Archive for the ‘Short Fiction’ Category

Lone Responder

Gabe had to get out of the house. Tired of all the depressing news on Covid-19 he grabbed up his car keys and his mask and headed out the door. For where exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Maybe, a drive to the lake, park somewhere, walk around and watch the sunset. When have I last done that?

Working from home, long hours spent on his laptop, crunching the numbers for a company needing resuscitation from the economical meltdown had him seeing multiple dollar signs in his dreams at night. Would there ever be an end to this nightmare?

He noticed others out walking, some with their dogs, others obviously wanting exercise and fresh air, too.

The campgrounds were looking more like a tent city springing up with all the homeless; evicted or thrust out of their place or shelter.

As he slowed and came around a curve, a commotion ahead caught his eye and that of others keeping their distance, gawking at a man sprawled on the ground clinging to his possessions as two men ran from the scene, clutching things ripped from the hands of the injured man.

Can’t park here. Just isn’t safe. Going on over to the other side of the lake away from all this.

When parked, Gabe got out of his car, locked it and headed for one of the safer trails up ahead. But something about the helpless man sprawled out on the ground nagged at him.

God, I know you said to love our neighbors, do good deeds. But, this? What if I…? What if he…? What can I do?

Returning to his car he put on his mask and walked down the street to where the man lay.

When he got to the man, he could see he had been beaten with gashes, cuts on his face, and looked disheveled in dirtied, torn clothes. His face was bruised and bleeding, but his eyes pleading, imploring.

“Please! Help me. They took everything I had. I…tried to resist…but, they…were stronger, and I could not…”

“It’s OK. I’m going to get you some help. What’s your name?”

“Theo. Theodore.”

“OK. First, I need to go get my car, parked over there! on the next street. Then, I will drive you to the hospital and stay with you, so you get the help needed.”

Gabe ran back to the car, drove up in front of the man, still prone, very weak, barely conscious, then picked him up and laid him carefully in his back seat and rushed him to the hospital.

Gabe ran into emergency with his mask on, disregarding their questions or protocol, but instead led them out to his car to the injured man, told them where he’d found him, what happened, then stayed with him while he got the treatment and care needed until he was well. He paid his hospital bill, then found him a place to live.

_______________

Joyce E. Mannhalter © April 2020

The above story is based on the parable Jesus told of the ‘Good Samaritan’ found in Luke 10:30-35, in the New Testament Bible. Jesus spoke to his disciples and those listening what it meant to, “inherit the kingdom of God, and to love your neighbor as yourself”. When a self-righteous man asked, “And, who is my neighbor?” Jesus told the story of the ‘Good Samaritan’. At times we might be asked to step up and take responsibility of caring for the needs of one we would not otherwise want to do. It is then when we might need to be a, “Lone Responder”, or ‘Good Samaritan’ to help that “neighbor” and love them as we love ourselves.

JEM

 

Hanging by a thread

I photographed the (second and present) jumping rope here at the jump site just off the walking trail at the Big Thompson River, Loveland, Co. The kids still use the rope and jumping site and have for years. To my knowledge there has not been a serious accident or one reported with the kids using the rope and jump site, but the dangers from the river during flood stage is real and has resulted in deaths, from the devastating flood of 2013.

 

“It’s just what kids do,” grownups said when kids met up at the river during the hot summer months, jumping into the water from the old rope that hung between two trees.

But, once again, the river rose higher, and the current ran faster through the Big Thompson from the rain with little letup. It could be a clear flowing stream at its lowest point, a murky green at its deepest, or a raging menace at its worst. Today, it was the latter. Yet, they paid little attention to the warning signs posted, ‘High water. Dangerous current. Potential for flash flooding.’

“Will this work? I found it in the garage.” Shawn asked, holding up a spool of plied rope.

“It isn’t going to be as good as the old one, but it might.” Nathan said.

“I bet that old rope was at least an inch thick. I wonder what happened to it.” Danny said.

“Don’t know. Maybe someone took it down. Or maybe it broke off and washed away in the flood.” Nathan replied.

The wooden ladder rungs were still there, nailed to the side of one tree allowing the kids to climb up and jump into the water from the top. Nathan climbed up one side, tied a length of rope around the tree and threw the other end over to Shawn, waiting on the other tree. He caught the rope, pulled it taut, tied that end, and each boy secured their side with double knots. Danny stood below with a longer section of rope and threw the loose end over. They tied it off, then made knots for hand holds.

“Done. Let’s try it out.” Danny said.

They took turns launching themselves out over the water. Long enough to jump to either side they grabbed the rope, swung out and landed on the opposite bank. Then, they dove off the trees lunging at the one swinging from the rope. They played the game of, ‘Catch me if you can,’ when Danny caught hold, hanging onto Shawn, but neither saw the loosened knots tied at the trees, or noticed the fraying threads on the rope, straining under their weight.

“Dudes. Stop! Get off! The rope…it’s…loose!” Nathan yelled, but they did not hear.

A tree branch cracked. The frayed rope snapped, and Shawn and Danny tumbled into the water. Their sounds and yells were not heard above the roar of the river as they were swept downstream.

It had been a month since the accident. Nathan stared down at the still water. He kept seeing Shawn and Danny as they fought against the current that threatened to swallow them up.

A park ranger walked over. “Your friends almost died that day, Nathan. If they hadn’t found that broken tree limb to latch onto they might not have made it out safely.”

Nathan nodded. “I know.”

“Using good common sense to make right choices is a better way to learn a lesson, don’t you think?”

“Yes, sir.”

_______________

Joyce E. Johnson (2017)

Footnotes:  The above story is a work of fiction, but the following scripture verses seemed appropriate to share in emphasizing the truth or lesson illustrated in the story above. Proverbs 8:34-36 on wisdom- “Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors. For whoever finds me finds life and draws forth and obtains favor from the Lord. But he who misses me or sins against me wrongs and injures himself, all who hate me love and court death.”

Shawn, the Leprechaun

Image result for st. patrick's day images

 

There once was a tiny leprechaun

who lived in the hills of Ireland upon

fields of flowers and grass so green

he wandered about, but couldn’t be seen,

the little man known only as Shawn.

~~~~~~

Then one day he came to town

sprinkling his lucky gold dust all around.

Like a bit of magic, he spread his cheer

to everyone everywhere, far and near,

then quietly left without a sound.

_____________

Joyce E. Johnson © 2017

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to everyone who wants or needs a little cheer. 🙂


Elevator Shaft

His hand gripped tightly. With grunting, gasping breaths he climbed up, and saw nothing but the tunnel of hard, cold steel that went on, endlessly in the claustrophobic tomb.

“Help!” He cried out.

Save your breath. It will only tax what energy you have left and be your downfall.

A hoarse cough broke from his parched throat.

My ‘downfall.’ Yeah! Done that! 
Don’t look down. The bottom is endless, too. Grab hold! Anything!

His feet felt like iron weights.

Climb! I can do this.

Please! Someone!”

The elevator shaft opened.

Light! Voices! 

Oh, thank God!

_______________

Psalm 31: 2, Turn your ear to me, come quickly to my rescue; be my rock of rescue, a strong fortress to save me.  NIV, Old Testament

The above short story is fiction, but I used it as an illustration of the times when we need to be rescued from some trap or downfall, either by our own doing, or one of a literal sense. To acknowledge God, and His power to save, rescue and heal us, however it happens is when we need him most. The Psalms are full of the many stories and pleas of David, King of Israel who often found himself trapped by his enemies, or caught in literal or personal traps he’d set for himself. I’m thankful for the way God always provides us with a way of escape from that which the enemy sets up for us, either to catch us by surprise, or one placed there, warning us of what might come if we do not acknowledge Him, or seek His help .      

Joyce E. Johnson © 2016


The Mouse (flash fiction for Friday Fictioneers)

PHOTO PROMPT - © Marie Gail Stratford

Photo credit: Marie Gail Stratford. Thanks, Marie for the photo prompt for this week’s Friday Fictioneers

 

I have not submitted a flash fiction story to Rochelle Wisoff Field’s Friday Fictioneers for the last three years, but thought I would jump on this one for old times sake and join in the fun. Here is mine of 100 words, exactly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  

I needed a break. Pouring myself another cup of coffee I sat down to relax. But, my brain still worked on the next chapter of my book. The gnawing, grinding sound like tiny teeth, chewing was driving me insane.

But, it came from my desk. The mouse gyrated, moved around in crazy patterns, made clicking sounds, jerking itself free from my grasp. I stared, unbelieving as it came alive. Using keyboard shortcuts I clicked My Docs. Gone! Nothing! I clicked on my last saved file of my years’ long book project. It was not there. Gone!

The mouse was still.

____________

Joyce E. Johnson (2015)

Riding the Poudre (Part 2, conclusion)

DSCN0024

 

Pam leaned over the raft trying to pull the paddle loose, caught beneath the rocks.

“Let it go. Leave it!” the guide yelled, trying to stabilize the raft. But it spun around in a whirlwind of churning white water.

She was jerked from the raft, pitched into the rapids. Her scream was drowned out by the force and strength of a river gone wild.

As she floundered about trying to swim back, the guide and others in the raft tried working the raft back towards her. But, as they came dangerously close to the ‘Big Drop’ the current was too strong. The raft went over and disappeared from view.

“No! Please! Don’t leave me.” She screamed, but they were gone.

Her only thought now was survival. Getting out of the river, climbing to safety and finding help.

Grabbing at rocks, anything she could hold on to, Pam fought the current, working herself across the river to the south side where it ran parallel to the road. A rooted tree limb sticking out from the shore beckoned her.

She managed to pull herself up, out of the freezing water. As she climbed the steep slope towards the road she thought about her friends in the raft, and Mike, their guide. Did they make it?  Are they safe?

She shook from the cold, soaked clothes clinging to her body. When she got to the road she saw emergency vehicles and rescue crews with Katie, their guide and the rest in their group.

“Pam! Thank God, you’re safe. We were all so worried. We tried to get to you but the water was…”

“I know. I’m sorry, Katie. It was my fault…” Like a dam opened the tears spilled over as she could no longer hold it back. Shivering, dizzy and barely able to stand she welcomed the warm blanket and supportive arms about her shoulders as the emergency crew made her comfortable in the back of their vehicle for the ride back down.

“Pam. We’re all safe. It’s OK.  The bus is here to take the rest back.” Katie hugged her. “I’m coming with you.”

The guide walked over to Pam and smiled, “What are you going to do next time I say, ‘Let go of the paddle?’

“Do as you say.” She said, smiling.

He laughed. “Sometimes Pam, a lesson is best learned when taught by experience alone. We don’t always see the danger up ahead, until it happens to us. It is the way I learned.”

“You?”

“Yes. I know from experience what the river is capable of at flood stage, but this is the beginning of our summer tourist season. The trip was scheduled in advance, and I didn’t want to cancel, or disappoint. So, I take full responsibility for what happened to you, putting you at risk. I’m sorry. Your next trip is on me, if you want to try this again, sometime.”

“We’ll see.”

_________________

Joyce E. Johnson © 2015

This is a work of fiction, part 2 and the conclusion. Part 1 was posted on Monday, May 18th. My story is not related to, or in reference to any real person or event. Whitewater rafting is a popular summer sport (among others like hiking, camping and climbing ‘fourteeners’) in Colorado. The Cache La Poudre River is one of several that offers it. You can find more information on whitewater rafting on the Cache La Poudre River here. I hope everyone’s summer season is off to a great start. Stay safe and have fun over Memorial Day weekend.

 

Lost at Sea – Part 3, conclusion

This is a an old lobster trap on the porch of a visitors center in Digby, Nova Scotia where lobster and scallops fishing remains one of the biggest occupations there with people living on the coast.

 

 

The movement was slight, but unmistakable.

“There! See that?”

“Got it. Lower us down. It’s too rocky, unsteady to set down the copter.”

“It’s Ingram. He’s alive. Caught and tangled in his own traps under a downed tree. We’ll have to pull him free.”

They radioed the pilot. “Send down the hoist pulley.”

“It’s tied on. Now! Easy! Lift him out, carefully. I think he’s got broken ribs. Not sure what else.”

Good. Now, let’s get him secured in the basket.”

They radioed back. “Take him up. Gently!

“I’ll let them know we’ve found him.”

It was Christmas.

Carolers gathered around the old hall. “Joy to the world…” They sang. “and heaven and nature sing…”

Ingram pulled Henry up onto his lap. “Henry, this is for you.”

Henry ripped open his present, his blue eyes as big and bright as the lights on the tree.

The miniature clipper was just like the one he let go the day he sent it out to sea.

Wow! Look, mama! It’s my boat.”

__________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Footnotes:  All photos used for this 3 part story are ones I took while on a trip to Nova Scotia, Canada many years ago. You can find part 1 and 2 of Lost at Sea previously posted.

Lost at Sea – Part 2

Fishermen's lobster wharf, Digby Nova Scotia

Fishermen’s wharf, Nova Scotia (Not sure why so many American flags displayed)


Days passed with no word or sign of his whereabouts.

They came with flowers and wreaths throwing them out upon the waves.

A little boy holding his mother’s hand carried his small clipper pushing it out from shore.

“Henry, that is your favorite boat. Are you sure you want to… do this?” his mother asked.

“Yes, mama. It is for Mr. Ingram. He needs a new boat.”

“But, Henry, it is…,” then stopped herself. He was only four. He wouldn’t understand.

Henry looked up at her, “Mama, you told me to ‘believe for the impossible.'”

She nodded. “Yes, Henry, I did.”

________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Footnotes: This is Part two of a three part story. Part 3 (the conclusion) will be posted in a few days. You can find Part 1 of this story under short story/flash fiction posts, Lost at Sea.

 

Lost at Sea

P43_043

An old Mariners’ hall meeting place, Nova Scotia, Canada

 

A small crowd gathers at the Mariner’s hall, # 1077

The boat drifted for days, then was found washed ashore, its broken hull taking on water.

An experienced lobster fisherman, Ingram guffawed with his meaty hand wrapped around his pint of ale, “Just give me some line and I will fill my want, whatever the sea spits out at me.”

But, it looked like the sea claimed him. The old mariner pulled up anchor and set out to fish, traps in tow. Then the Nor’easter slammed the Atlantic coast.

Now they come to wait, and pray.

_________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Footnotes: The above photo was taken in Nova Scotia while on a trip many years ago. I will be posting Part 2 and Part 3 (the conclusion) to this story in a few days.


Where lies the remains of Annie C. Maguire

P15_015

Portland Head lighthouse, Cape Elizabeth, Maine

110214_2214_Grounded1121.jpg

Memorial to the capsized British vessel, Annie C. Maguire, 1886

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A mist roles in from a cold, dark sea.

Waves kick up, thrashing the British barque.

Wind gusts rip sails from the bowing masthead.

A deep guttural sound bellows to the surface from under the ship’s hull.

She hits rock, breaking apart on impact.

Caught in her rigging she turns and twists in its knotted embrace. 

The Annie Maguire drifts, its SOS not acknowledged.

Were there none to hear her distress signals sent?

Darkness descends.

A bullhorn sounds, and the cone-shaped glow of light emerges.

The lighthouse; a beacon to the capsized ship and crew.

______________

Footnotes: Mystery surrounds the capsized Annie C. Maguire British vessel. Miraculously her crew was saved and rescued on Christmas Eve, 1886, when the ship went aground during a storm, but the ship’s remains were never recovered. You can find images and information on this vessel and story here

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 


 

 

 

This old house


This old house

“Kelly, I want you to do a cover story on that old homestead over in Plymouth.” Shauna said.

“That old house? It’s barely standing. No one wants to touch it, not even a real estate developer to determine the property’s worth or potential. They claim there is something strange about it. An old man who looked after the adjoining properties around there lived in it.”

“Yes, the caretaker. But, he died years ago, a very old man. But, there is no death record on him.”

“And his spirit still lurks around the old grounds. That’s what the real estate office says.”

“Well, you said you loved doing stories on places where things happened.” Shauna said, smiling.

Land deeds, surveys, property listings, documents of all kinds were spread across an old map table at the county courthouse. What looked like tea stain marks and scrawled signatures merged together making things nearly illegible.

The house was over a hundred years old. Records showed inhabitants from nearby properties were descendents from the original settlers.

With my camera, door key and copy of the records I approached the house, cautiously.

Tree roots grew up between rotted floor boards exposing earth and weeds, causing the entire floor to buckle in places. I hope I don’t fall through the floor to some gaping hole beneath. Paint was chipped and peeling from walls to ceiling where spiders weaved thick webs for their occupants still moving about. Windows were broken where the ground had shifted under the foundation.

A lone bulb dangled loose from a string of wires suspended just above me as I heard the patter and gnawing of rats or mice in the attic. I hate spiders, detest mice and freak out at the sight of rats.

The ceiling did not look any more stable than the floor looking like it could collapse any moment. I pulled out my flashlight. The descending sun cast shadows across things inside giving it an eerie glow. The furnishings were sparse, all of them looking like ancient pieces from a bygone era. Old, yellowed newspapers with dates so far back… Impossible! Beside them lay recent newspapers, some even with my stories in them. How can that be?

I quickly propped up my flashlight and began going through the pile. There was a scrolled up piece of parchment; a draft… Mayflower Compact?!

Floor boards creaked under heavy steps. The door was pushed open. I jumped, grabbing my flashlight and held it tightly in my raised hand; my ‘weapon’ ready.

“Oh, miss. I’m happy to find you. I read your stories in the Plymouth Sentinel. You tell a good tale. Will you write ours, about our crossing on the Mayflower? Oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m William Bradford, governor of Plymouth Colony.”

 ________________

Footnotes: This is a story of fiction, but the real story about William Bradford, the Plymouth Colony governor can be found  here   The above photo is one I took from the road we traveled while on a trip back to New England and Nova Scotia years ago. This old house caught me eye, and I had to stop and get a picture of it. I don’t think anyone was living in it at the time. I love taking pictures of old homes, historic buildings and churches and try to find some history on the area wherever we travel, so thought it would be a great photo prompt for this story.

Happy Halloween 🙂

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Somewhere over the meadow-land

The below post is fiction and my submitted entry for the http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_writing_challenge/build-your-own/

The photo is provided by Cheri Lucas Rowlands

 

I was uncertain where I was, but just kept going. Across the meadow, to where I didn’t know. Would anyone care about the “crazy lunatic  woman” who talked to the. “invisible man.” in her room, pleading his help to get out?

It’d been so long since I’d driven a car, then losing control after it swerved from the road hitting the tree. The car I stole from the entrance drive after running from the room while they did some, “psychological analysis evaluation”. Whatever that was. But, I had to get out of that insane place. Or, is it me that is insane? They all think I am.

Hitting my head hard against the dash. Shattered glass everywhere. The awful sound, the loud beeping noise coming from somewhere. Oh, yes, the asylum’s security alert system that went off.

My head hurts. It still bleeds from the gash where glass shards landed from the impact.

I’m so weary from running, and so weak. My blood is leaving tracks across the meadow as I stumble through thick bramble brush.

I hear him calling out my name, “Sarah… Sarah, I am here. You are free.”

________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 

Posted August 25, 2014 by Joyce in Fiction, Flash Fiction, My Writings, Short Fiction

Tagged with , ,

Alone, like the bird on the lake.

HPIM2404

A lake near a walking trail we use in Loveland, Co.

Jenna felt as alone as the bird on the lake. The water was stilled, a channel with no place to go, like her. Now she was out of a job with no money, or friends. She knew the company would not take her back.

 

I can’t undo what I did, led to believe I could have it all. I believed him, the ‘CEO’ who promised the career move would secure my future. But, instead he manipulated me, wanting “things” in return, leading me down a lonely, dark path.

 

She heard a voice, “Jenna. Go back. Trust me.”

 

She looked.

 

God?

_________________________

 

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Footnotes: The above story is fiction, not my own. I took the photo while walking on this trail with my husband and dog, Maggie. From time to time, I will post photos of places or things where I have been, and use the photo as a prompt for a short fiction story, or just tell a little about where the photo was taken with my own perspective on it. As always, comments and feedback are welcome.

 

Little Bug Jed

Little Bug Jed fell asleep in the bed

while all curled up by a boy named Ned

When morning came, little bug Jed

woke up to find Ned’s turtle named Fred

hungrily chomping on another bug’s head.

In fright he jumped from the bed beside Ned

before being snatched and eaten by Fred.

________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

Bug notes; There are times when the spirit moves me and inspiration comes in different ways, and I will move from a serious post or piece or even a serious story to one with a humorous or light approach to brighten the day and I want to feel the fantasy take me beyond the mundane realities in this world. Thus, in the recent months or past I have posted a poem or story to go with a funny or crazy little image to lighten the mood. Hope you enjoy the little poems or stories along the way to my ‘Fantasy Land’, a place I loved and enjoyed at Disneyland and Disneyworld.

Posted May 28, 2014 by Joyce in My Writings, Poems, poetry, Short Fiction

Tagged with , ,

A Frog Named Slime (Day 29 for the NaPoWriMo poetry challenge)

A Frog Named Slime

A frog named Slime covered in grime

Jumped in a pond to scrub himself clean,

 scrubbed so hard he washed off the green

“Look at me now! I can’t be seen,

looking too clean like a shriveled green bean.

“‘I look all shiny with all that sheen.

and won’t look like a frog if I’m not all green.”‘

So away he hopped to his puddle of grime

and happy was he the frog named Slime.

____________________________

Joyce E. Johnson © (2014)

The DP Challenge: Fifty

There came a peddler one day to town

Who had an old dog and traveled around

His wagon full with all sorts of stuff

clanked and hung off the side with old Scruff

He sold his wares to the burlap store

and could spin a tale like none heard before

____________

Joyce E. Johnson (2014)

 

 

 

 


The Night Before Christmas

Santa Claus

Santa Claus (Photo credit: Christopher S. Penn)


It was the night before Christmas when asleep in our house

I awoke with the sound of my snoring spouse.

I tried to sleep snuggled down in my bed.

But, it was no use; even covered my head.

So, I went to the kitchen, and put on the kettle,

to brew me some tea, and sit down to settle.

With my cup and a book I headed for my chair.

Then I heard a noise that gave me a scare.

What did I just see? I stopped to stare.

There plopped old Santa sitting astride

a floor full of toys with instructions beside.

A puzzled expression creased his dimpled, flushed face.

He looked so natural by the fireplace.

His round robust frame looked to pop like a cork,

when hearing my steps from the kitchen I came.

With no place to hide, and caught in his folly

he lumbered up getting caught in the holly.

Fallen from the mantle the garland like wreath

fell to his feet with the cookies beneath.

Spread out on the floor lay assorted parts,

nuts and bolts, tools and more.

But, he went to work assembling the toys;

a bicycle, a scooter, and robot for the boys.

A doll house, a tea set he checked off his list,

things my kids said, “Please don’t forget.”

In spite of the sight and comical scene,

He left such a mess I will have to clean.

But, I tiptoed away with my cup of tea

to give old Santa sprawled out by the tree

space to work, for he looked so perplexed.

Now, I vaguely remember falling asleep

curled up in my chair not hearing a peep.

When I woke in the morn on Christmas day

I tried to remember, Did I really see Santa,

Or did I just dream about a jolly old man,

who happened this way? Then I heard my kids squeal

with excitement and say, “Mom! Come see

what Santa brought us today.”

***********

Poem by: Joyce E. Johnson – 2012


There lived under a bridge…

The above photo is one I took of the Big Thompson River in my city (Loveland, CO.) where we walked almost every day with our dog, Maggie before the big flood in September of this year, 2013. The bridge seen in the background is now gone, as it was completely destroyed, but the big bridge in the foreground is the underpass at Wilson Blvd., At times there were things left behind having us believe there may have been homeless people living there, but the popular trail was always busy with bikers, hikers, people and their dogs walking it, and everyone was friendly, courteous and we all have missed the trail that was nearly all destroyed by the flood and is presently being rebuilt. photo credit: Joyce E. Johnson


There lived under a bridge by the water

a man when he walked would totter,

but kind was he

to all he did see,

and never to any a bother.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They called him a ‘troll,’

thought him strange and droll

living as he did

keeping well hid

under the bridge like a mole.

_____________

 (Joyce E Johnson © 2013

MIDNIGHT QUEEN

Black cat

MIDNIGHT QUEEN

She walks the street

alone and aloof,

hides in the shadows

quiet and discreet.

She knows no place

she can call her own,

sad eyes and hunger

written on her face.

She licks at sores

from abuse and neglect

like thrown out trash

that collects outdoors.

Mangy and unkempt

She gleans what she can

living off refuse

where the homeless slept.

___________

Joyce E. Johnson (2013)

The continuing saga of Midnight Queen

will return next week on Halloween. 🙂

Joyce E. Johnson (Oct. 2013)


Posted October 23, 2013 by Joyce in Poems, Short Fiction

Tagged with , , , ,

Fiction – ‘Doors’

Is it just me, now suspicious of everyone I see? Standing outside my hotel room door, cautious, waiting, listening as if expecting to find one going through my things, my files, laptop.

No! I cannot be this way and do my work here. I have a job, an assignment that requires my total focus and concentration.

I inserted the key, turned it. It opened. My room looked the same, and everything as I’d left it. Maybe, it was I who was changing. Now afraid of my own shadow, a door, a lock, a noise. A face I’d seen before.

_________________________

Joyce E. Johnson (2013)

Note: The above 100 word story with title (Doors) is my submission for Friday Fictioneers this week. This portion is a part of my ongoing novel, The Informant’s Agenda, and this is the last part of Chapter six, not included in the previous chapter section, but it seemed a good fit for this week’s photo prompt story provided by Rochelle, Wisoff Fields, moderator for Friday Fictioneers.  For the benefit of those who are following my story, The Informant’s Agenda I have not included the FF photo prompt here, so please excuse its omission. 🙂

Rantings Of A Third Kind

The Blog about everything and nothing and it's all done in the best possible taste!

Reflections

My writings of poetry, prose and fiction

Hisnamebpraised's Blog

In all things may His Name Be Praised

gailsuberbielle.wordpress.com/

Gail Suberbielle.com ... Nature photos, life, dogs, running

The Godly Chic Diaries

BY GRACE THROUGH FAITH

%d bloggers like this: