IN AN ALCOVE BRIGHTLYThe silence was broken by pigeons cooing as the day found its inspiration to commence. The street was barren; cars parked, but traffic non-existant. From the shadows of a doorway, Furio Capuscalco appeared. His jacket, a slightly upscale tatter was clutched tightly across his chest. Each inhale threatened to send buttons scattering across the cobblestone. The satchel he carried was merely and old book bag from grade school. Now, all that occupied it was a pair of stockings and a partially consumed mallo bar. Small bundles of paper stacked neatly and banded, were tucked neatly on the bottom of the canvas sack. Oh yes, and his cap gun. A boy needed protection if he were to claim the mean streets as his own. Any thug with a sensitivity to loud noise was in for a rude awakening if he gave Furio any shit. Capusalco was all of seven years old.Trepidation fluttered in the young boy's belly. It was either fear that drove him, or the remnants of the sugar high that was the monkey on his back. He had a knack for the confections, and on an otherwise empty stomach, they gave him a terrible ache. Furio glanced out from his hiding place."Where are the people?" Furio wondered.This place near the park was usually bustling with activity. In a hurry; always in a hurry. No one ever noticed him, but Furio was there every day; lurking, peering, peeking around the corner from his sheltered spot. "Ain't nobody coming" Furio said to himself. "The coast is clear! It's mine now!"And he picked up his bag and stepped onto the sidewalk. A smile laced his smudged face. He owned these streets. His stride had assumed its confidence now. An unseen companion followed closely behind Furio, his four stubby legs padding along as his happy tail flicked the early morning air.Furio Manuscalco had evaded suspicion again. No one ever expected an armed bank robber to be all of three foot seven inches with peanut butter smears on his chin.
What a great name 'Furio'! This was a very good read, thanks, Walt!
Walt, Very nicely done. :)
Thanks Cher. I noticed I let his surname escape me in the last paragraph. Darn. But the little jumped out of that photo and into my story. It will be interesting to see where I can take the lad!
I cannot wait to see this, Walt. ☼
Thanks to Poetic Bloomings for leading me here!
Amen. It's time I wrote some more fiction. I'll be back!
Found the site through Poetic Bloomings. Love the idea!
"The Boy and the Old Man"They used to watch the Sun together. The Boy and the Old Man. The Boy was an early riser. He would hop out of bed, and tiptoe through the house not to wake up the others. Panting, one by one he would carry big heavy phone books, and pile them up on top of a flimsy desk below the basement window. He would build a tower until it was just tall enough for him to reach the latch. Then he would begin his journey up. Slowly and carefully…first to the top of the desk… then, holding his breath, and balancing, even higher up…until both his little feet were planted firmly on the very top of the tower.The Boy would unlock the window, and stick his head right onto the street. Funny, how after all that climbing he would still be on the ground! Then he would turn his head to the left, and sure enough, he would be there, limping towards him. The Old Man. The Boy would wave, and the Old Man would wave back. He would come, and sit down heavily on the pavement next to the Boy’s window. He would lean against the wall, resting. He was old, the Old Man. And tired. But his eyes were young still. They would talk about things, the Boy and the Old Man. The Boy would bring his worries to him, and the Old Man would take them in his withered wrinkled hands, and turn them into dust. And then he would tell the Boy of the wonderful distant lands, where men were strong, and women were all kind and beautiful. He was full of stories, the Old Man. And all of them were true.And then it would happen. Even in the city, deprived of the sky, and cramped, they knew it was coming. Everything around them would transform as if touched by a magic wand. Everything would be given a new life, a chance of a new beginning. Dazzling and glorious, the big flaming star would rise above the tile roofs like a promise of happiness. And the Old Man would look at the Boy, and wink. And then he would leave, saying, “If you don’t see me one day, don’t look for me, look at the Sun, for he’ll always be there.”And one day the Old Man did not come. And the day after… The Boy kept looking for him. He forgot all about the Sun. Day after day he waited, hoping with all his big little heart to see the Old Man again. But the Old Man never came. The Boy’s heart became heavy with worries, and his eyes grew old with sadness. But one day he remembered what the Old Man said. In the hour when the world renewed itself once more, the Boy looked up. Sure enough, the Sun climbed atop the sky. It beamed right at him, warming his heart, and melting his worries. It filled his eyes with dancing sparkles of laughter. Still grinning, the Boy began to climb down, but something made him stop. He looked up once more, and the star – so distant and wonderful, so strong, beautiful, and kind – looked back at him, and winked.
T.H.A. - OUTSTANDING!!! Thanks for jumping in. Great analogy and a tender heart behind it. Good work.
Thank you very much, Walt! And thank you, Poetic Bloomings, for leading us here. :-)
Poetic Bloomings was just the nudge you needed. You will find the allure of FLASHY FICTION will keep you coming back all by itself.
I'm sure it will! Very happy to be here, FLASHY FICTION, thank you!
"Waiting"She kept herself busy most of the time. It was the best cure for overwhelming loneliness. Their basement apartment had been turned into laundry where she washed sheets for the army hospital. Everyone did their part, and with the men all gone the work was left to the women.There was a never-ending supply of sheets. The wounded seemed to come in faster every day. She did not mind the work; it was hard and left her tired at the end of the day when sleep threatened not to come. The bleach was harsh on her hands and the washboard hell on her back, but she knew it was nothing compared to what her husband endured. Like the other wives, she endured her discomfort stoically; happy they had at least been spared artillery and air raids thus far.They adapted; there was no choice. Every attempt was made to maintain some sense of normalcy. Stores were still open, though often poorly stocked. Meals were often sparse as well; cabbage plentiful but rarely any meat. They could get flour for making bread and that served well to fill empty stomachs.She only allowed herself emotion twice a day; before going to sleep when she missed him the most, and when she woke and could still feel his arms around her. But every day she was hit once more with a force like a punch to the stomach. Even though she tried to prepare for it, she always had to turn away.Each day after school her boy would come home and stand in the window. He would lean out over the bricks bleached out by the wash water they dumped on the walk. Every day would he stay there until dark, scanning the faces of the men in uniform that would wander by. Looking for the one that called him son.
Thanks for this Mark. Very descriptive and emotion filled. Great work.
Thanks Walt, enjoy the format here. Get 'em kick started! (To VIV and T.H.A: yes I noticed the typos AFTER I posted. Kept me awake last night!)
I didn't notice any: I lived in your story. A great photograph and a great story to match it.
First timer, and very rough. Also about to find out what formatting works here, and how. ;) Haven't read any of the above yet, but looking forward to it. Great site, ladies. Thank you. DuskI asked the trees. But they do not whisper to me where my mother went, even though they know lots of other stories. The light this little light of minehas changed, but I am not afraid. Bumpy is here, and Fraggly, too, and they are company enough for now. Mama said stay right here and so I will, even though my tummy is grumbly and my juice is all gone. gonna let it shineI asked the breeze, but like that last lady – the one in the tall pink hat; idonotlikethatlady – it just blows on by. Come back soon, Mama. I’m cold. I hope it doesn’t get dark too soon. Fraggly does not like the dark. hide it under a bushelNo way am I asking that man over there. His eyes do not smile even though his mouth does, and Bumpy says if we ignore him maybe he will just go away. I wish I had my monster spray. It really works, if you let it. Let it shine…Let it shine…Let it shine.
Somewhat haunting with tension building throughout. The song running through works and adds in my opinion. Very nice.
Thank you, Mark. Happy Amateur, I'm not sure if your comment was meant for me or not...so much good work here. If so, thank you. If not, I concur. ;)
Hi De, I was responding to Mark who thinks I'm a 'typo freak' :-)But I enjoyed your story, too, and I too love all the different possibilities one great photo can offer.I'm looking forward to more prompts.
So much good work here, Walt, Happy, Mark. Loving all the different takes on this amazing photo.
Walt, thanks so much for initiating the revival of FF! It's nice to see so many wonderful "comments" to RJ's prompt.