Whisperer

“Spring’s on the horizon,” he whispers through the cool wind.

She shivers and wraps the knitted shawl tighter around her bare arms. “Do you see the light yet?” she asks tight-lipped, watching the children on the see-saw point and stare.

“So eager to get rid of me.” He smirks, and the wrinkles in his cheek disappear into the scenery behind him.

She shrugs and plucks a leaf from the shrub planted next to her. She crumbles it in her fist, opens her hand and lets the crisp brown pieces flutter to the ground like confetti.

“Everything’s dead.” She swings her foot into the dirt, kicking up dust.

“Not this.” He pats the bench on which they sit, and she can see the bright coat of red paint through his pale skin. “Not our love.” He beats his chest, and the hollow sound echoes through the park.

“Excuse me? I aim to feed the ducks.” A elderly woman carrying a loaf of bread sits in his place, and he evaporates around her curled body.

word count: 173

—Nortina


photo-20160208115053605Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 75-175 using the provided photo prompt as inspiration. Click the froggy icon to read other stories inspired by the photo and add your own.

One Last Time

The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.

The cab stopped in front of the sign, DEAD ZONE AHEAD. Jessie glanced at the meter as it began to glitch. She handed the man two 20s. “You don’t have to wait.” She gathered the bouquet of flowers and slid out onto the curb.

The driver made a sharp U-turn, the tires screeching, and sped back down the mountain.

There’s nothing evil about a place where the dead go to rest, she thought as she hiked toward the cast-iron gate. She looked down at the black screen of her cellphone. So electronics tend to fail here. She pulled her jacket over her shoulders. And the wind has a frozen lick to it.

Her husband’s grave was the first to the left of the entrance. She lay on the freshly shoveled dirt, placed the flowers above her head, waited for his arms to reach up and hold her one last time.

word count: 150

—Nortina


Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.

Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.

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Write or Die Wednesday: Fog

I see ghosts in the fog—
pale-faced shadows floating
above the surface, drifting into
what was, what used to be.
One dives down to kiss me—
grazes his frozen lips against
my cheek. He moans; I remind
him of a love long forgotten—
his only memory: her curly,
chestnut hair, how it wrapped
around his fingers like tiny
serpents, his blood flow halted—
stiff as stone. He tries to lay
me down, reincarnate his
devotion between the cracks of
a wooden bench— his limbs
disintegrate the higher he hikes
my skirt until only water
droplets lick my exposed skin.
Another fires cotton bullets
toward my head; shouts,
Who is your master?
Where are your papers?
I hear the crash of braided raw
cowhide behind me—  the tip
of a feather quickly brushing
down my spine. The halo overhead
descends, tightens around my neck.
Dark outlines of limp bodies
dangle from willows.
I swing with them
behind the veil of weeping leaves
until the wind blows, the fog lifts, and
the spirits of my nightmare
wander into slumber
before the morning rooster crows.

—Nortina


I recently came across Write or Die Wednesday, which is a biweekly writing challenge that provides you with a prompt and lets you run with it. This week’s prompt was:

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Read other fog writings, and have a go at it yourself!