Hello, darlings. Can’t promise I’m back for good at Friday Fictioneers but I’m making an effort.
So many exciting things going on with your favourite dilettante in the next couple of months, so I’ll do my best to be present while I can.
What is Friday Fictioneers, you ask? Surely you jest. (Insert plagiarized Airplane joke here).
Each week, Rochelle posts a peck of pickled pictures (or just one pretty picture, perhaps) and a plethora of people post paragraphs, parentheses, poems, prose, punctuation, personal anecdotes or complete fictions inspired by the aforementioned photograph.
The rules? Keep it under 100 words. Also, read the others. As many as you can, anyway — this a community, not just an audience for your writing.
Be kind, be not rude, and remember the words of that great sage and future tasty morsel in a pot of Hassenpfeffer, Mrs. Thumper: If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say nothing at all. A double negative, to be sure, darlings, but she was an animated rabbit, and we shall not judge her grammar too harshly.
This week’s photo was brought to you by the letters J, L, & H, which belong to one Jean L. Hays, and we thank you for it.
Whenever I think of Route 66 I can’t help but think of Jack Kerouac, and Bob Dylan, and hippies, and the Yellow Brick Road — I’m an odd duck that way, but California’s a bit like OZ, calling to weary travelers and people who want to escape their dreary Mid-Western lives.
Without further ado, here is my story.
“I’ll sell my stereo,” he said, and Beth could practically hear the wheels spinning in his head. “We’ll just get in the car and take 66 all the way to California; start over.”
To Beth, the road meant arguments, screams — his burning anger. Then there would be other screams — hungry, tired, cranky screams.
Once, she’d found the fire in his eyes exciting — now she feared it would burn her world to ash.
The open road was no place to have her baby.
Now, go and read the others!