glossarch

Here’s how it happened: I was on the ladder fixing a gutter when the wind gusted and I ended up standing at the edge of an old canal, and this boat glides up all weathergray and brown, riding high, filled with people.
“Going back?” asked the pilot.
“Sure,” I said.
“Step aboard, then.”
I did as he said.  The crowd shifted to make room.  The boat did not rock.
We slid down the canal till we reached the ocean.  I turned to ask where were were going but I realized I was alone.  Then, brightness: a newborn child crying.

———-

My daughter sleeps quietly in her swaddle and I watch her, Godlike, on the baby monitor.  Oh, and by the way: whoever came up with the metaphor “sleeping like a baby” clearly never had children.  Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below:

I saw her gazing at the road sign.
“Not from here?” I asked.
“Nope.  Landed in O’Hare an hour ago,” she said.  “Headed to Cali.”
“So you’re got a layover and figured you’d get your kicks?”
“No,” she said.  “I’m walking Route 66, heartland to coast.”
I just stared at her.
“Gotta unthink it, man, and just do, you know?”
She smiled at me and hiked up her backpack.
I gave her a whatever look and checked my phone.
Seven new emails.
When I looked up again, she was gone.

———-

My daughter sleeps quietly, the dogs do too, and though I should follow their example I write fiction instead.  Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below:

“Why’d you give me this name, anyway?” asked Last Snow.
“Your mother and I called you that because we brought you home in a snowstorm,” her father said.  “We figured it was the last one we’d ever see, and we were right.”
He smiled at her.  She smiled back.
“I heard there’s some rice left in Boston.  I’ll take the gun and head over.  You stay here, out of sight.”  He shaded his eyes and looked through the greenery at the empty street.
“It’s already New Year’s,” he said.  “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

———-

The world turns, the Fourier transform’s still on my wavelength, and I’ve got just enough sleep to walk around but not enough to boot up whatever scraps of intelligence I had previously. Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below:

“We coulda jumped him somewhere else,” the man said. “Not right here in broad daylight.”
“Shut up and help me prop his bike up,” his partner said. “Lay him out next to it. Make it look like he’s napping.”
“Yeah, and how long will that fool people?”
“Long enough,” his partner said.
A thump. The man turned around and saw his partner topple to the grass. Then, just before he faded away as well, the man heard:
“Lay them out next to the bike. Make it look like they’re napping.”
A bird chirped. The world kept turning.

———-

I return after a lengthy intermission in my regularly scheduled programming.  This intermission involved becoming a father to a beautiful little girl named Evelyn.  But now (sleep permitting), I’m back in business!  Anyway…Every Friday, writers from all around the world write 100 word (or thereabouts) flash fiction based on a photo posted that Wednesday on Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog.

I welcome constructive criticism; without it I cannot grow as a writer.  The weekly photo that inspired this story is below: