Palm Pay

 

Miranda’s concentration was broken by the distinct whistle. She paused the script and ran to the window.

A man was peering at a tiny screen on his wrist.

“Hi!”

He looked up. “Miranda?”

“Yeah, that’s me!”

He tapped the square. “Package by Ele-Vator.”

“Thanks! Palm Pay okay?”

He nodded. “Try. They got range issues today.”

“No worries,” Miranda smiled. “Lemme pop out.”

She slipped a leg out to straddle the sill. “How’s that?” She lifted her hand.

The man raised his.

A small buzz in her palm.

He checked his screen. “Perfect. Done. Ele-Vating package now. Have a good one!”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: Alicia Jamtaas

 

The Right Thing

https://rochellewisofffields.files.wordpress.com/2023/01/jhardy.jpg

 

“I’ll take the summer off and get it done,” Meyer stated. 

“It will take more than a summer,” Bette pointed out. She loved his enthusiasm. She liked half-done projects less. And this one mattered. Immensely.

Meyer’s intended retort fizzled at the look in his wife’s eyes. Love lived there. Love will have to live here, too.

“It has good bones,” he said instead.

“All it is, is bones,” she chuckled. “More likely we’re looking at two years.”

Meyer nodded. “We’ll liquidate other holdings.”

He wrapped an arm around his wife. “It is the right thing, Bette, to build this orphanage.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © J Hardy Carroll

Space Saver

small-load NaamaYehuda

 

“It won’t fit.”

Sandra looked up from kneading. Mollie’s face was red with exertion.

“What won’t?” she asked, resuming the stretch-fold-stretch-fold rhythm. Working dough relaxed her. The knowledge that each pull and press moved energy from her muscles into what would later feed them. The cycle of it.

“The laundry. Nothing fits.”

“That’s odd,” Sandra noted. “I washed linens in it just the other day.”

“But nothing fits!” Mollie’s voice shook. “Not a sock!”

Sandra paused. She forgot how easily her sister got flustered even by simple things.

“It’s a Space-Savor model,” she offered. “Have you tried shrinking the items first?”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Na’ama Yehuda

 

Just To Rub It In

 

“You should have let them check it first.”

“It’s not that bad,” Stephen tried.

“You always act as if you know everything,” Martha pressed. “Five more minutes and they would have found the glitch.”

Stephen shrugged. “I’ll fix it.”

“Like you did the hole in our sky?” Martha retorted, satisfied with how his hands tightened on the steering wheel. At least he was getting a taste of the frustration he was causing.

“Now our daughter will have to grow up with a partial simulation,” she added. To rub it in.

“Our simulated daughter.”

He always did get the last word.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Fleur Lind

En Route

 

“Mind your step.”

I nodded. I’d waited too long for this to end my chance with a twisted ankle. The stairs were strewn with leaves and refuse.

“Leave no sign. It will be dark.”

I dipped my chin again in acquiescing. I’d promised that no matter what, I would not make a sound. I hoped the thunder of my heart between my ears did not transmit over the earpiece.

“Walk down.”

I did. Tried not to think about the booby traps.

If I made it in one piece, the door would open. To tunnels. To the safety of the Under-Town.

 

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Roger Bultot

 

 

Her Vision

 

 

She tried. But still she could not see.

Not the way she should have. Not the way others expected her to. Not how they could. All crisp lines and sharp edges.

There was no focus to her sight. No defined hues.

No boundaries.

No wonder others thought she had no need for any.

She used to think it was her fault. Her eyes a reflection of failure.

She’d seen a doctor since. In secret, but at least this one was hers to hold in confidence.

Her optic nerve had never fully formed.

But her heart, she now knew, saw perfectly.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Her Own Shadow

 

Evening light filtered through partially open curtains. Outside the porch’s floorboards sighed. A car’s engine coughed into life. The scent of crushed leaves and motor oil drifted on an errant breeze.

She sighed.

There will be time to sort through the tangled mess inside her heart, to sweep up shards of life, to breathe out the echoes of words she wished to never have heard.

Not yet.

For the moment, she just sat.

A shadow of her former self.

In a house that wept emptiness.

And let the space behind her eyes

Hold her as she waited

To be found.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo: © Dale Rogerson

 

Greenhorn

 

“A pile of junk,” she had called it.

“My pile of junk,” Tim had responded, knowing then that if it came to choice, it would not be her he’d choose. And not because he cared for wheels and metal more than for flesh and blood. If Daria could not see why Poppa’s beloved Greenhorn was worth saving, she could not see worth where it sat.

Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. Memories and family.

His only. Family.

Daria found a man with a Jaguar.

Tim renovated Poppa’s car.

Found Miranda.

“A classic!” she exclaimed.

Flesh and heart. Worthy of Poppa’s car.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Brenda Cox

 

 

 

 

Singled Out

 

 

He didn’t mind.

Not really.

She tossed him out, she did. A punishment. For being “self-absorbed” and “unmotivated.”

Fair blame, it was. If needing quiet time was selfish, and if not finding it important to climb the never-ending escalator of social comparison, spelled lacking motivation.

Emily liked that stuff.

He did not.

A mismatch more than an actual problem.

For him.

He’d have to find better insulated housing before winter. But in the interim, the camper offered everything he needed.

Shelter. Nature. Quiet. Calm.

Perhaps he’d send Emily a thank you card. Next time he was in town.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Bill Reynolds

 

The Waiting Game

 

“So I sit here…”

“…and wait,” Misha confirmed.

Clara sighed. When she agreed to babysit her nephew, she thought playgrounds and picnics. Not nonstop rain and hours in a gloomy cafe while her car was being repaired.

She looked around for the boy. Yep. There. His red top. He’s crouched behind the same table. Every. Single. Time.

“I give up!” she announced.

“Ta-da!” Misha popped out like a cork from a bottle.

The four-year-old ran to her and wrapped his arms around her torso. “Best play-date ever, Auntie Clawa! I love this Waiting Game!”

Clara smiled. “Wanna hide again?”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © David Stewart