Photo courtesy of Dale Rogerson’s real life and completely unrelated to my fictional tale, in case you were worried.
by T. Delaplain
A soft cough and a flash of Sunday best fabric announced the committee’s arrival; midwestern hospitality and a basket of freshly baked welcome. She stopped unpacking the life she no longer recognized; boxes full of illusion and stifling small town safety.
She debated her options before the first tentative knock. Her instructions were to, “blend in”, but her instincts said, “run.” She tucked her gun into the elastic of her polyester stretch pants, patted her new permanent waves and turned the knob.
She heard the pop before she felt the impact.
Well thank you Jesus, there would be no more muffins in hell.
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Take a muffin and try your hand at 100 word fiction but your last breath.
Photo credit@ Geogia Koch
A copper tang mingled with the dockyard flotsam.
“Lotta blood. She been dead long?”
“An hour or two, hard to say for sure.”
“Not really, just a little damp.”
The officer turned to face his partner; her uniform, wet and tattered, “Same MO, same perp?”
“You look rode hard. How long you been chasing this asshole?”
“About two hours too long,” she said, her voice strangely shallow.
“Next time call for backup. You always gotta be a damn hero.”
“Sure, next time,” her words trailed off as her image faded to nothingness.
For more hard boiled crime fiction or nautical tales go to Friday Fictioneers hosted by the famous Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Photo credit @Adam Ickes
A Better Plan
Wanting to disappear, I curled into myself and buried my head under the soft pillow. If I made myself small enough, I could hide from the last hours of my dad’s life.
You wrapped around me, wanting to shield me from my grief.
“No more suffering,” you said but I wasn’t sure who’s suffering you meant.
“It feels like I killed him,” I confessed.
“He begged me to push him off a dock and leave him. I couldn’t do it,” you whispered.
“That’s just stupid,” I lifted my head with a soft chuckle, “God, I’m going to miss that ridiculous old cowboy.”
In control until his last breath, my father died exactly 24 hours after he told the hospice nurse, “This will all be over by tomorrow.” The story is true and I’m so glad that my husband didn’t agree to my dad’s demand. Calling hospice was exactly the right thing to do. He had a good death with my sister and I at his bedside. I couldn’t have wished for a better ending to his story. And a day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss him and his tales and his sense of humor.
For more 100 word stories sail over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields‘ website and follow the dock to Friday Fictionners. (Oops, I guess it’s a bridge and not a dock.)
Copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
For Every Season
I traced a frozen heart on the glass.
No longer were your initials available to interlace with mine.
The storms and passion of our verdant spring had been replaced with a summer of striving, of building and succeeding. Continue Reading