Adventurous summer holidays,
a time of make-believe,
when every hidey-hole was a fort
and monsters lived in trees.
Imaginations running wild,
we made up our own fun.
Roaming fields and woods together,
playing in the sun.
Exploring all the world around us,
poking holes in every place,
curiously searching for something new,
somewhere to call our space.
Winter’s bite brought snowball fights,
building snowmen was the best.
Waking early on Saturdays
to watch a VHS.
No real concept of the future,
we lived for every day.
Concerns of war and strife were distant,
just actors in life’s play.
The future, now, is hard upon me,
I live to pay the bills.
War and strife are ever-present,
our politicians’ will.
Winter’s bite brings stalling car,
a house that doesn’t heat.
Counting pennies from day to day,
do I have enough to eat?
Exploring now feels tiresome,
I’ve seen it all before.
I won’t go out, I’ll stay at home,
and remember to lock the door.
Imagination running wild,
I make up my own fun,
roaming better worlds inside my head,
avoiding carcinogenic sun.
The fields, now paved, offer no adventure,
the trees no monsters hold.
The time of make-believe is over,
now that I’ve grown old.
Cloaked in darkness, I stared out through the window of the ancient tower. The years had not been kind to this place; nor to me. The weather of time had eaten away at the stone and mortar of my soul, and the tower slowly crumbled in unison.
The window was small; small enough for a child to squeeze through. A brave and possibly stupid child who risked cracking their skull in a fifty-foot fall to find out why, on the nights of no moon, orange lights could be seen dancing within the rooms of the castle’s mirror image standing lonely upon Gallows Hill.
There was something a little different about the newest coffee shop in town. Something odd that Mia couldn’t quite put her finger on.
Maybe it was the fact that the front door was permanently locked. A small sign in the marbled-glass window asked patrons to enter via the back door, which could only be accessed by walking down the alley at the end of the shop row.
Maybe it was that.
This is your friendly neighbourhood Urban Spaceman, reporting in after… *checks last post*… nearly 2 years? Gosh, I didn’t think it had been that long! Tales of my demise, yadda yadda.
I recently received an email notification that my domain was up for renewal, and that I should cancel in advance if I didn’t want to fork out money for something I was no longer actively using. So I noted the email then forgot to do anything about it. Now, I’m glad for that.
The siren swam beneath the sea,
singing her song without a care,
for under wave her life was free—
her life was free, but cold and bare.
Singing her song without a care,
she tempted men with lust and love.
Her life was free, but cold and bare,
and sailors listened from above.
She tempted men with lust and love,
her song did fill their waking dreams,
and sailors listened from above,
the ocean swallowed up their screams.
Her song did fill their waking dreams,
to them she was the perfect bride.
The ocean swallowed up their screams;
their lungs could not the brine abide.
To them she was the perfect bride,
for under wave her life was free.
Their lunges could not the brine abide—
The siren swam beneath the sea.
I wasn’t going to do any writing this week, because my schedule’s super busy with my new job, but I loved this pantoum, written last week by memadtwo, so much that I decided to stretch my legs and try one myself. I used Sue Vincent’s Thursday #writephoto prompt as the inspiration for this one. Please go check out more stories on Sue’s site.
• Words: 797 • Themes: Speculative fiction, Sci-fi •
“Excuse me, Madam President, but it’s time.”
At Naomi’s whispered prompt, the world’s first female president tucked the well-creased piece of paper bearing her own handwriting into her breast pocket and squared her shoulders. Out there, behind the purple curtain, Earth was waiting. A crowd so large that SolSec had needed to pay for a thousand guards to work overtime.
“How do I look?” Charlotte asked her most trusted aide.
The back-stage lights dazzled off Naomi’s pearly white smile. “Perfect. Try not to be nervous.”
• Words: 722 • Themes: Fantasy, Horror, Suspense •
The road snakes out before me, a sinuous ribbon of grey slicing the fields of golden flowers neatly in two. An azure sky rules over them, replete with fluffy white clouds. In my chest, my heart skips jubilantly. Alfor told me I was a fool to take the road less-travelled, but my instincts have proven him wrong—again!
What a beautiful day! A more inviting morning I could not have dreamed up. The warm of the sunlight feels glorious against my skin, and the scent of the flowers on the breeze reminds me of my childhood. Funny, but I can’t pinpoint which specific childhood memory it recalls. Perhaps the scent of my mother’s cinnamon buns cooking in the oven… or is it the fuchsias in the garden, coming into full bloom? Whatever the memory, it’s wholesome and good, just like this place.
Elise dragged her chair to the window and turned her gaze to the sky. By the sickly glow of the dying streetlight, she looked younger than her eight years, and when she closed her eyes and clasped her hands together in prayer, Michael’s heart broke for his daughter.
Finished with her prayer, she turned to him with the question he’d been dreading since the blizzard started, five days ago.
“Papa, do you think the sun will come back tomorrow?”
“Yes, Kitten, of course it will,” he lied.
Word count: 87
Today’s Friday Fictioneers story, courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-fields, is inspired by the featured image ©Dale Rogerson. Last week, I didn’t manage to get around to reading/commenting on every story on from Friday Fictioneers 😥 — so, this week I’ll prioritise reading/commenting first on the odd-numbered stories, then next week I’ll be doing the same for the even-numbered stories.
If your blog is hosted on Blogger/Blogspot, I won’t be able to comment on your story. Blogspot/Blogger just sends me on an indefinite loop of proving I’m not a robot whenever I try to comment on their hosted sites.
Click the frog to read more Friday Fictioneers stories:
The sign appeared comically placed. “Come In, We’re Open”—positioned right at the end of the pier, where the rotting white boards ended and the seemingly endless ocean began. To the casual observer, it was nothing more than a poor joke; to the right eyes, the sign hung in front of a building rendered invisible by a powerful soul-spell. A safe-house for me and mine.
I ran my thumb along the grip of the pistol holstered at my hip. Reynard had asked for parley, but that didn’t mean others wouldn’t try to take advantage of the moment. My fellow sorcerers weren’t known for their restraint.