FAKE EVERYTHING

I think I have to give up reading crime murder mysteries for awhile. I am unable to put put them down after I’m hooked. Besides not getting much done, my head is in a funny space. They do absorbed me, deflecting my attention away from the ickiness of everyday life and unwanted thoughts. At the same time they cast me in the real harsh realities of life. I’ve just finished Patricia Cornwell’s Depraved Heart. Her books that I’ve read are about crimes, murder, the FBI and the U.S. government.

The latter two have been on our news alot lately. What I thought of as purely fiction is very much real. Real is scary and I see that very night on the national news. It’s not just pulp fiction. Hard to believe. I have to give my head a shake every time I see and hear Donald Trump. Is he real? Is he really the President of United States? These days I’m learning about fake news, articial intelligence and from Depraved Heart, data fiction. Is anything real or are we manipulated to believe that they are? I wonder if we are living fake lives.

I think I better change my reading material and not watch the news so much. I’m like a sponge. I soak up too much of what’s around me. Better yet, I need to develop a thicker skin. I cannot stick my head in the sand. It will not change reality. I need to see clearly to survive. I need to grow up and not whine so much. I will start tomorrow.

Click, Clock! Click Clock!

It’s Thursday. I’ve been missing my 100 words and Friday Fictioneers. I’ve dusted off my fiction cap and joining in again. We’re hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Our mission is to write a story of 100 words inspired by a photo prompt. Here’s my story to Amy Reese’s photo. Hope you enjoy. If you like, you can join in and tell your story.

My footsteps were so loud. Click, clock! Click, clock! They echoed down the long empty corridor. I paused and listened. Was someone following me? I held my breath. My skin tingled with anxiety. Only the thudding of my heart was audible. Slowly, I turned my head and glanced over my right shoulder. No one!

I let out my breath. My shoulders relaxed and dropped. I started my steps again – slowly and on the tips of my shoes. The EXIT sign flowed in the distance. Just then came click, clock. Click, Clock. CLICK, CLOCK! I picked up my heels and ran.

SWEET DREAMS

It’s Wednesday, time enough for Friday Fictioneers and their stories of 100 words or so to a photo prompt. We are hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Anyone can join in. Here is my little story for this week. I admit it is a little sappy but sometimes it is nice to sweet dream. Life is harsh.

The summer night was warm. The moon bright even through her rheumy eyes. A breeze stirred the hair around her face. She sighed softly remembering another night.

They were sitting on the Lido Deck on the Carnival. A bottle of champagne and two glasses between them, the moon and stars above. There was silence saved for the lapping of the waves. The warmth of the night wrapped around them. They sat in its protected cocoon, savouring their last moments. Tomorrow…

Her head jerked. She sat up with a start. Where was she? Oh, she had fallen asleep with sweet dreams.

UP THE STAIRCASE

It is Saturday and bitterly cold. It’s a good time to gather around the Friday Fictioneers. We like to tell stories of 100 words to a photo prompt. We are hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Here’s my story this week.

She stopped. Her footsteps reverberated in the staircase. She could hear the echo of other footsteps beneath her own. She stood motionless till all was quiet except for the pounding of her heart.

Someone was following her. She took a breath, letting it out slowly. She climbed a step. Then another. She heard the faint sound of feet below her and felt the vibrations of another hand on the rail. Was her mind playing tricks on her?

Another step. She reached for the door. No more stairs. Next time, the elevator. She felt a rush of air behind her. No…

THE MEETING

It is Sunday of the new year. I’m a little late for the ball but what the heck. Better late than not showing up. So here’s my story for the Friday Fictioneers. We are storytellers of 100 words or so. We are hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Here’s this week’s photo prompt.

She saw the coffee shop as soon as she emerged from the subway station. It was exactly where he had said. She stood for a moment then walked to the door. It was now or never.

She scanned the room quickly. The faces were all blurry. Her breath was ragged and her heart thumped.

“Slow down. Take your time.” She scolded herself.

“May I help you?” A waitress came up.

“I’m meeting someone.”

“Do you want to walk through to see?”

“Thank you. I don’t know what he looks like. I haven’t met him before.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows.

EYES AND SECRETS

Another week, another story as Friday Fictioneers gather here to tell the tales of 100 words. Our host is Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Thanks for this week’s photo prompt, Rochelle. I love windows and kitchens. Kitchens are good places for story telling.

kitchen-window — PHOTO PROMPT- © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

If the eyes are the window into the soul, windows are the eyes into the universe for her. She loves sitting here in the mornings. The world is still asleep but the darkness is lifting. First a faint grey, then a haze of soft buttery yellow. Now the orange is streaking through.

The kettle is whistling. A breeze comes in the window. Contentment sighs through her. She makes her tea and takes it over to the table. She gathers her pens and pads. She is ready. Ready and willing to tell the story. The drama, lies and all the secrets.

LEAVING CITY LIGHTS

It’s Friday and time for another story for Friday Fictioneers. We like to tell our stories in 100 words or so. We are hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. You can join in the fun if you are so inclined. It’s very therapeutic for letting off steam. Here is my story according to the photo prompt below.

roger-bultot-2 — PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

He turned his back to the city. Straightening his head and shoulders, he zipped up his jacket. There! He was done.

He had enough of the city lights. Enough of the glaring and angry eyes. Who did they think they were anyways? Treated him like shit. Kicked and spat on. Worse than a dog. Thought he hadn’t noticed. Well, he HAD.

Now it was their turn. See how they like that. He chuckled under his breath. He turned the key in the ignition and drove off into the desert. Behind him angry eyes exploded into shards of glass. Payback time.

IT’S OVER

Here it is Wednesday and time for the parade of stories from the Friday Fictioneers. We like to concoct tales of 100 words or so from a photo prompt. We are hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Here’s my story of exactly 100 words. I’m opened to any constructive criticism. I’ll try not to take anything personally. 🙂

The letter trembled in her gnarled fingers. She knew its content. Still her heart hammered and her hands shook. It was as if he could come back and give her misery. All these years she had shovelled his history beneath the layers of her consciousness. He was buried but not dead.

He haunts her always, though sometimes just barely beneath the surface. She is tired of him popping up at her. Today she is putting him to rest. She dares to look into the enevelop bearing the Royal Mail postage. Registration District: Merton. Cause of death: Smoke inhalation.

It’s over.

WHO’S SORRY NOW

It’s Wednesday again and time for Friday Fictioneers and their tales of 100 or so words. We’re hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Here’s my 100 words inspired by the photo prompt. I’ve been reading murder mysteries. It might have affected my imagination somewhat.

PHOTO PROMPT – © Connie Gayer …(Mrs. Russell)

He had made a mistake. He could see that clearly now. If he could hang on and figure a way out of this, the bitch will pay – big time. He had underestimated her. She was awfully lucky or smarter than he thought.

He better not struggle too much, no sudden moves. It would be disastrous. He took a slow breath, trying to relax his arms and shoulders. Yes, that’s a bit better!

Perspiration ran down his forehead. His eyes stung from the dust and sweat. His throat was dry and scratchy. He was sorry now.

“You’re too late!” She yelled down.

MURKY WATERS

It is Wednesday and good enough for Friday Fictioneers. We gather each week with our stories of 100 words or so, inspired by a photo prompt. We are happily hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields of Addicted to Purple. Here’s my story to the photo prompt from Dale Rogerson.

Dang! Wanda swore to herself. The lake was getting harder and harder to swim in. She wished people wouldn’t be so careless. It used to be so good here. The water was pure and clear. You could see to the bottom. You could drink all you want. It was that sweet.

Now look at it! Full of junk and algae. And the smell. Never mind the taste. She could just gag. She hope that they would wake up soon before it was too late. What could one do? She swims away from debris.

Oh dang! She’s snagged her fin again.

onethousandandtwo

Looking at Infinity

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