The tires crunched as I pulled to the shoulder and parked. How had I never seen them before? I opened the car door.
The ancient stairs were covered in a peeling scale of fallen leaves. Those same leaves that had always hidden the stairs in all the summers of driving by.
What was it about the sight that made my heart go untethered in my chest? What was it about them that spilled hope and fear like a drug in my blood?
What would happen if I climbed them? And if I never did, would I always wonder?
What a delight to find my photo on Fictioneers this morning! Thanks for using it Rochelle. I can’t wait to see where all the Fictioneers go with it.
I don’t know if mine is a story, or just what actually goes through my mind every time I walk by this spot. To date, the stairs remain unclimbed. But the place lives large in my mind as a personal metaphor.
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PHOTO PROMPT © Yarnspinnerr
Ryan pushed through the hedges to the porch on the back of the house where Pop used to sit, staring out at the lake, his binoculars beside him on the wrought iron table.
“Wow, he really let the old place go, didn’t he?”
“He’s been sick, Ryan. You’d know that if you ever came by.”
He ran a hand along the peeling paint, then brushed the flakes on his leg. “So. What do you think we can get for this place?”
“You mean sell it? We practically grew up here.”
He snorted, yanking at a vine. “All the more reason.”
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to author Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting. This week’s photo courtesy Yarnspinner. To read more stories or to submit your own, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
Henry hated these things. He hated the small talk and the choking necktie and the hearty handshakes as he milled about the crowd. But it was good for the Foundation, which was why he came.
Between the buffet and the bar stood a woman like a Michelin star confection. She smiled and walked over, one hand extended. “I do declare,” she said, each word basted in gumbo. “You’re Henry Hall. I admire your work.”
Her hand was as silky as a summer nightgown. “Thank you,” he said, voice husky.
“What brings you out to our gala?”
“I love these things.”
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers. Thanks Rochelle for hosting this party and thanks to Dale Rogerson for this week’s photo. To see more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria
“She’s doing it again,” he said.
I went to the kitchen window to see. Katie had taken over Gran’s old patio set for her ‘talk parties’, as she called them. She’d snatch fruit from the fridge drawer, and put out cups and plates. “Who’s she talking to, you think?”
He folded his arms over his chest. “Gran, I suppose. I know she misses her. But sometimes she says other names. Does the name ‘Annamarie’ mean anything to you?”
I felt myself go pale. “I think it’s time we talk to someone,” I said.
“No, a psychic.”
98 words. This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the gracious and talented Rochelle. This week’s photo copyright Fatima Fakier Deria. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, or to submit your own, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
“He’s coming for you,” Tammy whispered. She fell back on the bed, giggling.
Linda got up from her own twin bed and padded to the window. She lifted one corner of the blind.
He was halfway up the block, heading toward the club, just like he did every day this week. Her eyes traced the swells of his sculpted arms. “They say he’s going to fight this weekend.”
Ma would’ve said he was no kind of man for her, but she was one to talk. No, Linda was getting out of this overcrowded flat, and soon. “I’m going downstairs,” she said.
This has been an edition of Friday Fietioneers. Thanks to Rochelle for hosting this party and to J. Hardy Carroll for this week’s photo.
To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.
PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford
The flowers were always there on his grave. Every year on Memorial Day, and on his birthday too. Tiger lilies, with great curling petals as ginger as his hair.
New graves are marked by holidays, bearing ribbons, frames, and wreaths. But as the years go by, the holidays go forgotten.
Each year, his grave saw fewer flowers, as those who remembered passed on, each to their own grave. Until the only flowers left were hers. And when she died, the last petal fell, to be caught by the wind. Ginger as the hair that no one remembered.
I may have watched Coco one too many times.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the talented and generous Rochelle Wis0ff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy Marie Gail Stratford. To read more stories inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click here.
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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Waking up in June
Hey Koolaid, get your summer on
Morning dew, I don’t back down.
School’s out, summer!
Playground, dayground, butterfly garden
I can swing so high the chain goes slack
Squealing on the breath-catch dizzy-down.
Ready or not, here I come!
Barefoot and coppertoned, hear my rally:
I’ve got a pool pass, wanna see it?
Olly olly oxen free
Jarfull of night and firefly
I don’t see no streetlights;
I can stay out late ya know
Twenty-five cents buys a fresh box of crayons
Didja wanna know a secret?
I’ve got a million colors.
This has been an edition of Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the talented Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. This week’s photo courtesy J. Hardy Carroll. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.
A tidbit for you….I am actually in this picture and so are two of my daughters. The place where this is taken is one I’ve gone to for forty years and this particular ride has always been among my favorites. It’s rare thing (and growing rarer) to have such tangible connections to one’s childhood. And nothing says childhood to me like a poem I wrote several years ago, so rather than write something new, thought I’d share a drawer-poem.
As always, thanks for reading.