Last Line Lane, Speed Limit — Somewhere in the Eighties

100 words for the film buffs of Friday Fictioneers, directed by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, based on her photo prompt.

 

(Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields)

Was that Gaff behind the hotdog stand?

“It’s too bad she won’t live. But then again, who does?”

 

A pair of tawny tomcats rested in the shade on a second floor balcony.

“Deny’s will like that. I must remember to tell him.”

 

Two men at a bus stop share a bottle of liquor.

“Well, what do we do?”

“Why don’t we just wait here a while and see what happens?”

 

Walking through Hollywood, memories come alive. Well, most of them.

“One thing about living in Santa Carla I could never stomach. All the damn vampires.”

 

 

Five after Whatever

100 words for Friday Fictioneers based on the photo prompt below.

(copyright Douglas MacIlroy)

 

I was building a cuboctahedron when a packet of hot peppers fell from an opening and onto the workbench. I peered inside and found myself seated in a restaurant opposite a beautiful woman with sparkling eyes and a sunny smile. Across the street sea met sky beyond a pristine white sand beach.

“I was strolling on the boardwalk when a craving for Calimari alla Griglia came over me.” she said.

“And I was….Oh, never mind.”

“This is going to be an unusual relationship, isn’t it?”

We meet at Scalini’s in St. Heliers every Thursday at five after.

The Nerve (II)

100 words for Friday Fictioneers. (A reposting this week as per Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s suggestion. Coincidentally, I will be on the road for two weeks, so her idea could not have come at a better time.)

When I first posted this story (The Nerve) it was woefully overlong at 147 words because I had yet to master the fine art of slicing, dicing and killing my darlings. For this post I decided to try to pare it down to 100 words. The result, again based again on a fine picture by Mary Shipman, can be read below. For those of you with time on your hands, you might want to check out the original and compare it to this one just to see what got blown away. Or not. I’ll never know. (I’ll try to comment on your stories when I can this week and next, but expect me only if you see me. Mahalo.)

Should I get taken to the Land of Oz on my travels and not be able to find my way back, please know I meant every word I ever said.

I love all of you.

 

Aloha, D.

 

 

Copyright Mary Shipman

 

The funnel cloud writhed, sinuous and silent above rich farmland.

“If you’re going to stay up there, say hello to the Wizard for me,” screamed my wife from the cellar. A shrew and a control freak, she had long ago become oil to my water.

“Courage,” I heard Bert Lahr intone.

A thunderous roar filled the air as the tip touched down across the street and blew the Baum’s house to splinters.

Time to fly.

My last thought before darkness descended was that the witch was finally going to have to get some new wallpaper for the living room.

 

 

Last of the First

Can you imagine how it felt? And what it must be like to see your fellow countrymen throw it all away over the years?

Here is my 100 word (on the nose this week) story for Madison Woods’ FridayFictioneers. It’s about an old man alone with his thoughts after hearing a friend has died and realizing he’s the last of his kind still standing.

I’m posting it early because by the time Madison kicks things off it’s midnight on Thursday here and I get hammered trying to keep up. WordPress starts counting hits on its own schedule and I’m trying to beat 180 views. Have to utilize the full 24 hours. There, I’ve gone and exposed myself as a greedy stat monkey. Oh, well. I’m going to try to rock the Casbah anyway. Thanks for reading. Tonight at midnight I’ll add the link for all the other stories by changing the color of the word ‘here‘ to red. Check in and read, comment and post your own story. (I think we’re going to be long on werewolves and such, but hey, there’s a full moon out so what do you expect?)

Aloha,

D.

I remember skip-hopping, my charcoal smudged white boots raising silent dust fans that fall in perfect slow motion parabolic arcs. Shadows deep and dark contrast with the harsh glare of the sun in a starless sky. My suit ventilation system hums in the background of distant and excited radio transmissions.

Even now when I think of her I smell burnt gunpowder and feel the grit on my teeth.

The memory helps this old pilot write and when I see her riding high she reminds me that I once walked on her surface. The vibrations thrum through her core yet..…and mine.