She Beckons

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Memorial to the “Kaytn Massacre” WW2 – Wroclaw, Poland. Photo courtesy of Pixabay.com.

Gatehouse East, con’td…

Stephen stood in the shadows of the trees that circled the monument. Even in its holographic state, the monument still pulled deep at his soul. He wanted to step forward and lay a hand on the shoulder of the one who knelt in such a solemn state. The sculpture was so very real that he felt he could almost see it breath in gasps as sobs shook its shoulders. The holograph was too realistic.

‘She is not real.’ He reminded himself, shaking his head to dispel the thought. ‘It is merely a projection.’

Even as he told himself she wasn’t real, the figure slowly rose and turned. His breath caught in his throat. The memorial wasn’t set to be interactive. His eyes widened as the face within the cloak made eye contact. Instant fear coursed like fire through his nerves. He’d seen those eyes before; known their hidden cruelty first hand.

She reached out for him.

He turned and ran out of the Museum’s storage bay…

WC: 166, sorry I’m over this week.

Author’s notes:

My story is fiction, however the picture is historically oriented. Please, take no offense at what I have written, the photo was only used as inspiration and in no way whatsoever is it meant to disrespect the memories or realities of actual history. Last week for Friday Fictioneers (https://rochellewisoff.com/?wref=bif) , I was challenged to expand a little on Stephen’s experiences that led up to his flashback, so I have…enjoy.

When I was searching for an image to strike my muse’s fancy this week, I came across this beautiful monument and just had to learn more. So, I went out to research it and found that it was dedicated to those who lost their lives in the “Katyn Wood Massacre” in April of 1943, during WWII. It is a very horrific tale that bears remembering…

For more info on the “Katyn Wood Massacre” I suggest checking out these links:

https://www.cia.gov/library/center-for-the-study-of-intelligence/csi-publications/csi-studies/studies/winter99-00/art6.html

http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/world-war-two/world-war-two-and-eastern-europe/the-katyn-wood-massacre/

 

I’m writing this for the What Pegman Saw writing challenge. Today, Pegman takes us to Wroclaw, Poland. The idea is to use Google maps images of the location as the inspiration for crafting a piece of flash fiction no more than 150 words long.

Phantom pain…

rochelle

C. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Deep in the night, Stephen moaned, his mind tormented. He was back in the relocation camp, bound hand and foot as his tormentors sent jolts of electricity through his body. Even in his present semi-paralysis of sleep, his limbs jolted and cramped painfully.

The pain drew him up from the bed, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out. Tears coursed down his cheeks. His body trembling as he slowly made his way to the lavoratory, hoping Sheata didn’t awaken.

‘Stephen?’ Sheata’s softly spoke.

‘Shh, go back to sleep.’ He forced a calm response.

WC: 94

Author’s note: a scene out of “Gatehouse East”. All characters are fiction.

If you would like to join the 100 word weekly writing craze known as Friday Fictioneers, please join us out at the blog of our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thank you, Rochelle, for such an inspirational photo this week. We love to see you stop by, and maybe even share a story with us.  You can find us all at: https://rochellewisoff.com/?wref=b

 

Gatehouse East…

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Pixabay.com -free for use.

wc: 373

Sheata stood before the old gatehouse, now permanently sealed and nothing more than a facade transported to make up the back wall of the museum’s interior. The museum, a collection of artifacts on display to honor the passing of the most horrific war in history. She stood there this day and remembered all the times she’d actually found solace within the wall of the Adventure Park, completely unaware of what was happening beneath.

Little had Sheata known of the Enclave or its genetic program at the time. It wasn’t until much later that she’d learned of the Chr’s plan to create what he believed was the ‘genetically perfect’ race. After the Reparation she saw the results of his program first hand. Taking a very deep and long breath, Sheata closed her eyes for a moment and tried to forget.

But, forgetting wasn’t something she had the ability to do. A subconscious prickle ran along her spine. Once they were settled on Terra Firma how long would it be before the generations forgot? How long would it be before their new lives replaced the old?

‘It will be sooner than you think if we don’t keep the memories ever before us.’ Stephen answered her unspoken questions as he joined her.

‘Then, we must make it our passion to be ever mindful.’ Sheata agreed. ‘The only question is how to do it without repeating it.’

‘Terra’s history alone proves that even in remembering, history is often repeated.’ He reminded. ‘That is why we must not only remember; but also, actively work at prevention.’

‘Ah, to prevent a social illness of hate.’ Sheata sighed. ‘To change a generation’s worth of thinking isn’t going to be easy. The children have known nothing but war their entire lives. They barely understand the meaning of peace, let alone how to keep it.’

‘Then, we who do know, have a duty to teach them. That will be our greatest challenge. In time, we can hope that they will be just as successful at peace as they were in war.’ He suggested.

‘One can only do as one can.’ Sheata nodded.

‘Come, now, my wife. The hour is late, ad we must rest.’ Stephen placed a gentle hand on her spine.

Button Box

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C. Al Forbes

Arianna looked down to the small blue box in her hand and smiled. It was a small thing, just a momento of a long ago memory. A man dressed in a scruffy old trencher and long scarf had given it to her on a long ago night when the world had felt like it was collapsing around her.

‘Promise me, Ari. Promise me that if you ever need help, you’ll open this box.’ His voice had pleaded with her. ‘Open it, and I’ll be here immediately.’

So, now, as the air raid sirens sounded around her, Arianna did as he’d begged her to. She opened the small doors to reveal the shiny red button inside. Arianna gulped, closed her eyes, and pushed the button.

Instantly, the world around her swirled into a glittery storm of fire.

She screamed as she was pulled into the maelstrom.

WC:

This has been written for the “Sunday Photo Fiction”  200 word writing challenge. Thank you to Al Forbes for supplying this week’s awesome picture! If you enjoyed this story and would like to read others, then please, check out this link to the photo prompt: https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2017/08/13/sunday-photo-fiction-august-13th-2017/

 

Grass Dance…

CEayr

C. CEAyr

She paused beside the East gate to ensure all her ties were tight. Then, she smudged, yet again, before stepping into the circle. Without a word, she sidled down to where the women were lining the outer edge.

The drum smacked an attention beat.

Silence fell over all.

As the drum began it’s heartbeat rhythm, she step-swayed with her eyes closed.

‘It is like swaying grass.’ She heard her grandmother’s voice in her soul. She smiled, letting her body naturally move to the heartbeat of the drum.

Overhead, the Stonemen watched and guarded.

Wc: 93

For the unfamiliar…

Grass Dance = Traditionally the first dance done by the men in a sacred circle meant to knock down tall grass before the women dancers enter the circle. Seldom needed for this purpose in today’s day and age as most circles are mown.  In this case, though, I used the concept of the Women’s traditional dance. My Grandmother always said that it was to be danced such that any fringes would gently sway like ‘tall grass in a gentle breeze”.

Circle/ Sacred Circle = the dance arena at a powwow, in this case.

Stonemen = I know it’s a Canadian Native Custom/belief that the stones have souls. I used to know the story with it, but it has been lost over time.

 

 

 

If you would like to join the 100 word weekly writing craze known as Friday Fictioneers, please join us out at the blog of our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thank you, Dale Rogerson for such an inspirational photo this week. We love to see you stop by, and maybe even share a story with us.  You can find us all at: https://rochellewisoff.com/?wref=b

Where have the flower’s gone?

dale rogerson

C. Dale Rogerson

These flowers seemed way too funerial for me this week… but they did inspire me to find a happy story…

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He sat on the corner everyday, reading his newspaper and smiling at the passersby. He’d been there for so many years that people no longer noticed his bright red rubber nose, oversized shoes, or even his painted face. He was just a ‘fixture’ they’d come to expect; like the fountain in the square, or the statue at the war memorial in the park.

Then, one day, he was no longer there.

The bench was empty.

Everyone noticed, then.

wc: 78

Author’s Note: I really didn’t like how this ended so I wrote a continuation if you should care to read another 107 words…

The local police department was inundated with calls and units were dispatched to investigate. No one knew who the clown was, or where he lived. The case was closed.

Miles away, in another city, a man dressed in baggy clothes with shoes that were several sized too large for him, stepped down from a plane with a newspaper tucked under his arm.

All around him, he saw people looking his way and smiling, even laughing. With ease, he crossed the concourse and took a seat on an empty bench to read his newspaper.

The moral of this story: Sometimes all it takes is a change of Locale…

If you would like to join the 100 word weekly writing craze known as Friday Fictioneers, please join us out at the blog of our lovely hostess, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thank you, Dale Rogerson for such an inspirational photo this week. We love to see you stop by, and maybe even share a story with us.  You can find us all at: https://rochellewisoff.com/?wref=b