Mountains and Molehills of Fiction

The Victrola

My father brought home the wind up record player when I was ninteen years old.  It wasn't much to look at, to be honest.  The thing largely consisted of a beat up wooden box with a crank at on end that sat on a cabinet with doors, once opened, would change the volume at which the music played.  

Father was always bringing home antiques when he went out on his days off from the factory.  I was old enough, by far, to look after myself so when I turned down his casual invitations to go he'd trundle off by himself to see what treasures he could find to bring home.

Red

It was the sound of his footsteps.  She could hear him approaching, the uneven stutter step he adopted on carpeting, liking the way his feet moved across it, the static electricity it would build.  He always remained silent up until that last moment.  “HELLO!”

In her ear, it was in her ear.  He always said it in her ear, liking the way she jumped, his face splitting in a toothy grin, sometimes spit collecting in the corner of his mouth. He laughed, putting his hands to his face to cover his eyes so he could have his joy without her expression.

Flash Fiction: 100 Words & 1 Survivor

The bits of once-building blew in the air carrying flames, trailing. Stunned eyes tracked the sky: ships above, ahead, about, hovering.