Monthly Archives: July 2013

The Train Ride Together

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They boarded the train together, hand in hand.  As the train jolted forward and lurched around corners they kept holding hands.  At first a tight, giddy grip; both excited for their journey together.

However at times in distraction or annoyance her hand went limp, threatening to slip from his grasp.  He learned how to hold on without squeezing too much.  Other times she was the one who had to wrangle his hand from slipping.

In rough spots and dark tunnels their hands clung to each other, in pleasant sunshine they nestled softly together, and in bitter cold they entwined closely for warmth.

With little warning they arrived at her station, she had to exit.  He’d figured his would come first (statistically probable).  Her apprehension at de-boarding was matched only by his terror of riding on alone.  His hand raised hers to his lips, then she was gone.  He sat alone, hand feeling so empty, waiting for his station.

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This is in response to Alastair’s Photo Fiction challenge, which is also where the photo came from.

Photograph Copyright Notice

© Alastair Forbes and Alastair’s Blog, 2010-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Alastair Forbes and Alastair’s Blog with appropriate and specific direction to the original content

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Once Upon a Time…

maui-from-mauna-kea

…there was a beautiful princess who was to be married to an evil imperialist to seal the annexation of the island kingdom, part of the imperialists’ manifest destiny.

But the princess could not do it, for she loved a village surfer boy.  Sadly, on the eve of their planned escape he was captured and killed by the imperialists.

So the princess, dragging her broken heart behind her, went to her favorite spot.  Looking over the clouds as tears rolled down her cheeks and prayers dripped from her lips, she spread her arms and soared to freedom.

Annexation proceeded as planned.

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This flash fiction story is in response to the Friday Fictioneers weekly photo challenge.

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Filed under Prose, Shorts

Flight Attendant

flight-attendant-thumb7290983

He admired the way the fabric of her skirt stretched tight against her shapely backside, with only a hint of a panty line disturbing her curves.  He admired, too, a hundred other details about her that charmed him to desperation.  The line of her jaw, her perfectly sculpted hair, the glint of light striking her lip gloss, and once when she didn’t notice him watching a real ray of sunshine – a genuine smile, a friend smile, not one of those lifeless customer smiles.  He suddenly was struck by an overwhelming desire to have and to hold her and by the equally overwhelming realization that he never would.  His heart fairly broke at the loss of the ephemeral flame of pretend passion.  Still he could not help but strain and crane his neck to savor every moment of visual delight when she bustled past, and he insisted on hearing every last drink and meal option to prolong their brief interactions by as many moments as possible.  Nor could he help the goofy grin that flashed across his face when their eyes met.  He felt foolish.  He felt lonely.  And, unreasonably, he felt rejected.  But that wasn’t new, that was the shadow that doggedly pursued and harassed him always.

 

For her part, she thought, “He seems friendly, kind of cute too.”

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Filed under Prose, Shorts, Uncategorized

This Time

Not gonna write no poetry this time,

not gonna feel sorry for myself in rhyme;

this time it’s serious and so am I,

this time I’m gonna be the other guy,

who puts down the pen and gets down to work

cleaning this mess I’ve made and am,

doing what’s needed, not giving a damn

who says and thinks that I’m some kind of jerk.

This time will be different, it has to be,

to end this sad-sack cycle routine.

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Abandoned (Friday Fictioneers)

anelephantcant

“Maybe he was abducted by aliens,” she mused, pondering her life’s Great Tragedy for the millionth time.  As you do when an after school café date turned into The Day Dad Left, abandoning bike and daughter.  “Why would his bike be there?  It doesn’t make sense.”

Sometimes she tried to romanticize it, “Maybe he was in danger, and left to protect me.”  But what kind of danger could a hardware store clerk be in, really?

Usually she wound up in the same place: “He didn’t give a shit about me.”  “Like I don’t about him,” she quietly lied to herself.

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My latest Friday Fictioneers entry.  Old ones (and they are a few months old now), can be found @ the following links:

Michael Nicoletta

Shadows

Gunshots

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Filed under Prose, Shorts