The Nature of Daylight

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –   What’s His Name

You stand there, looking at the shadows of a place we called home.

“Ok then…”

Standing at the doorway, I look at your back.

You throw a cigarette butt where I used to plant spring daffodils. Barely visible line of smoke vanishes in the air and I feel nothing. The empty ashtray on the floor of the barn taunts, nurturing my taste for irony.

Watching you drive away, I think about all the times you came into my bed, whispering “I am home.” … and me desperately wanting to whisper back – I am whole.

But you were not my fix.

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Aperture

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –   Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Some hearts are like overstuffed closets, with doors wide open. Emotions falling off the shelves, memories tangled like dozen colorful scarfs, with no room to breathe.

Other hearts are like empty corridors, filled with echoes of hopes and disappointments  bouncing off the closed doors.

You imagine your heart is like the most beautiful library, well-organized, overflowing with books filled with laughter and tears, joy and despair, memories and dreams…and you think you have it all in impeccable order.

You think you can turn the key and walk away.

But then you hear the knock on the door…from the inside.

Forfeit

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –   J Hardy Carroll

The fire is gone. I see it now.
In the way you notice silver in my hair…
Or how your eyes glide over my weathered body…

“Fourteen years is not much of a difference” your eyes smiled back then. I smiled back at your youthfulness and let you play with my heart. I wonder if slow burn with someone closer to my age would hurt less than this wild fire we had.

You say you love me and I know you believe it…
But I see the truth in your eyes…
I lost before it ever started.

How Far Can We Fly?

“Mars Colony Nuova Gaia, 4th of June, 2114.

Day 3157 of the Dedalus Mission.

Our current settlement is home to 8 people and it’s getting crowded. With the new arrivals set for three months from now, we are on a short schedule to add more space…New living quarters, completely new life support unit, another floating garden and we will finally finish the tunnel to the Dome that will house our first animal settlers.

They said we could make a list of things they would send us, but it is limited to 5 items and 50 cubic centimeter per person . How can I decide? From all the things I think I miss, what is it that I truly long for?

Marcus and I had an argument the other day. He says there is something disturbingly wrong with me, for he can’t understand how I can stay so focused and determined after all these years out here, but most of all he just can’t understand how can I be so irritably happy most of the time. He is breaking more and more each day, the thought that he can never go back is driving him crazy, slowly and irreversibly.

How can I explain to him that I dreamed about this since I was a kid? That I would leap from tree to tree in my back yard, pretending I am Joan Carter of Mars. How can I describe all those summer nights I was stargazing from the roof of the old barn on my grandparents farm? How can he understand that irresistible interstellar pull on my heart? Every step in my life lead to this moment, to this place, to this planet.

So, when he asks: What do you miss most?
I reply: Dreams.
And when he asks: So, how come you are always smiling?
I say: Because of the view.

In My Dreams You Always Smile

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –  Sarah Potter

I left the memory of us in the top left drawer of our old desk.  It seemed like a too heavy burden to carry, so I left it all in Mom’s winter garden.

Years gone by and still I dream of us. With hugs and kisses you blew away all my childish pains and worries, even when your oxygen tank became too heavy to drag around.

The old desk is gone. Along with the winter garden and you. The improvidence of childhood is replaced with the ever present sorrow of old age. But I hold tight to our memory.

Ablaze

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –   Karuna

We were children of summer, careless and scorching, just like mid-July breeze. In our world lines were meant to be crossed and rules were made to be ignored.

“Will you come back?” Alain, with his usual boldness asked, while you just sat there and watched the ocean. It surprised  me how effortlessly I enjoyed your naked bodies, but how impossibly hard it became to look into your eyes.

Without a word, you ran into the water and we followed you for our last dive, three souls lost in an ocean of love.

And then the world pulled us apart.

From Afar

Time for another entry in Friday Fictioneers challenge, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. If you want to give it a try, check the info on her blog. 100 words more or less, inspired by a photo, here we go….

 Copyright –   Jellico’s Stationhouse

The soft afternoon light follows the shadows waltzing across the wall, like a lover following the one who offers only a heartbreak. Curtains part before a breeze that carries the fragrance of spring flowers and something long forgotten. The music sneaks around the old furniture, whimsically scattered across the room. Two entangled bodies reflect in the large mirror at the foot of the bed, offering a splendid portrait of wasted chances. A long-case clock in the corner mocks the thieves, as the stolen time slips away.

His arms hold me tight.

This wont last.

But I don’t care about tomorrow.