Let Me Go Gently

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 –  Sandra Crook

Sun deliquesced on the horizon, when at last he saw her. Slightly crouched figure, gently swaying in the wind, falling. He caught her before she touched the ground, holding her tightly, regretting every wasted moment. Blood still trickled from her wrists, but he felt the moment she was gone.

Devastation would be eventually replaced by sadness and conclusively by countless layers of regret. Eons later, while caressing his pulse with the cool blade of the knife, her last words would resurface.

“You don’t do it when there’s no one to see. You do it when there’s no one to care.”

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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.

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.

How Far Can We Fly?

Mars_atmosphere

“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.

MarsColony590

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.

earth-globe

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.

The Crest

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….

campsite-jwf

 Copyright –  Jan Wayne Fields

PCT Day 159, Miles 2551

I feel pain in unfamiliar parts of my body, the parts you acknowledge only when you are hurting. My sleeping bag is thin as a single sheet of paper and rain pushes through a tiny hole in the upper left corner of my tent. Potato soup is unappealing and tasteless as ever, but I am saving my last chocolate bar with the desperation of a wild thing.

Still…there is this feeling of equanimity. With the end in sight, I feel like a winner for the first time in my life. I just had to find myself.

—> PCT <—

Evanescence

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….

ceayr-purple-door

 Copyright –  CEayr

His neighbors were used seeing his hunched figure sitting on a bench, unconsciously caressing a wedding band on his right hand, occasionally dozing off.

Few remembered his late wife, even fewer knew his name. With the same ease they failed to see his sorrow and regret, they failed to notice when his head touched his chest.

The coroner would later find a carefully folded note in the left breast pocket of his white shirt…a faded piece of paper with neatly written words that offered a heartbreak on a repeat.

“I am sorry for quenching your fire with my tears.”