The image was burned into her memory as clear as a photo. The coffee-cup motif with the address above it. Of course she remembered it sideways, viewed as she lay on the floor with consciousness slipping away. She knew that was where he had died, where he’d been killed. Thanks to the bullet in her brain she couldn’t remember anything else – not his name, or her own for that matter. But that was enough, a place to start her hunt; she would find them and make them pay. But first she had to get the IV out of her arm.
Friday Fictioneers 100 words
He couldn’t believe what was happening. Just as he’d added a few drops of the latest catalyst the liquid concoction had started to bubble, or so he’d thought at first. Turned out it was actually starting to levitate, the catalyst drops forming the center of some sort of energy field that rose up and emitted a strange blue and green glow. “Great Scott, these energy readings are off the chart!” He exclaimed to himself. He meticulously recorded and cross-checked the results. No mistaking it, 1.21 gigawatts of energy produced from a small amount of readily, cheaply available chemicals.
It wasn’t quite a perpetual motion machine, but it had the potential to be a tremendous source of cheap energy, one that produced no harmful by-products or emissions as far as his instruments could measure. With time and a great deal of additional research, it could revolutionize the energy industry.
With a sigh he dumped out the solution and washed his instruments, this would never do. This had been one big, long dead-end, getting him not at all closer to fulfilling the contract with the sponsors of his research. “Dammit,” he thought, “back to the drawing board for my erectile dysfunction medication.”
Sunday Photo Fiction challenge, 200 words
Everything in that damned workshop had a story behind it. The shells he spent hours combing the beach for, leaving me partner-less for volleyball, the clock with the jumbled numbers he picked up at some scuzzy flea market normally reserved for buying back whatever you’d had stolen recently. The clock was fitting, he was never on time. Used to joke I spent my life waiting for him, then one time he just never came. Speeding driver snatched my beloved, infuriating artist away forever. And now I had to do…something with his workshop. But not today, today I remember the stories.
This story is for the Friday Fictioneers challenge (picture based story, 100 words: http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/10/15/17-october-2014/
Filed under Prose, Shorts
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.”