2am. The headlights of a dark sedan illuminated the honeysuckle hedge by the front walkway. Looking through the side window, the porch light reflected off the Marine officers silver insignia. Oh God NO!
We laid him to rest at Arlington.
6 months before he deployed, we laid the foundation of a cabin by the water. “This will be our family’s legacy cabin Pops”! “For generations”!
It’s been a year. I eased up to the shore on my paddle board. Whoosh Whoosh, a bald eagle landed on a log right in front of me. Overwhelmed, I began to weep.
The hunted winced as he tried to remove the blood crusted brick red gauze from his gunshot foot. Easing his foot into the cool creek water, the current softened the dried blood, allowing the removal of the bandage. Some of the pain subsided. Minnows darted at the suspended cotton fibers and coagulated blood particles in the water.
“I’m gunna get you Wabbit”!!!
“This guy is serious” thought Bugs as he hunkered down.
Written for Rochelle Wisoff Fields Friday Fictonners challenge to write a 100-word story in response to a photo prompt thanks . You can find other storieshere.
1979: Protest folk music was dying down and Disco had reached its peak.
“Begin the day with a friendly voice, a companion unobtrusive” blasted through the vibrating buzz alarm of the 1960s turquoise clock radio. (Time for school) “Spirit of Radio”by Progressive Rock band Rush Lyrics by Peart Neil Peart that is, aKa The Professor
“If you choose not to decide, you still have me a choice” “And the meek shall inherit the earth” “Conform or be cast out” Prophetic words to pubescent outcast teens, proclaiming Peart understood. It’s been a year since Neil’s passing, RIP Professor Sept1952-Jan 2020
Thank you Professor🤘🏼-Goroyboy
This was written for the photo prompt for Rochelle Wiscoff’s Friday Fictioneers 100 word story challenge . Although not a traditional short story. Given the photo prompt of an empty drum set along with the appreciation I have for the artist/poet/lyricist, Neil Peart I found a tribute was in order. additional stories based on the photo prompt can be found here
Glare of the sun reflecting off the abandoned hotel, pierced my eyes .. stench of a body filled my nostrils, sharp gravel on bare feet kept me shifting from one foot to the other.
Looking through open window
Blanket of blowflies over the corpse imprinted on my brain. A crack of a twig, The hardness of a gun on the back of my head. Dropping down turning and then with an upward thrust of the heel of my hand, forcing my assailant’s septum into his brain.
Walking away from the building.
Writing: Nobody home.
Word Count- 100
Written for Friday Fictioneers Thanks for hosting Rochelle and thanks to Yarnspinner for the photo prompt.