I lay in bed, reading a long lost friend. No. Nothing like that, not really. That sounds too fantastic, too contrived. I missed some modern greats in my youth for I was doing other than reading. What I was doing was living (something we forget all too often). I was by the sword which was a guitar and all that came with. Never the less, there I was not minutes ago, book in hand, two sheets to the wind, the courthouse tower ringing out the hour only steps away, and this thought would not settle, damn it, for all I wanted was to learn what the Gunslinger would do next and enjoy my sweet buzz. Someone (thing) was speaking. Get up you fool, the voice said. Not the first time in my life, I might add. And I know this voice, we’ve become enemies of a sort because I’m stubborn and don’t play by the conventions. But tonight I was moved, so I ventured down through narrow passage lighted by street torches beyond, fumbled the cork and poured, and then powered up the old faithful. So here I now sit, upon a bar stool, with a freshly poured Cab, pecking at the keys. By the time one reads this the cab will be dry and my neighbors might know my level of apnea induced by reds and pollen. Fair well and fear appropriately, my friends.
Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for all her work and organization. You can visit her site and read through the other Flash Fiction Friday postings at:
For those who are new, Rochelle shares a photo prompt to which several #FridayFictioneers compose a 100-word flash of fiction. Come, sneak a peek inside, what wonders you shall behold.
Here’s my contribution:
What Truth Awaits?
She fled through the window which once framed everything wonderful. Down the blossom covered trellis, her escape made.
Could hate be love deceived?
Mustn’t there be other?
Beyond white pickets and onward, nigh three crush petals and scattered memories, she ran, guided by the only lover she would ever know.
A prying light.
This iron, a barrier inward or out she cared not. She climbed, leaped. She crouched seeking shadow’s shelter.
In silvering moonlight she could just see the grid upon which she now stood, then, something moved. Nearby, a hungry grinding began to chew the earth.