Today is the “O” for A to Z challenge. This week I am stepping into the writer’s circle and writing a week long serial set in the metropolis of NewCago. Its a bit of noir, crime and even some fiction. Though this is a serial, I do understand some of you will be dropping by via A to Z so you can read each day as stand alone microfiction.
The NewCago series –
“Missed” , Never
I looked at my watch – 5 pm time for the cops to crawl into hiding.
I inhale Courage every night before 6. It’s my dead lover’s not mine.
A long blood curdling scream bites into the last flicker of day and night begins.
Decency’s doors are closed and it’s just me and the bad guys.
After banging around in the trashbin of Newcago, I needed a drink. I salivated at the thought of a tall one and a cheese steak.
As soon as I entered Tony’s, I noticed the dame – she was a looker. I couldn’t get a read on the guy beneath the brim.
“Yeah, the regular,” I nodded as I slumped on a stool. Sally and I go back to days when drinks came from the spigot behind the barn.
I couldn’t help but hear
dollface gagging. I rushed to stop her fall; too late the white stuff was bubbling from her mouth, her eyes glazed over.
Something, besides the guy under the shadowy brim, was missin- the large sparkler around her wrist.
“Baby, Newcago is not for the likes of you. These gangsters are old school, girls are cheap…”
I bent over and looked in her vacant eyes. “Didn’t no one tell ya, the playing is for keeps!!!”
I slammed the gin and tonic down. Sal failed to muster a smile.
“Watch your back, Sam.” She whispered in the grey light before dawn.
There’s so much to enjoy about the
A to Z Challenge in April – many people to meet and many fine posts to enjoy.
I was a golden key
fashioned just after time was turned
and I knew I had a purpose
but forgot all I had learned.
I placed myself in large hands
of those who perchance might serve
but one after another
got what they deserved.
And so I hung despondent
on a cold and lifeless tree
hoping for an answer
and one that would set me free.
I heard someone so cheerful
but she was so very young.
“What can a child do
when the others failed all and one.”
The sun hit just right
and she reached and stretched her hand.
She and I both surprised
for her height seemed to expand.
“I heard a story once,”
her voice so sweet and low.
“Yes,grandmother knew it well.
A key with a golden glow.
I dont remember all
but let me linger now.
We will go back and see
what if time had cast a spell.”
So the girl and I sat
for a long and timeless while
but I really did not mind
she had such a winsome smile.
“Yes, I remember”
she patted me in her palm.
“You open up a place
by singing a forgotten song.”
She hummed and sang the songs
all the ones she had been told
and as I watched before me
this small child got very old.
She held me and it warmed me
and I began to glow.
A gnarled and weary door
in the tree began to show.
“There it is in the middle”
a keyhole she did find
and I was oh so happy
to at last meet my own kind.
We passed through the door together
she transformed into herself
so fairy like her beauty
and I a greenish elf.
Daily Post writing challenge asks the question:
You’ve been given a key that can open
one building, room, locker, or box to which you don’t normally have access. How do you use it, and why?
I did not submit the following story today as it was an archived short story that I created as a continuation from an old Grimm’s Fairy Tale –
The Golden Key was it’s title.
Other’s who have also written about the Key:
seeking for relief
aching of a broken heart –
love isn ‘t forever
“Analyze that Haiku “#2 gives us the opportunity to look around the above haiku 360 degrees and tell its story so here goes:
It had been a long summer. Nights never cooled below 100 and my coffee ground skin was always in some state of pealing. You had loved caressing that skin once or had it just been a mirage. Had I made myself believe that you couldn’t catch a wave the same way without me, that the crisp mountain air was dull when we couldn’t chase the fall leaves, and winter nights together well you said they took your breath away. My heart peals back revealing layer after layer of pain. When will I get to the end of you and memories…? This desert heat is more constant than your love even it can’t last forever.
… and then write a haiku:
your shoes wait at the door
Thanks to Kristjann Panneman for the prompt and inspiration.
Reflections in windows tease and haunt, showing what was, and what is no longer.
Demons, creatures, faces and things of terror live in almost everything.
It reflects her suffering, an enticing apparition. … begging for release.
My father told me they did ‘things’ to bad people on The Hill and I should stay away from there.
Their faces turn up, beseeching. I watch as they enter my opening maw.
Dark shadows of night interpose, greedily they suck the last drop of day.
Nothing will deny sky from its horizon.
Fingers clutch at the crumbling windowsill.
A picture forms in the panes of glass as it does every day before dusk becomes night.
I’ve realized that the window shows the truth. It only shows pain.
It was one of the few that still had glass in the barren building.
The writers for Pen of the Damned:
Jon Olson Zack Kullis Magenta Nero Craig McGray Nina D’Arcangela Leslie Moon Joseph A. Pinto Blaze McRob Thomas Brown Tyr Kieran Hunter Shea
The above is just a compiled teaser from this week’s selection of horror in 100 words. There are some tasty morsels at
Pen of the Damned.
The photograph the work of Nina D’Archangela
This grey dismal scene
embossed my mind
long forgotten memories
path of my past
icicles dripped dark lies
“failure, fool, worthless”
mud sucked boots
clothes would never dry
and the sky, the sky
spoke the words
“there is no sun
it’s been removed”
only darkness looms
etching finality on your tomb”
no places to dream
those were taken away too
go ahead and scream, and scream
no one will hear you
here I stood
holding my hand
the one that couldn’t remember
tried so hard to forget
we stood together
at the past’s path again
Drip – L. Moon 2013
Here’s to a New Year for
Friday Fictioneers. Enjoy the work submitted by fantastic writers and poets.
Aged marks the alley
A way traversed by man
many feet have covered
more years than that have spanned
Aged marks a history
where crimes in stealth occurred
running for a hidden place
but they had been observed
Aged marks a story
the stones that cannot speak
holding back the knowledge
not told on any street
Aged yes and crafty
we carry many scars
were you to know the secrets
you’d gasp and be alarmed
Seek not for the answers
we whisper in our drink
this alley holds much darkness
Rochelle and Friday Fictioneers for another week, another great prompt, and an entry into an alley where there may be no exit.
I took the liberty of editing Kent Bonham’s shot just a bit. I wanted the focus to be on the stones of this alley.
Just past the doors, there was something going on. There were deliveries of crates day and night.
One delivery guy got lost and walked into a room full of male statues.
“I guess it’s gonna be a museum.” He scratched his head.
“Put him up over the lintel of the front door,” she smiled lustfully at the handsome face of Hermes.
“His head seems to hold up the building,” one passerby remarked.
He wanted to write home to Pericles, “Be careful, my young friend, never to piss off a Roman goddess. They need one of us to lead Athens.”
Pericles and Hermes shared two things: they were both Greek and they were both orators. Neither seemed able to keep their head…
This week’s prompt takes a classical bent Rochelle the curator at
Photography courtesy of: Al Forbes and Ancient History.about .com