Delete

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Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

In the first picture, Zoey was screaming, her face beet red, while Jackson’s finger was firmly implanted up his nose. Delete.  Second photo – Zoey shoved Jackson just as the camera flashed. Delete.  By the 10th photo, Zoey and Jackson wore bright smiles, their arms wrapped around each other like loving siblings. Brandi posted it to Facebook with the hashtags: #blessed #bliss #momlife.

In another city, Brandi’s friend Sandra was scrubbing vomit out of her shirt as something crashed in the next room. They’d been snowed in for days. She glanced at Brandi’s latest Facebook update on her phone, and sighed.

 

For Friday Fictioneers

 

Drill

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It was clear that Bianca, the nervous patient fidgeting in the reclined chair, didn’t remember her. But Lauren, Dr. Asher to all of her patients, certainly remembered every cruel word Bianca had ever said, despite the intervening decades.

“Is it going to hurt much? No offense, but I hate coming to the dentist,” Bianca squeaked.

“It won’t hurt a bit,” Lauren said with a placid smile as she wielded the drill. She asked her assistant to shut the door.

 

The Six Sentence Story prompt this week is Drill.

Thousand

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She’d been writing the same book since college.  The story was a beautiful one that had come to her in a dream.  She’d sprung from bed in her tiny dorm room, startling her roommate, and run to jot the idea down before she forgot it.

Today, the girl with the eager smile and a head full of dreams was gone.  She was a mother.  A wife.

A thousand words.  I need a thousand words.

“Coming to bed, babe?” Dean asked as he passed her office in the hall.

“Not yet.”  She blew him a kiss, then opened her laptop.

 

The Moral Mondays prompt this week is FINISH WHAT YOU START.

 

 

Fighter

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It was quite the coup.  The biggest moment of her career. Her, the little girl with skinned knees from a town no one had ever heard of, interviewing the most powerful man in the world.  She asked tough questions, holding his feet to the fire when he was evasive.  When it was over, he called her a fighter.  She laughed and told him maybe he’d met his match.

Once she was alone, the tinted windows of her chauffeured car completely raised, she felt the bile rising to her throat.  She waited for her pulse to slow, praying she wouldn’t vomit until she got home.

 

The Moral Mondays prompt this week is Lessons from Dad.  My favorite Dad Lesson – Never let them see you sweat!

 

Swimming Lessons

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I open the back door and step onto the deck, the sticky summer heat moistening my skin, and step gingerly into the refreshing, frigid, pool.   My mother insists that babies are too young to swim; I didn’t learn until I was in my twenties.  I clutch my six-month-old daughter to my chest, her head resting in the crook of my neck, until the water is chest-level.  I carefully let her go, my arms outstretched to catch her, just in case.  Fearlessly, she ducks her head underwater, her tiny legs fluttering like a bird’s wings.  I dive under and rise to meet her under the rippling blue surface, kissing her cheek.

 

The Six Sentence Stories prompt this week is Deck.

Beacon

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The night had started well.  She could remember his playful laugh, the way she felt his eyes lingering on her as she walked away.  You can look, but you can’t touch, she’d thought with a giggle.

She looked at him now, slumped over in the passenger seat.  She stopped in an abandoned lot, dark and still at 3 AM, but bustling in a few short hours.  She let his body tumble onto the wet asphalt, the mysterious drug he’d intended for her still coursing through his veins.

She stared at the word written on his forehead in crimson before driving away.

RAPIST.

 

The Moral Mondays prompt this week is Look, Don’t Touch.

Noise

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Piya Singh

Everywhere she went, it was too loud.  She couldn’t think or speak or breathe.  All she knew was the hot, frantic pounding of her brain.

She left the noise.  She found a place in the woods, quiet and cool.  The first days were bliss.   Her brain quieted.  She slept for hours under a green canopy of trees.

The noise returned, louder and more chaotic.  She’d never escape it.  She walked deeper into the woods until she reached the lake, her pockets filled with stones.  She jumped, plunging deeper and deeper until she reached its bottom, and the silence.

For Friday Fictioneers

Glass

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“You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”

Kacey put the phone on speaker so her sister, Kenna, could hear.”We’re almost there, Mom!” Kacey zipped around the corner in the luxury car her parents had just given her.

“Go have a Xanax,” Kenna added.

“Byeeeeeeeeeeeeee,” Kacey yelled as she ended the call, tossing the phone in her Gucci handbag.

“The same crap every Sunday.  I’d rather eat glass.”

They rushed inside as their mother emerged from the kitchen carrying two plates, each covered with tiny, broken shards.

“Your purse called me back,” Mom said with a tiny smile.

 

For Moral Mondays – The prompt this week is Spare the Rod, Spoil the Child.

Black-Blue

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I’m startled awake.  There are coarse, raised voices out on the deck.  Curious, I climb the stairs and see them, a man and woman, grappling, fighting over an unseen object.  The woman loses the struggle and slips over the railing with a chilling wail, a flash of white dropping into an infinite black-blue.

I close my eyes, but prolonged sleep is impossible.  She tiptoes through my dreams, leaving crimson footprints wherever she goes.

Someone’s fiddling with the lock.  I hear the cabin door creak open, heavy footfalls across the tiny room.  The bed is jostled, and I close my eyes more tightly, pretending, praying.

“I know you’re awake.”

For Story a Day

Turnabout

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It’s not my fault.  Anne was missing deadlines, making stupid mistakes.  I didn’t mince words on Friday when I told her to clear out her desk.  She didn’t make a scene, just gave me a tight-lipped smile and left the room quietly.  I should have known then.

I am nervous when my boss asks me to come into the conference room, where the HR rep is waiting.  Covering the table is a print-out of every email I ever sent to Anne, dating back years.  Messages she promised were deleted.  My face is hot as I drop into the nearest chair.

 

The Moral Mondays prompt this week is Harsh Words Stir up Anger.