erin Leary

The anguish was palpable, almost a physical presence. The fear, pain, and death of so many in such a concentrated area left an emotional scar on the land. And for what?

The fence marked the line, the hard-fought prize of too many battles. Neither side held the prize for long. Neither was ever willing to concede. But both sides, believing theirs to be the right cause, fought brothers, uncles, and fathers.

She’d come hoping to heal the scar, to put brothers, uncles, and fathers to rest at last. But the pain was too much, the souls lost too many.

Once again into the Friday Fictioneers fray! For anyone who hasn’t tried this yet, it is lots of fun and completely addicting. Simply take the new photo supplied each week and write a 100 word story, post it on your blog, and share with the group. They are a wonderful band of writers who are also very encouraging to a newbie. :) My newest addition follows the picture. And all of the other great stories can be found at the link at the bottom of this post.

Dash

“Hey, Andre! What’s going on? Why are we running?” He was getting too fat to run every time the herd spooked.

“I don’t know, Phillip. But it must be bad. Harold zipped by freaking out.”

“You know everything freaks out Harold. Robert’s last practical joke of crying wolf made us look like fools. Again.”

“What was that sound? Did you hear that?”

“It’s Robert laughing at us again.”

“No, it wasn’t laughing. There!”

“Nope…wait! Oh GOD! WOLF! WOLF!”

“You sure about it?”

“Yeah, look.”

Robert zoomed past saying, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” He was missing his tail.

“RUN!”

melted candle

photo by Renee Heath

It was the one thing at the scene that didn’t fit with the crime. There were no cult aspects, no wax for torture. Hell, it wasn’t even needed as a light source. So why did every scene have a big white candle? The reason for the candles might hold the clue to the killer.

Why burn candles? Not light, not cult ritual. Wait? Ritual. That’s it!

“Hey, Carl. Weren’t the previous victims named Mary?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Son of a bitch! This guy is Catholic. He’s killing virgins and lighting prayer candles for them to the Virgin Mary. Sick, twisted bastard.”

CampNano2014-Winner-Vertical-BannerI know it’s been a long while since I posted ANYTHING here. Let’s just say life got very busy almost immediately after starting Friday Fictioneers. I will be joining in again soon. Between moving (again), finishing a semester of college, and trying my hand at Camp NaNo (also again) I’ve had very little time for any of my blogs. Two-thirds of that is over by May 3rd. And for the first time in the six years since I signed up, I actually won NaNo. I plan to do the camp again in July with a higher word goal and the main one in November. For now, all I have to deal with is my crappy day job and a new home study course from the National Genealogical Society, so blogging should be more frequent until the fall semester. I forget how much I enjoy blogging until I have no time to do it.

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photo by David Bowman
Gaia’s Wounds

It was the perfect spot, the one she’d seen in her dreams. The crater had every element needed for the spell. Saving the GPS coordinates, she sent the information to the group. Her sister witches would soon meet Sakura with supplies.

Everything must be set up and ready for the ritual before noon. Other groups around the globe were preparing for the same ritual to be performed at the same moment. It was the only way to begin to repair the human damage done to the environment. To fail meant certain death for all. Success only a short-termed solution.

Image

photo copyright by Sandra Crook

I haven’t had a chance to read anyone else’s story before posting mine. Hopefully this idea hasn’t been done too many times. :)

Buried

So many things I could’ve done.

“Don’t drive so close,” from my wife next to me.

“You really shouldn’t try to text and drive,” said my mother in the back.

“Is that bale moving? Hey, Dad, maybe we should take a different road.”

I hate back seat drivers. Always so much smarter than the person actually driving. But I sure showed them.

“Any idea how long it’ll take to move it all? It’s getting hard to breath.”

“Dad, my head hurts. I think I need to throw up.”

“Honey, are you even listening? Dave? Dave!”

No more worries for me.

I found a writing challenge that looks fun. Friday Fictioneers! Basically, the person running the challenge shares a photo each week and participants write a 100 word story inspired by the photo. Between work, moving, and homework I might not post a story every Friday. But I will give it a shot. :)
lvbydawne_2

photo copyright by Dawn M. Miller

Make a Wish

I waited impatiently as they brought out lamps for the estate sale. The Wish Lamp had to be there. I only needed it for one moon cycle. One wish could cure mom’s Alzheimer’s, could give her back everything she’d lost. Except Dad.

Aunt Ruth wasn’t supposed to inherit it, claimed she didn’t have it. Gram was clear it went to Mom. Aunt Ruth’s “streak of luck” was proof enough for me.

There it was in the last batch! Simple, black and only fifty cents.  The new moon was only two days away. Twenty-eight days and my mom would be back.

 

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