This week’s photo prompt is provided by Footy and Foodie. Thank you for our prompt!
“Last rays of light are like the end of a dream.” Trudy softly speaks as she swirls the red wine in her glass.
The Sun slides into the lake with a broad orange stripe left behind.
She taps her pen against the paper pad.
“Ok, End of a dream.” Trudy downs the wine in one swift move. “Is this a good dream or bad one? Maybe a little more wine will help.”
The sky pulls down its purple night shade. A few stars twinkle into view. A cool whisper of the wind rustled the reeds in front of her.
“End of the bottle is like a bas dream.” Trudy looks into the bottle hoping for more. “Oh wait, I can use that.”
“Tonite, we see the Watchers return.” Ahote stands at the base of News Rock as the Sun approaches the far ridge.
“God, this is so cool. Do you guys come here every year?” Billy looks at hibs Hopi friend in his embroidered jacket.
“It’s based on lunar cycles. My people would come up in large groups years ago.” Ahote scans the horizon as he speaks “We can not come alone. When we see them, say nothing and take no pictures.”
“Oh..Ok. I didn’t know.” Billy looks about the sky.
A flash of light beams toward them. Three silver figures emerge underneath the light.
“Th..th…They” Billy points and his arm waves.
“Shhh!” Ahote watches his friends come closer.
“But they are..” Billy yells and takes off.
“White people are so easy.” Ahote laughs.
Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writers, details are available at https://flashfictionforaspiringwriters.wordpress.com/2017/11/13/fffaw-challenge-week-of-november-14-2017/
1. calyx [the sepals of a flower, typically forming a whorl that encloses the petals and forms a protective layer around a flower in bud|a cup-like cavity or structure, in particular|a portion of the pelvis of a mammalian kidney|the cavity in a calcareous coral skeleton that surrounds the polyp|the plated body of a crinoid, excluding the stalk and arms]
5. box-cutter [a thin, inexpensive razor-blade knife designed to open cardboard boxes]
6. suede gloves
7. dilettante [a person who cultivates an area of interest, such as the arts, without real commitment or knowledge]
10. drop box [(in weaving) a box situated on either side of the race plate of the loom that is designed to hold shuttles and to bring bobbins of colored thread in line as desired|a secured receptacle into which items such as returned books or videotapes, payments, keys, or donated clothing can be deposited]
Reason lays like a glistening bounty. She wraps herself in suede gloves and an obscure veil of espionage. She leaves the rest of us like empty calyx after the flowers receive box-cutter shave.
We were guilty of whispers of lurid and solicited truths. She, the dilettante that is she, hides her empty thoughts on a drop box painted in abstracts.
It was clear her taunting use of body was a lesson. With the fury of a war mission, despite the price I would pay, disbelief would be no option. I would slide into the dirt beneath her motives if necessary. I can win this game, or so i thought.
Puff looks over at HR.
“Remember the good ole days…” He pauses turning his head to the sky “We could breath fire and chase a bad child or two.”
“Video games. That’s the problem.” HR Puff’n’stuff looks at his friend “Violence has replaced getting eaten by mystical creatures. Sad. Really sad.”
Puff let’s loose a terrific flame followed by a smoke cloud.
“Knock it off over there!” HR furrows his brows. “They’ll can us for sure. You know open flames are dangerous!”
“Imagination was the key to great adventures.” Puff looks surprised at his friend. “Are we left to be rationalize as irreverent?”
“How’s that rent over in Honalee getting paid?” HR rolls his eyes.
My sly smile blossoms. I have denied the child’s fate. An anxiety closet with a tapestry weaver in decline will soon be renting somewhere else.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by yarnspinnerr. Thank you yarnspinnerr!
“There has been strange lights in the woods for the best part of a week. Jeb says there’s a tree trunk made of concrete. It’s time we look it over.” I look over at Rodney. His black eyes hold my fast in my chair.
“We been out there before. Same lights…things get funny out there in them woods.” Rodney uses the back of his hand to rest his bearded chin his arm angles to the arm of the chair. “You ought to think this through.”
His words flood back night images of dancing lights and unworldy sounds. We always promised never to talk about what happened. Neither of us could put enough pieces together to make sense of it all any way.
“But they are tiny. We seen them. If we just smash down the nest…” my words float across a dead silence. “It’ll be different..this time.”
“Well, that Gulliver shit didn’t work last time! I got my double barrel sitting right here.” Rodney pats the but of the wooden end of his shotgun.
“Its our woods! It ain’t right to let them build and take over it.” My defiant streak fights my lack of memory from last time.
199 words (borrowing from short pieces 😉)
1. lockjaw [spasm of the jaw muscles, causing the mouth to remain tightly closed, typically as a symptom of tetanus|an accent associated with the upper class of the northeastern United States, characterized by a supposed lack of movement of the mouth and jaw]
3. adjuration[an earnest request; entreaty|a solemn or desperate urging or counseling]
4. laconic [(of a person, speech, or style of writing) using very few words| brief, terse, succinct]
6. spare key
7. swan song [a person’s final public performance or professional activity before retirement]
8. mellisonant [containing or constituting or characterized by pleasing melody]
The spare key to my mind clicked at the wrong time. I was trapped with lock jaw uttering my mellisonant swan song to an ambiguous costumed witch. My canter was an electric shock posturing me as a laconic dope. Her turning away left me looking in need of adjuration.
In that moment, when flames licked the horizon and the sky burned with an orange glow, Taylor knew everything was going to be alright. An orange light washes over him. It feeld like a receding tide of stress relieving so many fears. The exhaling wind across the desert brings a taste of night’s chill. Taylor watches the blue fade to purple and then black. The truck’s headlights watches over the dry creek bed. The vast blanket of desolation buries any signs of life. His eyes search the horizons for traces. Satisfied there is nothing, he drives the truck down into the sand. The truck groans and lurches downward. Tires find rocks only to kick them up. A cloud forms illuminated by pale moonlight. It dances within a fading breeze. Taylor halts the truck where the creek once formed braids. It seems fitting to use the dead creek. His cargo needs not be found. Nor identified. He loosens the back of the trap to reveal a shovel. The sand gives easy. The headlights produce long growing shadows. The Earth opens wide to accept its prize. In the distance, calls of the night begin. The return of noise is partially unnerving. Distance is enough to restore the peaceful feeling. The moonlight plays with the senses. He back fills the hole quickly. His eyes scrub the shadows for movement. In a place with little respect to time, he begins to question if he overextended his stay. Quick feet find the path to his truck. An easy feeling resumes once he is inside. A deep breath and quick check of the mirrors calms down the pulse. Taylor starts up the truck. He drives across the disturbed sand a few times back and forth to smooth out the scene. Its perfectly staged now. Time to leave the place for civilization. Down a loose sand road another truck comes as he goes. Everything will definitely be alright in a few more miles.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Dorothy. Thank you Dorothy!
“All these people. They just keep coming and coming.” Dennis looks down Temple Street.
His eyes follow his fellow worshippers across the tide of cars. Their smiles tiny beacons of holy light. He sees a child. Bolding running along racing the cars as they crawl by.
“When I was his age…there was traffic going both ways on the street. No waiting to pass across. No sounds of brakes squealing. No car horns trying to make go so much faster.” Dennis sighs.
His mind slows briefly. He is here to pray afterall. A little grace on his own part the body tells his restless mind. He thinks of the miracles upon his faith was built. This stream of faith pushing the scene from his current reality.
A soft beep of a horn rattles him.
A smiling face waves a hand to allow him passage in front of her. The next car halts and so does the third. The path to his enlightenment is clear.