Pull

Photo prompt courtesy and copyright property of Na’ama Yehuda, expressly provided for the Friday Fictioneers drabble community. To join in, either writing or reading others’ stories sparked by this image, click here.

I wish I could say she’s hanging on by a thread, but reason has slipped through Marian’s enfeebled fingers. Quaking with the piercing numbness of want, all that’s left in her tremulous hands is my tangled cradle of strings.

She burns to soar amongst the stars, to be a pinion fixed in the sky, but she can’t control her trajectory. As constellations crystallize, she shoots up into the thinned air only to tumble back to Earth, and I twist in the comet tail of her plunging shadow.

Her incandescence holds my orbit, but I can’t attune Marian to her gravity.


Lasting Impression” is live at 101 Words! Hopefully, there will be more pieces put forth in the future. I might have to actually put them forth and into slush piles for that to happen, though.

The First Law

Photo prompt courtesy and copyright property of J Hardy Carroll provided only for the Friday Fictioneers drabble community. To join in, writing and/or reading others’ stories derived from this image, click here.

Bodies

We met in passing. Our eyes worked each other over. The dancefloor’s dimness dissipated in our sparking, insatiable electric arcs burning everything between us.

in motion

We writhed entwined. Ravenous atoms collided across our pleonectic skin, combusting in esurient shivers. Zealous friction blurred our worlds together in our vertiginous dervishing.

stay

We heaved in each other’s aleatory arms. The air stagnated. We gasped for the oxygen we’d ignited. It was gone. All gone.

in motion.

We meet in passing. Our eyes work each other over. The dancefloor’s dimness dissipates in our sparking, insatiable electric arcs burning everything between us.


(At pretty much the very opposite end of the behavior spectrum, “Lasting Impression” debuts at 101 Words next Thursday, July 22.)

Phantom

Photo courtesy and copyright property of Sandra Crook for the express use of the Friday Fictioneers drabble community. Other works stemming from this image may be found here.

He never knew war, but inherited its nightmares. Sweat caked his brow with the disused road’s dirt. Wild grasses consuming the track hid regiments of insects resistant to repellent.

It still felt real.

For decades, well before his birth, neighboring villagers have gone the extra mile to avoid the trail—literally. He aimed to change that, but his metal detector swayed out of step when he swept at a mosquito’s bite.

He woke up in the recurring sweat and swiped to scratch the itch. His hand passed clean under him, rediscovering the nothingness below his stump.

It still felt real.

(Shameful/less plug, but I have a story, “Lasting Impression,” scheduled to come out in two weeks on July 22 at 101 Words. If you like your stories short, they typically publish said 101 words daily.)

Braiding

Photo copyright property of Miles Rost, supplied specifically for the Friday Fictioneers 100-word story community. To participate or find others’ works reflecting on this prompt, click here.

His hands were already full. Nightmares, groceries, school—he felt his fingers cramping under the moment’s weight, let alone what was to come. It all seemed so impossible, these things that have always been handled.

Crossing one strand over another, he loosened a cascade without crash. Gold poached of its shimmer, she asked him to braid her hair before the service. The only advice she knew: “Like mommy wore hers.”

She didn’t budge as he fell upon her shoulders. She bore his weight until he embraced her and claimed it back.

Hands full of hair, they clumsily wove it together.

Libertad

Photo copyright property of Na’ama Yehuda, provided for the Friday Fictioneers 100-word story community. Others’ contributions may be found here.

She glimpses the colossus ensconced by fog, a white shroud extinguishing its ancient flame. She senses its aching back, rigid in that unrelenting posture. She wonders how far its gaze reaches, whether it’s ever noticed her island basking under its own aureole. She envisages it stepping free from that pedestal and marching across the water, sea-green scabs gracefully sinking out of sight.

Bundled to the hilt, she rolls up her sleeve. Her copper hasn’t patinaed, only purpled into mountains—dismissals of her majesty. A gruff, foggy drawl grasps for her, commanding her back.

She steps seaward, free from his clutch.

For information concerning what is being done on a community level to confront gender equity and violence issues in Puerto Rico, consider visiting Taller Salud.