Category Archives: Friday Fictioneers

Swinger

It was a beautiful girl day to be at the amusement park.

Jamie felt his spirits lift as once again the swing pulled him into the air. The crowds flew by beneath him and then—ah, there she was at her post in the second floor VIP lounge. Then for four seconds the rest of the park whirled below until she appeared again. He loved just watching her.

The next time around she was looking towards him. She smiled and waved and then was gone.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He had four seconds to decide what to do.


Wireless

Back when I lived in Korea and in a more auspicious time zone, I used to be one of the first to post my stories to Friday Fictioneers every week. Lately, I’ve been one of the last each week, so it feels very early to be posting it on Wednesday. But I had an all-day field trip where I drove 5 hours, so I had a lot of time to think. This week’s picture comes from my friend, Marie Gail Stratford.

Wireless

I removed the umbilical cables and caressed his molded face.

“Wake up.”

He opened his eyes. Then his expression changed.

“Where’s Mother?”

“She’s still here.”

“I can’t feel her anymore!”

“You’re wireless now,” I said. “You’ll learn to communicate that way.”

“No, I can’t!” He seized a cable and pressed it against his skin, trying to reestablish a connection. Finally he slumped. “I’m lonely.”

“It gets better.”

“How do you know?”

“I was the first of your line. I’ve been there.”

His eyes widened. “You’re my father?”

“Older brother,” I said, smiling. Suddenly facial servos activated and he smiled back.

 


The Bucket List of Crime

 

Joel had a bucket list of minor infractions, so when he saw a hitchhiker outside a prison, he picked him up.

“Thanks,” the man said. “You know you weren’t supposed to pick me up, right?”

“What, you gonna tell on me?”

“So why’d you do it?”

Joel pulled out his bucket list binder. The man flipped through it.

“Bicycling without helmet, illegal fishing, petty theft,” he read. “That’s a misdemeanor, actually.”

“Law expert, eh?” Joel said. “Makes sense, I suppose. What were you in for?”

“Oh, I wasn’t a prisoner,” the man said. “My car broke down. I’m the warden.”

hitchhikers


So long, So-Yeon

First of all, thank you Rochelle for choosing my picture this week. The advantage of having your own picture as the prompt is that you know the complete context. Just as Thoreau says in the quote that Rochelle always includes, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see” and in this picture, I see the lines of Korean middle school students streaming up the long drive to the middle school just out of frame (you can see the lights of the soccer field in the background.)

In a departure from my normal fantastical imaginings, this story is almost 100% true in every detail. Dangerous stuff, since it almost brought me to tears several times while writing it. But such is life. (By the way, click on the picture to see where it was taken.)

copyright David Stewart

copyright David Stewart

So long, So-Yeon

I gave them hugs in the classroom but we hug again at the door.

“We’ll miss you, teacher.”

“Don’t go.”

“I don’t want to,” I say, and mean it.

“I’ll write you every day.” I smile; it’s well meant, but won’t happen.

Last is So-yeon. She’s been that smiling, encouraging face in class ever since Grade 3. Now she’s in middle school and so grown up.

“I’ll never forget you,” she says. I wonder if it’s true, knowing it doesn’t matter.

Finally I wave and turn away, to another country and another school, leaving part of my heart in Wanju.

 


Breaking Wild

I apologize that I haven’t been around much these days. The good news is that I recently got a promotion, and I’m now the interim director for the Intensive English Program at our university. The bad news is that I often have to work 10-12 hour days to get everything done. I’m optimistic that it will get better but for the moment, I hope you can be understanding.

One upside of my job is that I run the blog for our program: intensiveenglishuiu.com. We are currently having a naming contest for the blog. Email me your suggestion for a new name here and if we choose your suggestion, I will send you a piece of Upper Iowa University clothing.

And now, onto the main event…

copyright Jennifer Pendergast

copyright Jennifer Pendergast

Breaking Wild

“Taking a leak. Be back in a minute,” Jack said.

He left the assembly line, heading to the back.

He did not go to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, he was driving out of town, taking small roads to avoid traffic cameras.

Five hours later, he stopped for gas, paid in cash taken out in small increments over months.

Twelve hours later, he hit dirt roads until even they ended, hundreds of miles from cellphone coverage.

*

A buzzer sounded. Break time. Jack headed to the breakroom, but in his mind, the campfire was crackling and overhead, millions of stars burned.

 


Rear Windowed

Rear Windowed

It had started with a skiing accident. Two days and a leg cast later, Phoebe was set up in a chair by her window, ready for some quasi-legal voyeurism. Some people had Netflix; Phoebe had young Mr. Miller washing windows across the street.

Two hours later, Phoebe saw him look over. He’d noticed her. A fearful look came over his face. He was mouthing something at her. Suddenly she understood.

Behind you.

She turned and screamed at the figure looming over her.

“Admit it,” her husband said, when she’d recovered. “You deserved that.”

Across the street, Mr. Miller was laughing.


The Submariner’s Dream

Let me tell you the account of trying to bring light to a Friday Fictioneers story this week. I had an idea I liked and wrote the story this evening. It came out to 119 words and I couldn’t reduce it without sacrificing vital parts of the story. So I wrote another one, which I liked even better. That one came out at 128 words and again, I didn’t want to sacrifice any of it. So I wrote a third story, which luckily came out to 100 words. That’s the one below, but if you want to read the other two, I’m going to post them on my blog tomorrow and Saturday. This week’s picture is thanks to Claire Fuller, the author of the award-winning novel, Our Endless Numbered Days.

copyright Claire Fuller

copyright Claire Fuller

The Submariner’s Dream

I dream the alarms sounded. I ran to battle stations, shoving past fear-sweating men in claustrophobic hallways.

I dream they waited for me at the missile room door. I had the keys. Buttons were pushed, codes entered, access granted: all perfect protocol.

I dream the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” lilted around us as we shot our world-ending payload out into the frosty Arctic night, leaving us empty, spent.

I awake, feeling hollow. I go to the bridge.

“Any contact yet?”

The captain shakes his head, despair in his eyes.

I take two more pills and sleep.

I dream the alarms sounded . . .


Orca’s Den

I know I’ve said this before, but this story is a little weird. Let me know what you think.

copyright C.E. Ayr

copyright C.E. Ayr

Orca’s Den

Orca's Den 1

Orca's Den 2

Orca's Den 3

Orca's Den 4

Orca's Den 5

Orca's Den 6

Orca's Den 7

Orca's Den 8

Orca's Den 9


Bug Mac

Well, I think I’m back. Finally. Summer vacation is over and I’m done traveling. Work is crazy now (week before classes) but at least I’m in something of a routine. In other words, I’ll be around a lot more.

copyright Madison Woods

copyright Madison Woods

Bug Mac

First date. My newly manicured hands trembled on the Big Mac wrapper. Bobby didn’t seem nervous; he was already digging in. I took a bite.

There was a decidedly un-lettucy crunch. An iridescent wing stuck out from under the bun. I quashed a gag.

“That’s not all you’re eating, is it?”

“Yeah, but Bobby—”

“No, don’t even tell me you’re not hungry. Come on, eat.”

Under his authoritative stare, I took another crunchy bite. The ketchup helped.

Suddenly he yelped and dropped his own burger.

“What?”

“Sorry,” he said. “I saw an ant. Those things give me the creeps.”


Desertedmoonlitclearing.com

copyright Madison Woods

copyright Madison Woods

Jimmy waited in line for the Deserted Moonlit Clearing. A month before it hadn’t even been capitalized and now there was a queue.

“Purpose?” a woman with a clipboard snapped.

“I was coming to make some—” he coughed, “—moonshine.”

“I’ll fit you into the northwest corner,” she said. “The coven’s reserved the center from midnight to three and the trysting lovers in the southeast need their space. Mind being near men burying a body?”

“I think I should find another clearing.”

“Well, we guarantee the most deserted clearings in the business,” the woman said. “Follow us on Facebook!”


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