Jack and Jill
Jack was a darling baby. We knew it was just muscle spasms, but he smiled at us minutes after leaving the womb. We were prepared for sleepless nights and endless tantrums but he remained calm and cheerful, even when he was sick or frustrated. We would fight to read him his bedside story and as he progressed from nursery rhymes to children’s fiction we would often stay with him until he dropped off to sleep.
Jack met Jill a few years before leaving school. We watched, amused, as his body transformed itself while his voice broke. They spent long hours in his room, supposedly studying, and we exchanged knowing glances as we heard them laughing and giggling.
Jill had long blond hair, sparkling blue eyes and dimples every time she smiled.
They made the perfect pair.
She was almost unrecognisable when we saw her in the morgue after the accident, and the hit and run driver was never apprehended.
Now Jack punishes his body with tattoos and spends hours scowling in front of the mirror. We are often woken in the middle of the night by his screams.
Jack is an angry man.
This is my second week back to Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. It’s nice to be back.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
The cell was intended for two but there were never less than five.
Behind the heavy locked doors, they had television, the only distraction from the stench of frightened unwashed bodies.
The stronger ate and slept whilst the others made use of newfound skills to get by as best they could, forced to live with their nightmares, night after troubled night.
Outside, the corridors were painted bright canary yellow and the floor, although a little worn, was polished and without blemish.
Tasteful artwork adorned the walls.
Yes, the authorities were proud to show visitors their model prison.
Friday Fictioneers is a weekly Flash Fiction challenge proposed by the lovely and talented author Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo prompt was provided by © Dale Rogerson. Thanks Dale.
The ceiling fan cut sounds through the air in the shade of the bedroom, curtains drawn.
‘Whop whop whop whop …’
Sally sipped Mum’s homemade lemonade from one hand and texted with the other.
‘Whir Whop Scrirr Whop …’
‘U comin by later Brad’
‘Yeah, I’ll shimmy up around eleven once your folks have crashed.’
‘See u later babes.’
‘Hum Whir Hum Whir ….’
A growling, brattling roar from outside, interrupted the soft sounds from above.
She drew back the curtains and stepped onto the balcony just it time to see their magnificent pine topple, and fall in slow motion to the side of the garage.
Below, Sam, her obnoxious brother, raised his fist slowly into the air and then savouring the gesture, gradually unfurled his middle finger until it was erect and menacing.
He turned to his mates and they guffawed loudly.
Sally swooshed the curtains closed and threw herself back onto the bed.
Now she regretted talking to her parents about those spicy, pungent odours escaping from Sam’s room late at night.
This week’s photo prompt is © Shivangi Singh. You can see the rules for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers by clicking on the link.
I’m uneasy with skulls. Although I trained as a nurse, neurosurgery was never my thing.
Give me a pus filled wound or invite me to an operating theatre to see open heart surgery any day of the week
The sight of blood doesn’t worry me at all.
Even human excrement is ok as long as the room is properly aired.
I looked to the mantlepiece and winced
It was time to draw a line and make a stand, so I turned to Simon.
I scraped up some courage and attempted to be polite and reasonable.
“Skulls are creepy and repulsive,” I said.
“Your chalice, with it’s macabre spinal stem, aggresses me beyond words and I refuse to share my mantelpiece with it any longer.”
“What’s this obsession with magic and the occult? Please keep your Aleister Crowley books in your room and take this chalice as well. I don’t want to see them again.”
Simon grabbed the chalice from the mantelpiece and slouched back to his room.
I poured myself a stiff vodka and heard the usual chanting.
I suppose he’s going to go gothic next.
Sometimes it’s hard bringing up a teenage kid on your own.
This is my entry to this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction.
Do you think it’s a glamorous job being a photographer?
You see that flawless panoramic photograph and you say to yourself that it’s just a case of being in the right place at the right moment.
I won’t deny it.
But did you think how I got to that place?
I spent days searching for exactly the right location, often traversing dangerous terrain, just to pick the best spot for the shoot. I had to take into account the panoramic backdrop, the vegetation, the proximity and the features to capture.
As for the time, I waited for the right season and probably spent days waiting for the exactly the right weather conditions and got up at three in the morning to be there just as the sun rose.
Some photos require less effort.
My brief is to render the object more imposing than the skyscraper.
The camera, therefore, has to look up to the statue, so here I am lying on the wet grass amongst plastic wrappers and bird droppings while people eye me as if I’m completely crazy.
I hope you like the result.
This week I’m celebrating my return to Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practioner, a challenge that disappeared sometime last year. The other day I discovered that it had been resurrected since last September! So I’m back. Better late than never, right!
Google Street View of Landers, California.
Carol phoned me early, all excited. I was only barely approaching consciousness.
“I need to go to Integration,” she said. She was speaking far too rapidly for my coffee craving brain.
“Slow down, Carol,” I replied. “Please.”
“Can you drive me up to that Integration place.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“What’s in it for me?”
I salivated. Carol was an extremely attractive woman but she also baked mean cupcakes and I could always dream, couldn’t I.
“Ok, I’ll grab a coffee and come pick you up.”
I dropped her off just in front.
I’ve never been inside.
Sound baths and harmonic sound frequencies are a bit too much for my no weird shit mind.
I strolled down the road to help kill time.
When I saw the realtors sign I knew where I could invest Dad’s inheritance.
A motel, a restaurant, maybe a casino.
Thank you Carol.
What Pegman saw! It’s a fresh, new and exciting Flash Fiction Challenge.
High and Low
When Tracey was 15 years old she had a brief affair with Fred.
Her parents forbade her to continue but later when the bump became visible, it was already too late to do anything.
They took her out of school for a term, pretexting illness, and she gave birth prematurely to a beautiful boy in a small private clinic, well away from home.
She was denied the right to hold him in her arms or give him a name.
Look closely and you’ll see the tracks of my tears.
My name is Stan and today I’m finally hugging my Mum.
Friday Fictioneers is a wonderful weekly flash fiction challenge. Why not click through to read the other entries or to join us.