Friday Fictioneers: “Old, Familiar World”

 

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I feel like I’m obligated to write something about Thanksgiving this time around. It’s a shame I don’t also feel obligated to submit these darn things on time!

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Sandra Crook

Image Copyright: Sandra Crook

 

Title: Old, Familiar World

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

 

When I was a boy, a ship carrying my family, a wolf-eyed father and a mother with dawn in her hair, departed for the sunset horizon. I was to wait until the New World was ‘settled and civilized.’

Thus I watched for the ship from a grassy seaside cliff every day.

Years passed and not even the gout stopped me from climbing the cliff. I came less often after I was wed. And even less after my son was born. I promised to never leave them for new worlds— no family should have to wait like widows on a watch.

 

 

 


 

 

For those who are wondering, I didn’t actually have a historical ship in mind when I made this. Just any old early England/Ireland-to New World voyage where everybody died because of the cold/the Yetis/Odin cultists. Not like that narrows it down any.

 

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Friday Fictioneers: “Silent Steel”

 

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To think I could go from cramping my stomach watching John Hodgman to writing about, well, this, really just proves I’m supposed to be a writer with my onset mood-swings.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: The Reclining Gentleman

Image Copyright: The Reclining Gentleman

 

Title: Silent Steal

Genre: Historical Fiction

Word Count: 100

 

You’ve never heard of where I live because it doesn’t exist anymore. You’ve never heard of me because I died without a name.

The Blitz our horizon and we couldn’t live in fear anymore. One night we took every car in town and drove north.

Propellers chopped up the air from far away. I craned my head out into the cold, still night— the kind of night when no man deserved to die.

But those propellers were coming from the east, from Germany.

They must have thought we were a convoy. Their bullets only destroyed town cars and humble hopes.

 

 

 


 

 

What a zippy fun story this one was! I really want to go back to writing more either funny or just kind of zany stories, if only for a little while. But a nighttime bridge with big eye-like headlights attached to cars poised to run over the cameraman didn’t really scream “zany” to me.

Next time.

Next time.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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