Indigo Rider

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photo ref: Pixabay.com

Indigo Rider

The horse came back alone.

We all knew it would.

The hunched form had passed

in the late hours of sunset

disappearing into the golden glow

The deep indigo of night

slowly engulfing until nothing remained

The horse, his horse

came back next morning alone.

We all knew that it would.

B.S. McQuinn

30 Mar 2018

Time: 2016

I decided to follow a link posted by a friend’s story just to see what was there… I discovered this wonderful little writing challenge there. So, I’ve written this little poem for First Line Friday hosted at Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie. If you’re so inclined to join in writing challenges, then come on out and have a ball… or discover why a horse came back alone this week.

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Glass Gardens…

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Photo prompt by: Fatima Fakier Deria

‘Grammie, Why don’t you have people in your glass garden?’ She asked while standing on tip toe to see inside the little glass dome on her Grandmother’s night stand.

‘There are people there, Dear, a whole family.’

‘I don’t see no one.’

‘You will, Dear, one day you will.’

A decade later, Lark held the small glass dome in her hand, looking into the scene of a garden table with four empty chairs. Only they weren’t empty anymore. Indeed, she saw her parents, and now her Grammie enjoying a spring tea, laughing all the while.

Wc: 95

Author’s Note: It’s been almost two weeks since my “Bro”’s motorcycle accident. Yesterday afternoon, he finally walked on to heaven’s shores. My heart is heavy beyond heavy as I write this this week. A mixture of tradition of the ‘empty’ or ‘ancestor’s’ chair with a little whimsy. In fact, when I first saw the pic, I was thinking of a little fairy garden and was going to write such, but reality intervened. Anyway, I do hope you enjoyed the story. ~Jelli

This work of fiction is written as part of the Friday Fictioneers 100 word writing challenge hosted weekly by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-fields.  If you’re up to a good challenge, or even a really awesome reading experience, these little stories are well worth your time. A Huge thank you goes to Fatima Fakier Deria for her photo this week. Come on out and join us at: https://rochellewisoff.com/ . We’d love to see you around the table.

Revelation II…

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PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg

Author’s Note: Previously, we saw what happened when the first encounter with Alpha Centarians went fatally wrong all because the flash of the camera terrified the extremely light sensitive aliens. This time, though, they think they’ve found the perfect way to make contact….

Tourists had been disappearing on the upper rim trail for days, weeks, and even months at a time. Their bodies would eventually be found down at the bottom of the canyon. Every bone broken, a look of utter terror frozen on their faces. The local Coroner didn’t even bother with autopsies anymore. After all, it was very obvious how they’d died.

The Centarians found a cave, and set up camp. They even put out a warning sign for the humans. It served as a good trap, too. Humans just couldn’t heed a fair warning…

wc: 94

This work of fiction is written as part of the Friday Fictioneers 100 word writing challenge hosted weekly by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-fields.  If you’re up to a good challenge, or even a really awesome reading experience, these little stories are well worth your time. A Huge thank you goes to Björn Rudberg for his photo this week. Come on out and join us at: https://rochellewisoff.com/ . We’d love to see you around the table.

Revelation!

camera-ted-strutz

Photo Prompt: Ted Strutz

The camera remained as it was. Authorities seemed afraid to touch it. Afraid to recall the chip that would hold the answers.

‘Such a tragic loss…’ The Coroner noted, clicking his tongue as he signed release papers. ‘Only a recorder of events, not a participant. Sad testament… I’ll see you again in a little while, young man. I’ll give you a decent write up, for sure. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten.’

Next morning, front page: “Reporter dies while recording first visitation… details at six… photos revealed at 11… stay tuned…’

wc: 91

This work of fiction is written as part of the Friday Fictioneers 100 word writing challenge hosted weekly by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-fields.  If you’re up to a good challenge, or even a really awesome reading experience, these little stories are well worth your time. A Huge thank you goes to  Ted Strutz for his photo this week. Come on out and join us at: https://rochellewisoff.com/ . We’d love to see you around the table.

 

 

The Stones Remember

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PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

 

The monuments stood.

A lasting memory of what once was.

Each one different, unique; just like the people they represented.

Now it was her turn to make her marker and place it among the others.

Yet, her enthusiasm wilted. Why? She asked herself over and over.

She was the last, the only one left.

There would be no one to remember her.

So, why was she chipping away at the old stone?

Setting her chisel down, she stood and walked to the portal.

Maybe someone… She thought as reality dissolved around her.

wc: 92

 

This work of fiction is written as part of the Friday Fictioneers 100 word writing challenge hosted weekly by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-fields.  If you’re up to a good challenge, or even a really awesome reading experience, these little stories are well worth your time. A Huge thank you goes to  Sandra Crook for her photo this week. Come on out and join us at: https://rochellewisoff.com/ . We’d love to see you around the table.

 

“A Mile From Land” #65

“A Mile from Land”
By. Lee McQuinn
(note: all names, locations, and identifying information has been changed to preserve privacy and respect.)

7 March 2017 – Timeline: 1985

Dear One,

The doctors finally gave me clearance to go home.

I was excited!

I was equally terrified.

Where was home? I wasn’t sure. Every time I thought of the word, I saw a young white-haired man with eyes the color of the sky. I remembered how soft that hair was; how warm those lips were on mine. Then, my mind saw his cold, dead-stiff body… insulin needle stuck in his arm, still full.

I wept.

I was still a widow. Gran told me. She told me I had a son by him. I didn’t want, or couldn’t believe her. She stopped mentioning it. I didn’t remember. All I cared about was going home.

Home!

The day came. We boarded a plane. Hours later, we landed at a small airport close to home. I walked into my home. My Mom was there, smiling. I had no clue who she was beyond that she was: Mom.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I was home. I had no intention of ever leaving home again. The world is a huge, scary place to be, especially if you’re alone. I vowed to myself to never be alone again…Ever!

 

“A Mile From Land” #64

“A Mile from Land”
By. Lee McQuinn
(note: all names, locations, and identifying information has been changed to preserve privacy and respect.)

6 March 2017 – Timeline: 1985

Dear One,

It was weeks before I really had any clue as to what was going on around me. It was even longer before I realized that the crying infant was my own child. By then, a cousin who had given birth at virtually the same time, had taken my son into her care.

During this time, I learned that I had suffered a skull fracture and a rather severe concussion. The doctors explained that in time my memories might come back; and to be prepared. Memories which evoked strong emotions would be the first to emerge. Recovery was going to take time, but I was still young and the brain is a remarkable organ.

When they finally introduced me to my son, he was a month old. His hair was blond; his eyes blue, just like his father. They put him in my arms, and I discovered just how strong his little lungs were. They told me he was mine. I didn’t believe them. I just frowned at them and handed him back. I wasn’t a mother. How could I be? I was only fifteen. Fifteen-year-olds didn’t have babies. No, I wasn’t his mother. I didn’t know who was; didn’t even really care.

What I did care about was the man that kept drifting through my dreams. Ian, the dream-man was called. Who was Ian? I asked, but no one knew. Or, if they did, they weren’t telling me.

At night, I woke up screaming Ian’s name. For some reason unknown to me, I thought I knew a  man by that name. Ian. Ian MacDonald.

Then, another nightmare… Images of blood on his face merging with another man’s whose face was only half there. Blood… so much blood. His. His. Mine. There was so much of it.

I woke, still seeing it. I still smelled its iron-rich sweetness. Tears flowed fresh and hot on my cheeks… that, too, reminded me of all the blood.