Thursday, August 23, 2012

Flash Fiction #30



In the gray, I hear freighters as they traverse the narrow channel en route to the Pacific.  I stand on the porch and listen as they call to each other warning of a proximity made even more treacherous by the fog.

The dividing horizon is a blur.  The mist hides all traces of the sky, the water, the earth.
 
But, these twelve-thousand ton vessels voyage on trusting in their inner navigation to lead them to distant shores. 

I too am unable to see my destination.  I can only pray that I am plotting my course in a direction that’s true.

Photo by the lovely Maggie Duncan.  And who could forget our Friday Fictioneer Femme Fatale...Madison Woods!

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Flash Fiction #29



Poseidon’s temper was legendary, but his wrath would be second to none if he learned of her betrayal. 

When the time came, only her handmaiden, Miryam, was present.  Amphitrite nuzzled the baby’s neck to memorize his scent then wrapped the tiny boy in her gossamer shawl.

“Take him and go,” she said to Miryam.  “I cannot bear to look upon him any longer.”  

Miryam placed the seashell and its precious cargo into the currents of the Aegean and watched as it washed away to some distant shore.
   
What became of the boy would not be known for generations to come.  

After you read my writing, leave a link to your blog in the comments, because I look forward to reading your story as well…especially if you happen to be a FridayFictioneer!!  (Thank you to Madison for using my picture.) 

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Flash Fiction #28



Another bout of violent hacking echoed down the hall from the den-turned-sickroom.  His father was getting worse with each progressing hour, yet Carl found it near impossible to scrape together even the smallest iota of sympathy for the man.

One last convulsive cough was followed by a wheeze…and then silence.  

Carl rose slowly from his lounger to go check on the elder Morris.

Philip was sitting up in the hospital bed and grinned when his son appeared.  He removed the lit cigarette from the stoma in his neck, plugged the hole with his forefinger, and hissed, "I ain’t dead yet." 

Thank you to Madison for this exceptionally gross picture!  I love it but didn't know whether to go the alien route, write about fungus and rot, or reminisce about toasted marshmallows.  I finally decided it looked like something that might be growing in the lungs of a die-hard smoker.  Enjoy!  

Don't forget, if you want to join the Friday Fictioneers,  stop by Madison's Blog and join the gang!