PHANTOM SWAY

    • Fiction Friday 100-Word Challenge: An Old Man, Maybe?

    Here is the prompt. What do you make of it? Is this man important or is he a bystander? Is he a narrator? A villain? A victim?

    You tell us in 100 words — no more and no less! Post it in the comments or at your own web place with a link right back here.

    You all did a fine job last week. Four stories, all of them cracking-good reads! Can you do more this week? Go tell a friend. Bring them along.

    Share a story with us!

    (Photo credit: pasja100 on Pixabay)

     

    UPDATE: Gage is in with a very cool story in the comments. My entry, “This Old Man”, is over at Jimorama!

    Jimmie Bise Jr
    Latest posts by Jimmie Bise Jr (see all)

    10 thoughts on “Fiction Friday 100-Word Challenge: An Old Man, Maybe?”

    1. He knew they’d been suffering for years, and he had to keep watching, even though he knew that if he saw anything he could actually report to CPS, it would mean those kids would be traumatized for life. He knew that intrinsically.

      And yet, weren’t they traumatized already?

      The screaming. The thuds.

      When the cop cars showed up with DCFS & SWAT, he was sick. But he’d also done some good, maybe.

      As they finally drove off, the sociopath dad in cuffs and screaming threats at the window, he slowly turned away, crossed himself, and tried to sleep for once.

    2. He climbed to the window because there was clamoring outside.
      People gathering, looking up, wanting answers, obviously out of place.

      Eli thought:
      “Wait, who are these people?
      How long was I out?
      What did I do?”

      Wondering how much absinthe he drank last night, he called for Minerva, the town’s chemist with whom he had shared the bottle.
      She smiled, slipping the old spell-book into her bag.

      Bewildered he shouted:
      “Why are you staring at me?
      I didn’t mean to bring you here and I’m not sure I can return you.”

      Then someone started a fire, and torches were lit.

    3. It was the silence that always tugged at his soul. The unmistakable silence, framed by the vibrancy of the world before him. How can one so engulfed in the unwavering the sound of nothing exist in the melodic tapestry of now?
      How long has it been since the tickling pastel sounds laughter played in the recesses on his dreams? Can he remember the blue sounds of the wind or the rainbow sound of a child’s song?
      There is only the colorless silence.
      His soul yearns for the colorful sounds of now.
      He knows of where it lies.
      Death comes today.

    4. 10,958 days.
      10,958 days since he last kissed her good morning.
      10,958 days since he last saw her sweet smile.
      10,958 days since he saw the ocean breeze sweep lovingly through her raven mane, forcing her to playfully tuck it behind one ear.
      10,958 days since he watched her board that boat.
      10,958 days since she’d vanished into the horizon. Every day since he’d sat in his window, hoping against hope for her return.
      And today…a light…growing brighter…skimming the water, coming closer…seemingly coming for him. And he knows…she has finally come back for him.

    5. “Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!” The cry was loud from the roadway. But he did not want to bring out the dead. He did not want to do anything at all.

      It had been hours since his children had passed. The plague came through town quickly as it had throughout the land. First it took his wife last week. Last night it took his son, and his daughter early this morning.

      “Bring out your dead!”

      He peered out the window. No, he would not bring out his dead just yet. He wasn’t ready to say good bye.

    6. He thought he was done storytelling, but now the witch was out his window, haunting the rose garden again. Sun dogs were barking bright loud and he squinted at the apparition. Her midmorning face belied her soiled robes.

      “Some devil unburied from the holler? Bah, just my tears,” he said, hiding face in hands. He blinked and the witch remained.

      “I drunk wine, whiskey, family, philosophy, religion. Wrote it all down, just like you said. I drunk bottles of death! Now you come?”

      He blinked again and the witch was gone. A tincture titled “torment” had appeared on his windowsill.

    Comments are closed.