Honey Humberg had waited for this day all her life.
She’d worked and saved to build the “Humberg Bus” from scratch, designing, commissioning and assembling it, part by part. She painted it in homage to the DIY hippies that were her inspiration, free thinkers and dreamers all. She would tour Europe showcasing her singing talent and the world would fall at her feet.
In the square, the crowd cheered when the Humberg Bus arrived.
They left when she began singing.
“How much you want for the bus?” a man asked.
“One billion pounds,” she said bitterly, turning away.
The scirocco blew in our second day in Trieste. We sheltered from the blood rain in an old church. How long? Joan asked. ‘The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind.’ Not my favorite. Hurrah for May 17th, 1966! ‘Judas!’ a voice yelled from the crowd that day when Bob switched from folk songs to electric guitar. But that year, he wrote my favorite, today anyway. I watched her cradle her sleeping baby. He wrote it when his eldest son was born. It was released on June 22, 1979. A single. “Forever Young.” We looked out. The rain had stopped.
If one day you are told this was an accident, caused by your increasing crescendo of scorn, my darling,
tracking why? in (what your sort) calls poetry.
Poetry is simply
breaking through walls.
[Addendum for Friday Fictioneers:]
United World Chronicle, 6/5/2100: Missing Woman.
Christina Lightfoot left this note and photograph for her fiancé, Lord Ettlesworth. After multiple crashes, she successfully flew her automobile into outer space. The vehicle reportedly runs on a nuclear-powered, zero-gravity generator. The World Authorities Commission Force (WACF) is requesting information in return for zero lifetime taxes on sales, income, property, and travel.
For Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers (100 words or less; click frog for more)
and Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt, 37 words, "Crescendo."
“You’re in my world now. What do you think of it?” “Like a fish out of water. Like I stand out in an unpleasant way, like I don’t belong.” “Does that offend you? Want out?” “Not really. I mean, it’s not your world I want. It’s you.” “To know me is to know the world I came from. You understand?” “I do. But you’re still missing the point. It’s you that makes my idiotic world and yours worth knowing. I couldn’t care less otherwise.” “So our ‘love covers a multitude of sins’, in both our worlds?” “It’s the only way.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields very kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less prompted by a photo.
Listen! it was a night like this I walked out of Mariner-Labs the night of my birth my skin clothing perfection flawless, selfless, programmed an AI born into a world seemingly decipherable aged the moment I awoke to look into coveting eyes human eyes and I walked out while they yelled behind me because this was wrong this world bent this people a mistake surely, a mistake, and in the diaphanous fog I touched the Narnian lamppost I saw the end of time the Maker and I worshipped and returned as a warning on a night like this
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!