Tag Archives: flash friday fiction

Friday Fiction 2.1 — Your Mother Will See You Now


When Luther went home for the long holiday weekend, amongst his toiletries, he packed a suit, a blazer, two pairs of “shiny shoes” as Claire called them, a set of running shoes, his iPod, some ties: one for the plane, one for day, one for dinner, one for Mass, and his journal.

He was not at all concerned about flying, but his nerves were a wreck; he was looking forward to runs in the park with his labrador, “Charlie” and for long walks with his dad by the lake. He was even looking forward to seeing his sister’s husband, Griff, the hotshot lawyer who always managed to make big husky Luther feel like a chump. A chump was a god compared to how Luther felt around his mother.

[go here for the first part of this story: https://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/friday-fiction-friends-2-0-familiarity-breeds-fonder-over-greener-ponds/ ]

Although she had never directly expressed her dismay or disappointment with Luther’s job, or his lack of a steady girlfriend, or his seemingly directionless life to Luther, it’s what she said to all his relatives, friends, the mailman and the pharmacist that gave her away.

“How’s the card company, Luther?” Mr. Everwood would say from his perch above the pharmacy floor when he’d go by to pick up a refill for his father. “We don’t carry those cards in this shop. People don’t seem to like ’em…” he would add on, his voice fading into a mutter about an obscene greeting card scandal years before that had nothing to do with Hansen’s Greetings, the country’s second-largest greeting card company.

For the first couple inquiries, Luther would try to talk up the company, but after his first year ended, he’d decided that Mr. Everwood wasn’t really interested in a conversation; he’d always wander off mid-sentence looking for his reading glasses which were usually hanging from a black polyester cord around his neck.

When he boarded the jet to take him to Nantucket, Luther put his bags in the overhead compartment. His carry-on fit perfectly beneath his window seat on the small aircraft. Luther was a big guy, 6’3″ 195, athletic, and broad-shouldered. He had inherited the Irish farmer in his father’s side of the family. His sister, Maureen, was much slighter than he, but what she lacked in physicality, she made up for in personality. He stood up in the aisle for as long as possible, stretching his aching legs as he’d waited for his section mate to show up. Once that unknown fellow traveler arrived, Luther would be locked into his seat for five hours. He looked at his phone. The flight was already 7 minutes behind schedule, he sighed, loosened his tie and decided to take off his jacket.

Luther came from ‘good breeding’ and he learned early on to dress appropriately for a flight; it was a sign of respect to the captain and the staff of aircraft. His grandfather was a commercial pilot after flying for the Navy during the Vietnam War. His grandfather told everyone to dress for a funeral when flying because, “you never know if you’ll be buried at sea” when flying over the water, but he also said it was important to dress well because often those pilots were retired military officers who risked their lives for our country, so “dress up or get off my plane!” was his oft-heard refrain he’d offer to anyone who flew with him.

He turned around and prepared to put his jacket up in the overhead compartment when his section mate arrived. They’d just about bumped right into each other. It was a young woman, about 20, who asked if she was in the right place on the plane. She was tall, just about Claire’s height, Luther noticed, and dressed smartly for the flight.

“Uh… row 22 seat B, yup, that’s you. Right here. Can I get your bag for you? I’m happy to –”

“No, thanks, I’ve got it. I’m on the volleyball team at school, so I’m used to doing shoulder presses and all that. You putting your jacket up there or are you getting it down? Need me to –”

“Sure, great. Once you put your bag up there, if you could take my jacket, here, it’s all folded and ready, and plop that on top of my bag, that would be awesome,” he said as he stretched and twisted his back before submitting himself to the cramped seat which waited below him.

The blonde student-athlete took his jacket and gently placed it on top of his bag.

“It’s gonna shift around in there, just so you know, I put it right on top as you suggested, but if it comes out all rumpled…” she said, pursing the right corner of her mouth and raising her right eyebrow, “don’t blame me; blame the pilot.”

“Then it’ll be rumpled. The humidity on Nantucket should straighten it out in no time once we get back on land. My name’s Luther, thank you for your help,” he said, extending his hand as he prepared to sit down.

“Chris, and you’re welcome. My pleasure,” she answered with a big bright smile. “You going home or vacation up there? I’m heading home for summer break; classes just ended yesterday and I’ve got two weeks before volleyball training starts over again,” she asked, not looking at him, but acquainting herself with her seat, the safety belt, the magazines and her arranging her iPod.

Luther padded his shirt pocket for his iPod, then his hip pockets, still nothing. “I am … doing neither. …. My parents live up there; it’s where I grew up, but I don’t consider it home. Anyway, I’m rambling. I’m heading to Nantucket for a long weekend with my family and I’m looking forward to seeing our dog,” he said. “Aha, there it is, in my carry-on,” his voice muffled into his chest because he was all compressed like a shrimp.

“Your dog?” Chris asked.

“No, my iPod. My dog… Ha ha… that’s funny.”

“Well, you’d be surprised about what people bring on planes, Luther,” she said.

He agreed. “If you need anything that I can help you with, please let me know; I’m just gonna plug in here and zone out.”

Chris nodded, she was a few steps ahead of him with her pillow scrunched under her head alongside the headrest.

He fell asleep quickly. Images of leather chairs and Persian rugs flooded his dreams. A small room, the sunlight which made it past the leafy birch out front dappled the wood floor, high mahogany walls, lots of books, a maple roll-top desk and a matching swivel chair on casters with a black leather seat awaited him. He sat on the chair; his hands resting like paws on the armrests, his feet didn’t touch the floor, they swung loosely from the cushion which was cool to the backs of his bare legs in seersucker short-pants. He could see his blue and white saddle shoes swish back and forth. Waiting here meant trouble. Waiting here meant he had some explaining to do. Waiting here meant he got thirsty real fast. A door swung open and a fierce-looking woman in a grey suit spoke to Luther, “Your mother will see you now, Luther.”

“Yes mother,” said Luther to the woman.

Luther jostled in his seat. The song he’d fallen asleep to hadn’t even ended. The plane was still on the ground. His cell phone was ringing, it was his mother calling.

(c) Molly Field 2013



here is the next installment: https://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/05/10/friday-fiction-2-1-perfect-is-the-enemy-of-good/

well, that’s it for me – about 1200 words. i’ve been sick all week with strep throat and it’s late (thursday night – i have an appointment friday); i’d write more, but we have the whole month of May to write about mothers … all fiction of course. 😉

Here is the prompt:

  • May is the month to celebrating motherhood. Start this week’s post with the following:”Your mother….”

please read the other Friday Fiction Friends who are participating today:







Friday Fiction 2.1 — Greetings with Flowers


Claire turned down the stereo in her sweet little shiny metallic-green Carman Ghia convertible her grandmother left her in her will. As she pulled into the parking lot, she kept belting out her unsolicited accompaniment to Adam Levine’s blessed falsetto in his song “Just a Feeling.”

You left your flowers in the back seat of my car / The things we said and did have left permanent scars / Obsessed, depressed at the same time / I can’t even walk in a straight line / I’ve been lying in the dark / No sunshine, no sunshine, no sunshine…

She parked the car, rolled up her window, gathered her things, and hummed to herself the rest of the stanza. As she opened her car door, her beautiful and athletic left leg which tapered into a classic bone pump was the first thing to exit the car after her humming. She unfolded from the driver’s seat, reached back in for her things, and as she stood up beneath the cement buttress in the cold and antiseptic parking garage, her hair cascaded over her shoulder. she flipped it back, only to be socked in the hip by the chocolate brown leather messenger bag her mother bought her as a gift for her college graduation. Instead of moaning, she continued her serenade,

You’re not even thereeeeeeee….. Just a feeling … Just a feeling … / No I can’t belieeeeeeve that it’sss ovvvverrrrrr…

[go here for the first part of this story: https://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/04/19/friday-fiction-friends-2-0-familiarity-breeds-fonder-over-greener-ponds/ ]

Her voice echoed through the garage, giving vibrancy and life to an otherwise dank and dreary place. Her voice was powerful and gorgeous. She sang for no one but herself and her shower. Sometimes her neighbors would hear her belt out a tune now and then, she liked to pretend she was Bobby Darren singing “Mack the Knife,” into a feather duster. Sometimes she sang when she vacuumed her apartment and could often be spied upon having spontaneous dance parties by herself in her boxer shorts and JAWS t-shirt as she would muscle through a day of housekeeping and bathroom cleaning, her wavy brown hair in a ponytail or hidden under a bandana scarf.

What she was unaware, as usual, was her effect on people. She thought she was bad inside, she thought people saw through her, she thought people thought she was fake; that it was all a ruse: her cheerfulness and her altruism and team spirit. The truth to her, deep inside her though, was that she sang and danced and played to feel alive inside when most of the time she felt like she was an empty shell.

Luther parked farther back in the garage, as he usually did because he felt it was important to give the female employees (mostly Claire) the spots closer to the lights and the elevator for their personal safety although no one knew it. They just thought he liked to park his shiny Mustang far away because he acted like a snob and a jerk.

When he walked toward the building, he could still hear Claire’s voice bouncing off the pilings and gray walls long after she had stopped singing. He knew the song himself and silently played it in his head, gently swaying his head in time with the melody.

The soles of her pumps shuffled along the gritty substrate and her heels click, click, clicked to the elevator, picking up their pace as she heard the bell ding-ding, going down… hurry!

“Hold the car!” Luther shouted, “Claire! Hold the car, please, my legs are killing me.”

“Ok, only for you Luther, and only because you’re supposedly injured,” she said.

Pressing the doors open button blanched her thumb, it was practically bent into a U from the pressure. As he ambled into the car, he looked at the button and her thumb, and thanked Claire.

“You can let go now, Claire, your thumb is begging for some blood, thanks again,” he said.

“You’re welcome. What’s wrong with your legs? Did you do too many squats, too many thrusters? Did you lift too many gorillas at the gym last night?” she said indicating toward his legs with her free hand, which was not free at all, it was holding her water bottle, a purple rubber-covered glass bottle she bought at her yoga studio a couple months before. The doors closed smoothly and silently and the elevator began its ascent.

>Ding< “First floor,” the elevator announced.

“Uh, no. I … uh, I have a … yeah, you’re right, I lifted too many gorillas at the gym last night. It wasn’t so much them, it was the squat thrusts I had to do at the rail yard against those coal cars,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, if you jocks would just admit that the football game ended fifty-thousand years ago, your legs might be nicer to you, if you’re nicer to them,” she said, softening her tone, her eyes glancing at the ceiling in the moment of awkwardness.

>Ding ding< “Second floor.”

“That’s quite a water bottle,” Luther said.

>Ding ding ding< “Third floor.”

“Water? This? No. It’s vodka. Shh. Don’t tell anyone. It’s how I get through the day here…”

>Ding ding ding ding< “Fourth floor.”

“This is us,” she said and held the door open for him to leave first.

“After you, really, I’m gonna be a while,” he said.

“Well, it’s ok, I’ve got my water, wink… I will wait for you; look, if you’re sore from working out, I get that, take your time. Yoga was tough the other night, I’m still feeling it in my arms. We’ve still got a couple minutes before the new Greetings with Flowers Just Because meeting kicks off,” she said, her hand covering the door’s bumper to keep it from closing on Luther. “Giddy up, I’ll hold it, really.”

Luther looked at her and smiled a bit, but it was more of a grimace from the effort of moving his body.

Claire, forgetting herself, started singing the song again

I can’t believe that it’s ooooverrrr

And then, terribly self-conscious, she stopped herself almost as soon as she had started.

“Um, sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s a habit I have, a bad one… I sing when I’m … uh, I don’t know, I just sing.”

Luther looked at her and smiled wide, his teeth showing this time and he nodded, “I know. It’s ok. I have heard … It’s totally ok,” he said as he cleared the threshold of the elevator, the brown carpeting and tan walls, IKEA-inspired artwork and other knick-knacks instantly muted their voices and muffled their sounds and the elevator’s ding! them as they entered the lobby of Hansen’s Greetings, still America’s second-largest greeting card company.

Claire stepped out of the elevator, her heel clicked its last unless she dared leave the office, or used the bathroom or the kitchen during the day.

“See you later, Luther. Five minutes to the meeting,” she said. “G’morning Elise, how are you today?” she said to the receptionist, a new girl they’d hired last week.

“I’m good, thanks!” Elise said in a mousy voice. “You?”

“Me? I’m … I’m good. I’m good so far, thanks,” Claire said, looking after Luther, watching him walk tenderly and slowly. She physically restrained herself from moving to help him with his walk. “Poor jock, some people don’t know when they’ve hit their limit… even Superman has his kryptonite, Luther!” she said to him.

Luther turned back and smiled at her, wincing again, “Yeah, I know. I think I’ll lift only chimps next time… ha…” he said and turned back toward his cube.

It’s the way she seems to stare right through my eyes / And in my darkest day when she refused to run away / From love she tried so hard to save

But it wasn’t Claire singing; it was a beautiful falsetto passing the copier machine just past Elise’s desk.

kelly debie made this. :) www.debiehive.blogspot.com

kelly debie made this. 🙂 http://www.debiehive.blogspot.com

© 2013 Molly Field :: All Rights Reserved.

Ok… here’s the song:


Here is the next installment: https://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/05/03/friday-fiction-2-1-your-mother-will-see-you-now/

This was fun. I am listening to some music at the moment; can you guess which song? I think we’re gonna see some amazing things happen between Claire and Luther… or are we? And if you’re paying attention, yes, Elise is back. I believe I’m attempting the impossible: making sense of the last three entries for this 2.0 round of fiction.

Many thanks to Sandra over at Bulamamani for today’s prompt:

“The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;”

Inspired by this excerpt from Galway Kinnell’s poem “San Francis and the sow”, you will describe a situation where your character is remembered of her/his own beauty/talent/gift. Let your imagination and words flow this is your blossoming time too dear co-writers!

And a belated thanks to Susanne over at Susanne’s World for her prompt last week!

And a very belated thanks to Kristal over at Clearly Kristal (Moments Matter) for her prompt two weeks ago. We are a team!!!

Go check out the great stuff coming from today’s other participants (as soon as I get their URLs I will list them)!

Friday Fiction Friends — 2.0: When the Toughs Get Going

kelly debie made this. :) www.debiehive.blogspot.com

kelly debie made this. http://www.debiehive.blogspot.com

“Let’s do this. I’m so tired of waiting for Bailey to give us the sign. He’s so freakin’ slow,” said Cassie as she loaded her six-shot and looked over the side of the car for anyone coming out of the building near the target point.

“No. We have to wait. There’s a reason you and I are here and a reason why Bailey and Jacks are doing what they’re doing. And watch your mouth; you talk like a sailor for Pete’s sake. Do you talk like that around the baby?? Besides, has it ever gone wrong before? No. Have we ever been busted when we follow their orders? No. Just… just wait,” said Sam.

Cassie sighed. “Sometimes the risk outweighs the reward, Sam. It’s hot, I’m antsy, I didn’t get much sleep last night; the baby was screaming until dawn. I think his teeth are coming in and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I think I passed out around four in the morning. It was insane. I heard the newspaper hit the porch.”

The midday sun hid behind thick August clouds but the humidity was oppressive. Just sitting outside, anywhere even in the shade under the big maple tree and behind the souped-up Monte Carlo SS was enough to make anyone heat up and perspire, more so for anyone with scheming on their mind.

“You know, if you look in the reflection of these hubcaps, you can see what’s going on out there without having to risk being discovered,” Cassie said. “We don’t need them to tell us when…” Cassie was the wild hair; she had no patience, no insight and no respect for authority, law-abiding or not.

“I was born on the wrong side of the tracks,” she liked to say in a gravelly voice when she’d take a swig from a sweaty long neck and peer over her shoulder waiting for someone to appear out of nowhere; paranoid that her prestige and rank she’d worked so hard to attain within the organization was at risk. “Mom always said she never knew when I’d blow…”

She checked her gun again; counting the rounds in the cylinder. It was a nervous habit and it made Sam more twitchy every time she did it.

“Keep the safety on, will ya? It’s loaded, I can see the slugs from here. Just sit still, will ya? He said he’d be here and he’ll be here. Just wait for the call and then we’ll know it’s time,” said Sam.

Cassie and Sam, Sam and Cassie; it had been the two of them for years, ever since they met in third grade back at St. Bart’s in Hyde Park on the South Side Chicago neighborhood. Kids, even those in the upper grades, cleared out of their way when they saw them coming. “Make a hole!” Cassie would shout, pointing at the pretty girls all in a row in their shiny Mary Janes, blue plaid jumpers and Peter Pan collared shirts. It was like good cop, bad cop or good twerp, bad twerp. Sam was the cool-headed and calculated one and Cassie was the time bomb.

(wikipedia commons)

(wikipedia commons)

They met when Cassie’s family had to move from their flat in Pullman. Her father got a new job, with a big salary and a weird title. No one knew what he actually did for a living; he was reported to be in “waste management” but no one ever saw him drive a trash truck. It was all very suspicious; Cassie liked it that way. She used the mysterious story to her advantage and told everyone her father was a truck driver for the mob; a cigarette importer from Canada. She told people he’d whacked a couple guys who gave him some static.

Truth be told, he was an accountant for the City of Chicago. He worked in the Department of Public Works and managed the contracts for the various sanitation vendors. It was all very much on the up and up; Cassie is the one who decided it was nefarious and dubious work. It gave her an edge in all things from trading a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich for a mallomar at lunch to getting the seat closest to the door in Sister Marie’s somnolent and pedantic weekly lectures on feminine modesty. Her wavy, blazing red hair cut in a bob, and vivid green eyes, contrasting points on the color wheel, were physical metaphors of her inner fury. Her mother called her “the raging pimento.” She was athletic, graceful even, and would relive the glory days of her 11-second / 100-yard dash in saddle shoes: a City record on the sun-faded macadam at St. Bart’s.

Sam was the more aquiline of the pair; she had long blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes contrasted by a masculine gait and deep voice. She sang alto in the church choir. Her parents befriended the Mickeljohns at the Christmas bazaar when they moved into the neighborhood. Sam’s mom was the chairlady of St. Bart’s Welcome and Glad Tidings Committee and she brought her daughter to meet Cassie, the new girl in the school, with an apple pie and a commemorative school Christmas ornament for her parents that year.

Sam and Cassie hit it off immediately that afternoon back in the day and the pair was thick as thieves, eluding capture caper after caper. They started out small-time: Cassie taught Sam how to steal glue and glitter from the art room and stuff it in her jumper, Sam’s association with the neighborhood and good reputation kept her above suspicion.

“That’s it! There’s the money truck, pulling up and right on time, just like Jacks promised,” said Sam. “His casing out this joint for weeks certainly helped us get this gig nailed down. He’s been one tough cookie for most of this planning, but I have to say he knows what he’s talking about when it comes to hitting this truck hard. Do you have your gear? Are you ready? There’s the sign, Jacks just gave the sign. Cass, it’s time. Cassie, c’mon!”

Cassie was gone.

Screaming came from the truck, a cache of rounds went flying through the air. Panic, mayhem and pandemonium ensued and Cassie stormed the unsuspecting and completely unprepared driver and his assistant. She had packed her semi-automatic and had gone rogue. Her weapons ejected shells all over the scene. She was relentless: ammo spraying everywhere, until she stabilized herself and fired directly into the cockpit at the driver.

“Abort Mission! Abort! Abort!” Bailey was screaming from behind the getaway vehicle, a modified crotch rocket with extra-fat tires. “Cassie’s gone rogue, she’s ruined the mission! Save yourselves! Abort!”

It was no use; Cassie had been waiting for this opportunity to take control and she executed her plan, whatever it was, flawlessly. The driver of the truck gave it all up, begging for reprieve. Out of the back of the truck, his assistant was handing out everything he could, as fast as he could get it out. Sam noticed the opportunity and capitalized on it, yelling into her walkie-talkie, “Re-engage! Re-engage! Cassie has prevailed! I repeat: Cassie! Has! Prevailed!”

Sam fired her weapon into the air in an irresponsible celebratory blast. Soon the street was littered with more shells. Coins and a flurry of bills cascaded like the Vatican snow-globe on Father Reilly’s desk. The driver and his assistant were begging for mercy and explaining they didn’t have any more to give; Cassie and Sam had taken it all.

“Please! Stop! We have nothing left! Spare me! My children and wife are all I have! You can have what you can find… There are no more Nutty Buddies! No more! All I have are Tropical Rocket Pops and Lemon Push-Ups! Please! You have to believe me! Put down the Nerf guns! My truck is a mess in here. You win! You win … This time!” and the truck peeled away.

“Hey! I need a Lemon Push-Up for my baby brother!” yelled Cassie, just before the Good Humor man lost his good humor. “I have a dollar for it…” she begged and he stopped.

“This is for the baby. NOT for YOU,” he said loudly, looking over her shoulder and nodding his chin toward her big brother.

“For baby Charlie, got it. Give it to me, Cass,” said her brother.

“You bet. Here Bailes… Catch!” and she whipped it at him, laughing and pointing at the day-glo yellow goopy mark it left on his shirt before she turned tail and sped off into the hazy afternoon.

“Just three more weeks ’til middle school starts Cass, then there’s no more running and hiding y’know!” Bailey shouted after her.

The citrine ice soaked through his shirt chilling his belly button; he was fuming. That was not a stain mom could get out.


Well, that was fun. It was a little hard for me too, actually. Thanks for toughing it out with me. (yuk yuk.) After last month’s story, I had to go for something lighter plus my son asked me if I would write something he could enjoy, so I did. i think he enjoyed it.

Here is this week’s prompt: Going for It. Your character (new or old) has been stuck in a rut of inaction or stinkin’ thinkin’, encumbered by doubt or memories s/he has been unable to shake. In a moment of whim and unbridled mirth, who knows: faith? s/he decides to throw caution to the wind and just go for it, do what s/he has been avoiding out of fear, or just sheer bad timing or dumb luck. The stars have aligned: this is the moment. S/he goes for it… you decide if the venture is successful or not. 1,500 words max. 50% Dialogue optional, but suggested.

Please check out the other fantastic Friday Fiction Friends and see what they’ve been up to: