Please go to the plugin admin page to Paste your ad code OR Suppress this ad slot.
Train Tracks of a Gypsy Soul
She walked along the tracks that intertwined in this part of the city. The red-head wore an old, tattered backpack that held just one more outfit, a toothbrush, and well-used journals. In her right hand, the 16-year-old held a guitar case.
As she meandered, she searched for a train car with an open door. An old clunker started passing very slowly. Before it picked up speed she saw an open car. She threw her guitar up into the empty space and quickly followed.
Sitting on the edge, she pulled out the guitar, serenading her new gypsy soul.
Word Count: 97
Every Friday the Fictioneers come from all over the world to share 100 words at Rochelle’s blog. All genres welcome (Please exercise discretion).
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open to a sterile looking hallway, but with garage doors. The trolley’s wheels squeaked on the floor as she pulled it to door 218. Her eyes, slightly swollen from tears, focused on the lock and key. The clunk of the lock as she dropped it, vibrated her very being.
She huffed as she lifted the aluminum entrance to reveal boxes of her life neatly stacked. This wasn’t the plan. These were supposed to be moved to a Florida apartment, not her Indiana childhood basement.
The lights flooded the sky overhead as the red glow burned into the night sky. I watched as I snaked through the alleyways. The shadows I normally can blend into were gone. 4th of July. Worst night for my kind of work.
I saw the target–middle-aged and balding. A family man, sitting with his kids and wife. The little ones running around with sparklers, laughing.
They have no idea. I found the deepest shadows and aimed. I waited. Remembering the images of bodies killed by his command. A slew of fireworks shot up as I pulled the trigger.
She walked cautiously on the bridge. She ran her hand gently over the wood railing, peering over. The water that once ran free through the corn fields dried up, showing only dirt and weeds.
The gazebo at the end looked as broken as her. In their prime, they saw love–created love. She twisted the diamond ring, removing it. She held it up one last time. She chucked it into the barren creek. She watched the ring fall, glistening as it dropped, but like the love she once knew, it was gone, covered by the muck.
The waves hit the shoreline of rocks with such force. Something about watching this action beat the pain out of me–or into me. Mason coming home tore open the wounds I have tried so hard to forget, but I never fully healed. Another crash and it felt as if the waves struck me in the gut. Wouldn’t be the first time–Mason–the crash–Grandpa. I took another swig of the bottle sitting next to me. I could feel the pain start to numb. I stood up, trying to balance but it would be so easy to jump…
Word Count: 99
I floated, watching the lights from the round building ripple in the oil-like sea. The foreign music pulsed, shaking the ocean floor. I swam closer.
I reached the shoreline wall and I peeked over it. There, outside the building, stood a boy and a girl, but they weren’t still. Their bodies moved together in a way I had never seen before. Then there lips touched.
“Aw,” I sighed, but the girl heard. She ran to the wall, but I dived back into the water, swimming away. I just hope she didn’t see my tail because Daddy would be mad.
Word Count: 99
Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields! Check out her website!
The squawking birds on the phone line reminded of Hitchcock, as I walked up to the old, Victorian apartments. I knocked quickly, huddling closely to the door. The building was abandoned and the owner was supposed to meet me, so I could look it over.
I wanted to restore the building. No answer. I grabbed the knob, opening the door. Silence wafted over me. I took two steps in, “Hello?”
Two more steps. Out of nowhere, a bird fiercely swooped through a broken window at me. I screamed, swatting it away. I turned and ran. No building was worth it.
The barbed wire fence was a mess. Some areas were pulled tight, but others lacked and dripped to the ground. The tall, stringy grass swayed in the breeze within the confines of the fence. The weathered barn was broken and rotting with a rusting Farmall living in the middle of it.
“We have a lot of work to do,” Hailey stated the obvious, “I can’t believe your grandpa let it go like this. This will take forever!”
Tristan laughed, “Well Grandma did say Grandpa said if he was going to grow old so was the farm.”
She opened it carefully, hearing the clanking of metal components, adhered as pages in the book. Paper didn’t exist among these pages just shapes molded into foreign figures. As she touched the page a static shock coursed her body.
She fell as visions of old secrets came alive in her mind–magic. Magic forged by metal, by air, by water, by fire, and by earth and faces with each. Her fingers tingled as the visions disappeared. She moved her fingers and right before her eyes the book floated toward her.
The foreign figures, now readable, whispered “You are not alone…”