This story was written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by wonderful author and artist, Rochelle, on her website, Addicted to Purple. Each week, she provides us with a photo prompt and her own story, and we have 100 words to respond with out take. Anyone is welcome to participate–just give credit to the provider of the photo prompt (provided this week by J. Hardy Carroll), write your own story, and click on the blue frog below to read others’ work and add a link to your own.
Reading the Signs
Frieda and Barb moved through the debris, touching familiar broken chairs and upturned tables absently. They had been many times to the abandoned factory, but none of those trips had been this important. Brenna was missing.
Barb gasped at the first stained glass image.
“Brenna,” Frieda said.
They followed the pictures from left to right, seeing the little girl get scooped into a car and driven to a little house by the ocean. They studied the car and the man driving it. They studied the house. They called 9-1-1 and gave an anonymous tip. They watched the glass, and prayed.
The following was a story I originally wrote for the Flash Doom contest hosted by The Molotov Cocktail. Great fiction gets published there, by the way–definitely check out thee winners of Flash Doom and the other pieces on the site! I didn’t place anywhere in the contest, but I had a lot of fun writing this one and wanted share it here.
by Emily Livingstone
Sonia stepped out of the climate-controlled room and onto the balcony of the gleaming white tower. Heat enveloped her. Leaning over the rail, she saw a congregation of alligators lumbering out of the river to sun themselves out of the jungle’s shade. Mother said that once there weren’t so many alligators, but now, Earth had cycled back to the beginning, and alligators ruled.
She squinted. Mother said she shouldn’t come outside—the sun would bake sickness into her skin—but she was eighteen now, and felt free out here with nothing to bar her from the world except distance.
Movement. A scraggly dark line wove through the trees. Penitents. They carried signs above their heads. She always wondered if the signs were for her, yet they never looked toward her—was she invisible, this high up?
WE HAVE BROUGHT THE END, said one sign.
THIS IS HELL.
Peering through the telescope, she saw that there was one among them without penitent robes. His tanned, muscled chest showed through his ragged shirt, and a different heat rose in Sonia.
A young woman pulled back her hood.
Sonia tensed, knowing what was coming.
The woman strode toward the alligators, hands rising up, palms open.
The alligators let her get close. Then, the largest sprang, taking her leg in its jaws. Another leapt at her hip. She screamed. There was blood.
The spectacle ended, and then Sonia’s skin prickled. The strange man was staring at her. She felt suddenly naked. He raised a hand in the air.
The bells jangled, and she ran to the other side of the balcony. Looking down, she saw Mother waving the red handkerchief. Sonia opened the trapdoor and flung the rope ladder down.
While Mother climbed, Sonia glanced back, but the man was gone.
“What happened?” Sonia asked, helping Mother up.
“Helicopter went down.”
Normally, Mother landed safely on the roof. Sonia’s stomach flipped at the thought of Mother unprotected.
“Did you see the penitent girl?” Sonia asked.
“I heard her. You were on the balcony again?”
“What else can I do but watch the alligators and the penitents?”
Mother snorted. “Read. Practice your music. Paint.”
“I do, but—”
“None of it’s real. Outside is real. The penitents, today, there was—“
“Idiots! Acting out their guilt for global warming by martyring themselves, feeding the big lizards. All that’s out there—”
“—are desperate people, ready to kill or be killed,” Sonia finished.
Her mother blinked. “Exactly.”
Usually, Sonia was happiest with Mother home, but that night, over and over, she felt the thrill of that man’s eyes meeting hers.
The next day, Mother left on foot to salvage supplies from the helicopter.
Sonia played her harp. She read. She watched the jungle through the telescope, trying to spot snakes in the trees.
The bells clanged and she jumped. Looking down, she saw the red handkerchief. She’d already dropped the ladder when she realized the figure at the bottom wasn’t Mother, but that man. He grinned and climbed. She thought about getting a knife to cut the rope. Instead, she waited.
Finally, he came through the trapdoor. Rising and panting, he extended his hand. “Jim.”
His hand grasped hers.
She led him into the air-conditioned tower. Jim took in everything.
“Are you a penitent? I saw you with them…”
“I saw you, too.”
“They speak of you—defying the planet’s fate and the rule of Earth’s Chosen, the Cold-Blooded Ones. All this—air conditioning, refrigeration, generators—destroyed the world.”
“But you’re not a penitent.”
“No,” he said. “I think you should share resources with us, live among the people.”
“Mother says—” Mother says people are desperate. She says there isn’t enough for them. She says they are dangerous and deranged.
“Your mother’s out, right?” Jim grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the balcony. “Let me show you what it’s like down there. We’ll be back before she knows you’re gone.”
Sonia felt faint. “Another time.”
“Come on. There’s life beyond penitence. There’s fellowship, community—love.”
She compared this to love scenes in her books. Where were the flowers, kisses, vows?
“The people need help,” he said, pulling a little too hard.
“I’ll go,” she said. “Just wait a minute.”
Mother was right. He was dangerous. Sonia went to her bedroom, loaded her pistol, and returned with the gun at her side, shrouded in her skirts.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “You need to go now.”
“I’m not leaving without you.” He stepped forward.
She raised the pistol. “Go.”
He hesitated, and his eyes hardened. But he left.
Sonia lay in bed afterward, wracked with guilt, both for letting Jim up and for making him leave.
The next morning, she woke to a roar of sound.
Jim was back, at the head of a mob of people, none in penitent robes.
He yelled, “Let down the ladder.”
Sonia gripped the railing. “I can’t.”
A woman said, “If you don’t, we’ll kill her.”
The crowd parted, and there was Mother, bound and gagged.
“How do I know you won’t hurt me if I let you up?”
The people howled, but Jim shouted above them. “I swear you’ll be fine. We’re not monsters. We’re just trying to survive.”
Mother shook her head. They’re lying, Mother was saying. Sonia’s mind crept toward nightmarish possibilities understood vaguely from books, things worse than death.
The people were getting louder. Suddenly, Mother was on the ground in a pool of blood. She didn’t see what happened. Jim was shouting. Sonia sank to her knees and the crowd left.
She wanted to retrieve Mother’s body, but it was impossible.
Night fell. When the sun returned, so did the mob, carrying a great ladder. Sonia felt numb. She opened the trapdoor and climbed down. The crowd yanked her from the ladder. Hands pulled her hair and skin, scratched at her eyes. She couldn’t see Mother or Jim. Let it be over soon, she thought.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by wonderful writer, Rochelle, on her website, Addicted to Purple. Each week, she provides us with a photo prompt and her own story, and we have 100 words to respond with out take. Anyone is welcome to participate–just give credit to the provider of the photo prompt (provided this week by Roger Bultot), write your own story, and click on the blue frog below to read others’ work and add a link to your own.
Revised Edition Pending
There he goes again, telling my story, and telling it wrong:
How he saved a woman from a brutal murder.
I found out where she was. When I broke into his basement, she escaped. He killed me, claiming self-defense, that I’d come after them both.
I was a quiet man, with few friends. People believed his version.
I’m not so quiet now, though. I make a hell of a lot of noise in his diner and his house. I’m still learning the ways of this misty world, but I’ll tell the story my own way before the end.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by wonderful writer, Rochelle, on her website, Addicted to Purple. Each week, she provides us with a photo prompt and her own story, and we have 100 words to respond with out take. Anyone is welcome to participate–just give credit to the provider of the photo prompt (provided this week by J. Hardy Carroll–thank you!), write your own story, and click on the blue frog below to read others’ work and add a link to your own.
I’ve been lax with participating and with my blog in general, but today was a good day to write here! I am still writing, at least. I’ve just been hoarding my time for other projects, but I do feel that nagging twinge that comes with neglecting the blog, and, as ever, I am telling myself to do better! : )
It’s hard to hear Evelyn say we’d always been welcome when they’d always had the iron fence.
I remember the day I’d climbed a tree and dropped down. I explored all those secret spaces. I imagined wearing a gown. A prince would propose, but I’d say no, I couldn’t leave my garden or my fish pond; I’d send him back beyond the gate—but I was the one ejected. As I left, Evelyn watched in triumph.
Now, the town mourns Evelyn’s father. She wants our love, but how can we love when we can’t even reach them with arms outstretched?
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by wonderful writer, Rochelle, on her website, Addicted to Purple. Each week, she provides us with a photo prompt and her own story, and we have 100 words to respond with out take. Anyone is welcome to participate–just give credit to the provider of the photo prompt (this week, thanks to Liz Young!), write your own story, and click on the blue frog below to read others’ work and add a link to your own.
“I wish you’d known her,” Paul said. “I mean—the way she was.”
Amy sighed. Since they started uploading personalities to robotic simulacra, everyone blamed “the process” for their loved ones’ shortcomings.
“Honey—don’t hate her. She loves you—she always—“
“She must’ve been an alcoholic before,” Amy said. “They say the bodies don’t crave—it’s the memories.”
“And there’s a reason she keeps doing this.”
Paul was still cradling the familiar head. This time, when Mom had destroyed herself, part of the face came off.
“We’ll get her fixed,” Paul said.
“We can’t,” Amy said.
Sorry for some of my late replies last week. That election was a shocker. (By the way, if you’re interested, I had a story, “The Magic,” inspired by current events recently published with Necessary Fiction–please feel free to check it out.) And it didn’t help my writing that my little one has been teething something wicked–but still feeling lucky and happy to be home with her this year (and tutoring part-time) before going back to work full time next fall.
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by wonderful writer, Rochelle, on her website, Addicted to Purple. Each week, she provides us with a photo prompt and her own story, and we have 100 words to respond with out take. Anyone is welcome to participate–just give credit to the provider of the photo prompt (this week, thanks to Bjorn!), write your own story, and click on the blue frog below to read others’ work and add a link to your own.
Before Jodie was one, she shouted, shook maracas, and banged on every surface. She bounced when music played, clapping and smiling her gummy smile.
When she was seven, she played the guitar by the pond, and the fireflies hovered around her, bobbing gently with the music.
At ten, she played a trumpet solo that filled everyone in the audience with confidence. The principal had her play during the morning announcements, to dispense daily courage.
When she fell in love, she snuck into the church and played her cello. Light gathered. Momentarily, everything in her and around her was holy.
I’m very excited to write that my short story, “The Magic” was published today with Necessary Fiction as the story of the week! I’m very grateful to have it there, and I hope you’ll take a look!
If you read it, let me know what you think on this blog or tweet to me @Emi_Livingstone. Thanks for reading!
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers. Each week, Rochelle gives us an image and 100 words to tell a story. She also inspires us with a story of her own. This week’s prompt image comes from Jean L. Hays – thanks! Click on the blue frog below to read more stories that correspond to this prompt and to add your own.
By the way, I’ve been having trouble trying to comment on Blogger or Blogspot blogs…maybe something in my privacy settings? I will try to investigate. I keep pressing the “publish” button, but it won’t publish; the page just refreshes with my comment still pending.
“Come on—adventure! Local color!” Ben said, steering Janice into the little store by the highway.
Merchandise was piled against the windows. Ben started explaining their unorthodox honeymoon to the silent owner.
Then she saw it—an unremarkable green plaid shirt—yet her heart swung toward it even before she saw the pink heart patch she’d sewn on the elbow twenty years ago.
It was quiet. Ben was staring at a locket, mouth open.
“How—” Janice said, holding the shirt. “My dad?”
“Things find their way here,” the owner said, sitting back. “People, too. What’s your memory worth?”
If you have a moment and the interest, I hope you’ll check out my story, “The Magic,” published with Necessary Fiction today. : )
This story was written for Friday Fictioneers. Each week, Rochelle gives us an image and 100 words to tell a story. She also inspires us with a story of her own. This week, she included an excerpt from her forthcoming book, As One Must, One Can. This week’s prompt image comes from Peter Abbey – thanks! Click on the blue frog below to read more stories that correspond to this prompt and to add your own.
Friday Fictioneers–those of you on Twitter might also like participating in the daily #VSS365 prompt from @FlashDogs! Tweet a story inspired by the prompt and include the #VSS365 hashtag!
Hannah walked Josie home using the footbridge over the river.
Hannah pointed at the graffiti. “From the H-C Gang. Don’t come here without me—they might get you.”
Josie stared, silent.
“See the chain-link sides?” Hannah added. “They’re to keep people from jumping.”
Josie didn’t understand, but her dreams were full of black paint and people jangling the chain link, trying to get out, to jump.
Years later, Josie stood on the bridge, pulling her sleeves down over her wrists. She knew there probably hadn’t been an H-C Gang in their little town. Some dangers, though, were real enough.