Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers
The Lonely Musician
When he stopped playing her tune, she threw him out.
‘And take your Steinway,’ she yelled. ‘It clutters up the place.’
For forty years he played on the street corner.
To the delight of commuters who dropped coins into his hat.
He never asked for a penny.
He lived and dreamed for music and to charm happy smiles from weary faces.
The lonely musician crawled under the lid one day, and citizens kept his piano as a memorial.
The passing shoppers can still hear Debussy being played.
Every day, when his wife waters the flowers on the musician’s grave.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields – Friday Fictioneers.
If the Boots Don’t Fit
A warm still day; they were a gift.
They hurt his feet, he had said, amazingly his hat fell into the lake.
He swam after it and from the other side he waved, not even goodbye.
How long should she wait? She had said yes; then he wasn’t sure.
She should have said no.
She heard he had a job in Kentucky, drifting with cattle.
Mary-Anne was two today, she needs a father.
How long could they wait? If only she had said no.
Tomorrow she’ll wed a loving man, one who fills the boots with honesty.
She can’t wait.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized
Tagged Flash Fiction, Honesty, Lost love, melancholy, Regret, Relationships, Romantic, Short Stories, Writing
Friday Fictioneers – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Underground Opera by Catherine
A free spirit and gentle voice, her echoes of joy
reverberated beneath the rumble of the motorway.
Its pillars tremble holding the stress of life’s loads.
Too much for her to bear, she had lost her way,
and in destitution she discovered our desolation row.
‘Catherine the Homeless’ sang opera to us; sewers of life.
We listened to her music of the night, by our flickering fire light,
and prayed as we cremated her body and earthly remains.
We scattered her ashes around the headstone on her swan song stage,
tearfully enchanted as her soul sang, through the midnight breeze.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Uncategorized
Tagged Homeless, Horror, melancholy, Music of the Night, Poetry, Short Stories, Underclass, Underground Opera, Writing
Three Line Tales – Week 97 Only 100 words
photo by Bogdan Dada via Unsplash
The Lost Key
We die in shame as the links between our countries are securely locked.
Blocked by the prejudice of divisions through arrogance of language and culture.
Only the Key of Peace can release this stranglehold and open doors for our world.
Three Line Tales Week, Week 88.
A Secret Lover’s Diary.
My intensity is afraid and when you read my words don’t judge me as a fool.
But every day I have written about my desires and dreams, and of your beauty.
Please; my secrets will remain invisible until you breathe life on my pages.
Posted in Flash Fiction, Short Story, Three Line Tales, Uncategorized
Tagged Flash Fiction, Gedichte, melancholy, Mystery, Relationships, romance, Romantic, Three Line Tales
Three Line Tales Week 82
I am spirit and naked flesh, promised with eternal heavenly peace.
In a world filled with joy and gifts of fruit, in a beautiful garden of Eden.
However truth, in an apple core, reveals my skeleton on the evolutionary scale.
Posted in Blog, Flash Fiction, Three Line Tales, Uncategorized
Tagged Creationism, divorce, Evolution, Garden of Eden, Gedichte, melancholy, spiritual, Three Line Tales
Tempting Guacamole – 100 Word Wednesday.
Please come back, I miss you, my darling Pips.
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely hips.
I love you and miss your gregarious smiles
I love you and forgive you for kissing Miles
Look, I’ve bought your favourite chilli tortilla chips
Because I know you love my guacamole dips.
Please come and trust me, my darling Pips
I’m sorry I was rude, about your lovely lips
I miss you, so let’s forget about you loving Jay
I miss you, see now, how my anger’s gone away
Look! I’ve spiced up your favourite tortilla chips
Because! I know you love my guacamole dips.
Posted in 100 word wednesday, Blog, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Uncategorized
Tagged Gedichte, Horror, Humour, melancholy, Mystery, Poetry, Relationships
Three Line Tales – On a Wing and a Prayer
Over the world and in peace, feeling the quite serenity
of flying and softly floating free from earthly responsibility.
But all too soon, we’ll land on the insecure realities of insensibility.
A Cabin in the Woods. 100 Words Week 7
Adam and Eve ran away from disapproval and family shame
Where people pointed since their unmarried love was a sin
They disappeared into the woods to start their life again
Where they built a cabin and a home for future children.
They built it far away from the well-trodden paths
By a lake with bulrush reeds and darting dragon flies
that hovered in the air with warm dog-rose scented wafts
drifting in the idyllic afternoons under the cloudless skies
Where behind the purple rosebay ran the bubbling brooks
They washed and bathed naked in the clear shallow pools
Guarded and watched over by a parliament of silent rooks
As they dried themselves slowly with white woollen towels
Alas with naivety of nature’s fruits, a mistaken death cap
was added for nourishment into a warm mushroom soup
As they peacefully slept, in their veins ran the poisonous sap
And in drifting dreams their souls followed a heavenly route
After fifty years, there were no records of the cabin in the woods
Or of the skeleton lovers huddled beneath a blanket of dust
The mystery became a myth full of folk songs with solemn moods
of young couples entranced by forbidden love and mistaken trust.
Orbiting the moon.
Mother stood staring out of the open window
As I walked along the gravel garden path
She looked through me as If I was hollow
But I smiled and waved and saw her laugh
We sat on the veranda with jam and scones
She asked where I had been all these years
Were you travelling in space polishing stones?
I can’t remember, she said and wiped her tears
I showed her pictures of my growing family
My children as babies then going on to school
Who are these people? I can’t see them clearly
Oh yes she said, your father, the stubborn fool
We walked to the park and sat by the lake
She told me she was proud of her beloved son
The first Scots astronaut who promised to take
Her sightseeing, past Mars and orbiting the moon
Is it time to go? she said and held my hand
She pulled up the travel rug against the chill
How long will it take and where will we land?
She rested on my shoulder and slipped away
As I watched the sun sinking over the hill.