I remember her clearly, the oversized suitcase, the faded rose on her jacket.

Later, at the diner, I asked a local about her.

For at least 30 years she had gone down to the bus station daily and waited for her lover to come take her away.

Funny thing was that the dark-haired stranger had jilted her long before, back in the 1950s.  She had waited patiently for him until she was 41 and began the crazy ritual.

I saw her the next day, the spring beauty just beneath the snowy old surface.

I wonder if she is still waiting?

***

Some of you (if you are old enough) may recognize this as coming from the song Delta Dawn (or try this if you like Tanya better than Helen), only I set it 30 years later, say 2003, when poor Dawn is in her 70s, not her 40s (the song says 41).

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Dale Rogerson. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

It was not a job I was looking forward to!

Aunt Margret was always more than a bit eccentric, and she had that side to her which, well, let’s just say that more than one family member said they were happy she never had any children.

Her storage unit, which was my responsibility, was not pleasant.

Damn, I’d have to call the county about disposing of hazardous waste. And what was up, did she rob a pharmacy?

So there’s her dog Baxter!

What did that say on the mail package, something about remains?

We always wondered where Uncle Harry went…

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Ted Strutz. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

They are coming!

Shhhh.  Close your eyes.

I can’t sleep with them out there!

This bit of woods is special, a fairy forest.

Their guns are real, not fantasy!

Shhh.  They are fairies of light, of good.  The magic is powerful, but you need to believe.

Believe?  Now?

They have a trail in the trees, one our enemy can’t see, because they are rough and can’t believe. You need to believe.

I hear them!

Close your eyes and see.  We can catch the rail, escape.

But…

Shhh. Close your eyes.  Do you see?

Yes…

“Stop, or we’ll shoot!”

Let’s go.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Alicia Jamtaas. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

**

Remember – You do have to believe, keep that hope alive, even if you’ve reached the end of the track….

“It’s cheap, industrial grade sandpaper bought in bulk.”

“Yes, but it is a cost on our budget, and someone is stealing it.”

I shook my head in disbelief.  Why would anybody steal the cheap toilet paper from the office bathroom?  But the evidence was there.

“Ok, lock it up even tighter.  And I thought keeping pens in stock would be hard…”

We found out soon enough that it didn’t matter how secure it was since Mr. Thornbill had access to all of the keys.

He also made over $200,000 a year.

I never figured out why he flushed his career.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Trish Nankivell. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

**

Years ago someone at work was stealing TP. I don’t think they caught the thief, btu everyone knew the person doing it most likely made 3 times what the average American made. I always wondered why they risked their super high salary and nice career for the nastiest TP on the face of the Earth…. (If you didn’t notice, there is a lock on the roll in the photo…)

He set his water bottle down where there should have been wine and bread.  The hymnal in the liturgist’s chair had been untouched for almost a year.

On the other side of the room, across the empty pews, Marge sat at the piano.  Her eyes crinkled in a smile. He nodded and she began to play that traditional song.

He watched the screen as ‘Chelle joined Floyd in one little square.

Bob did a silent countdown with his fingers, 5,4,3…

At “one” he took off his mask, smiled at Bob and his camera.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Marie Gail Stratford. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

There they were, just as I’d seen them a thousand times on TV, only now they were right in front of me.

It had been easier to get onto the set than I ever imagined.  Sure, it was a local studio in Podunk, but you’d think it would be tighter.

They were local celebrities, all right.  They went to all of the events and such.  People watched them every night.

And for what?

They called it “news”.  More like mainstream lies and Deep State propaganda.

Tonight, people would get real news.

I took aim and waited for the right moment.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

Yes, the clouds are beautiful, and, yes, looking up is one way to remember the natural world when surrounded by this artificial one called a “city”.  But, no, that’s not why I’m looking up.

My mother always told me I had an overactive imagination.  My father, when around, would just snort.

I remember once, when visiting the city, seeing that blue streak across the sky and knowing exactly what I saw.  It was him.  I could tell.

Of course nobody believed me.

But I believed, and do to this day.

And right now we need a superhero more than ever.

***

Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo © Na’ama Yehuda. Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

*

OK, I borrowed the title from a Laurie Anderson song…

Jered studied the fields with a frown.

Heat cracked the rust-red oxidized soil, a dust devil, some scrub brush on the side.

But it was gone, all of the corn and beans.  A bit of shriveled brown and tan with a hint of yellow and green.  That was it.

This was once considered prime farmland with rich, black soil.

Or so his pa had told him.

But that was when a huge tractor plowed acres in minutes and the fields stretched to the horizons.

Before the heat.

He shook his head.

You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.

***

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