I almost missed Friday Fictioneers last week. I was away for Thanksgiving, so I couldn’t post a story until last night. If you’re interested in reading it, it’s here. Here in Fayette, Iowa it’s a bright, frosty day with a windchill of -12 (Celsius). Perfect for an icy story.
Hope, Through Fire and Ice
“Kill me. Please!”
The healer looked at him gravely. “When I was a little girl, I contracted the burning sickness too. An alchemist injected ice into my veins to save my life. One drop was enough but his hand shook and he put in three. From then on, I could never get warm. I begged for death but it didn’t come.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“To tell you there is hope. Good can come from even the worst situations.” With that, she breathed her cooling breath on him and for the first time in months, he felt relief.
As a writer, I’m intrigued with situations where there is no easy answer. A story is so much more complex when you can sympathize with all parties and put yourselves in their shoes. As you read this story, ask yourself what you would have done. I’m curious to know.
copyright Sandra Crook
The mob of infected surrounded the car, their pounding fists turning it into a drum.
“How can you?” they screamed. “Where’s your heart? We’ll die without that medicine.”
Craig keyed the loudspeaker. “There are only ten doses left. We need them to replicate more or millions could die. I’ll return in two days.”
“You expect us to believe that?”
“Sir, I can’t get through,” the driver said. “They will eventually overturn the car.”
“Run them down,” Craig said finally. As the car bumped forward and the screams increased, he punched the dashboard. “Idiots! Can’t they see I’m trying to help?”
This story is neither quirky or dark, my usual themes, but you know what they say: “departure from the norm is the spice of life.”
Here are a collection of other stories around this picture.
Copyright Roger Cohen
It probably would have failed anyway. Who would want to hear a double bass duo anyway? Quadruple Bass, we called ourselves.
I claimed Grandpa’s old pride-n-joy. My brother had to save up three years for his instrument. Practice breaks were filled with lofty plans of concerts, tours, autographs. He talked; I listened, smiling.
His sickness killed all that. My last performance was when I lugged both behemoths up to his third-floor hospital room and tried to play both simultaneously to make him smile.
They just sit there now, but sometimes I think I can hear them hum to each other.