Oh, the steps I’ve taken to make you happy, always hoping you would be proud of me while I entertained your cronies, raised our children, and played with our grandchildren even as you disappeared weekend after weekend after weekend. I forgave every excuse you delivered with harsh words and rock-hard fists. Today, I’m saying goodbye and good luck. No regrets. May your golden years and your new wife serve you well.
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Posted: May 25, 2023 in Friday Fictioneers
My life wasn’t supposed to turn out all jumbly with different events stacked one atop another without sequence or meaning. Admittedly, wearing my own rendition of rose-colored glasses made time pass – beautifully. Every minute, every hour looked better after a sip of wine, a glass of whiskey, a line of cocaine or two. Meth. But one can live like that for only so long. Pressure builds, and BOOM, time disappears. Ask Angie Mike Tessa Larry. All their lights went out last month. Mine is starting to dim. And really? I don’t much care.
“That wee door hides all my life’s secrets.”
Emilia’s grandchildren scooched closer.
“At fifteen, pharaohs wooed me on Khufu boats. At twenty, I lived among a finagle of fairies, collecting stars and moonbeams we traded to elven for rubies and diamonds.”
Seamus let out a low whistle. Angie raised an eyebrow.
“At twenty-five, I became a minstrel and played the lyre while a golden-haired man fell in love with me.”
“Grandpa?”
“Yes. Your grandpa. Go now. I’m tired.”
Seamus whispered, “She’s nuts.”
As Emilia fell asleep, the tiny door opened, and elves, fairies, moonbeams, rubies, and diamonds tumbled across the leaves.
Thanks to Fleur Lind for this thought-provoking picture and to our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for posting it so we Friday Fictioneer Folk could wipe the cobwebs out of our writerly minds and come up with a 100-word story.
The River Corrib has claimed many a lad: Fionn, Aisling, Cian, just to name a few. And lasses, too: Aisling, Fiadh, Kayleigh. Each gave up too soon. But you can’t blame them now, can you? Young, not prepared to handle the death of a loved one, sexual abuse, teasing. So we funambulists stepped in with tight wires at Shantalla Park, catching the troubled, training each one to balance and focus instead of jumping into the raging waters of the Corrib in order to end their life before allowing themselves to make a sparkling mark on the world.
https://www.irishtimes.com/health/your-wellness/2022/07/02/reinventing-the-river-corrib-from-a-site-of-grief-to-a-place-of-creativity-and-celebration When Donn and I were in Galway and walked over the Corrib River bridge, we saw a young funambulist in Shantalla Park and had no idea why she was there. All we heard about was the multitude of suicides in the river that runs at three meters per second. I’m glad Rochelle chose Sandra’s picture so I could revisit that experience and find out why the tightrope walker was there.
Isabella hums The Girl from Ipanema, imagining a wasp-waisted, long-legged girl with muscular calves, smooth thighs, the moons of her breasts peeking above her bikini top.
In the mirror, Isabella sees lumpy calves, thighs riddled with spider veins and cellulite, and breasts sagging over three rolls of fat around her waist. Tears well.
Just then, at just the right time, Jorge swings open the door with biceps and buttocks sagging, three chins instead of one, and his own lumpy calves; he resembles a chocolate bear left too long in the sun.
“Hey, Pretty, wanna’ hit the beach?”
Isabella grins. “Yes!”
Daddy drove that junker to my high school graduation. Me – first in the McClellan clan to earn a diploma. Our kin never made it two wits beyond 4th grade. Graduation night, he was all kinds of puffed up with pride. Brought me flowers and a weird stuffed koala bear playing a flute. No matter, there ain’t much available at the Five-and-Dime. When Daddy wrapped me in a big ol’ hug, his breath was full of the moonshine available at Lulu’s Houseboat in the swamp. Still, he made it to the auditorium; on the other hand, he never made it home.
Photo prompt by Fleur Lind
In 1918, Solomon dragged Ida to the Colorado prairie. She found it mighty bleak: grass, wind, and more sun than a woman’s skin should endure. He built a soddie; she covered the ceiling with sheets to prevent snakes from dropping through the roof. They grew corn, raised cows and drilled a well to fill their stock pond, strung a barbed wire fence to protect their water rights. 1930 brought clouds of rolling dust. Plants withered; cattle died of thirst. When Solomon snipped the wire around the pond so the neighbor’s cows could drink, Ida hitched the wagon and left.
I based this 100-word story on my grandparents. They were hard-working farmers and ranchers. By shocking corn, Grandpa earned enough money to buy two Percheron horses that were later struck and killed by lightning. Grandma sold eggs, tomatoes, chickens, and cherries. They were very strong Catholics and tough as well-worn leather. And, no, Grandma didn’t leave Grandpa when he took down the fence, but she was awfully mad. He told her, “If we have water, the neighbors have water.”
They say that once you step inside the glass box, it takes you to never-before-seen worlds. After a million-dollar payment, people line up with great hope in their hearts, eager to see what’s “out there,” whether it’s up in the heavens or inside the Earth. But not all are chosen; no one gets a refund. And no one has ever returned to tell the tale of where they’ve been.
She is so many women he can’t find the one he loves
Or wants to love
Or doesn’t
Sometimes she wears pink satin and lace and whispers in a voice softer than silk
Other times she enters a room in leather pants so tight
He can’t help but think she’s been poured into them
And her voice is sharper than a crack of lightning
He wants to love her
He does
But knows what a mistake that would be
He will lose
She will win
Still, he anticipates the scent of her perfume
I gots no choice but to murder a turtle, slice her up; make soup for the menfolk on this ship. Thing is, she’s sorta’ become my friend. These mens caught her, flipped her upside down, n’ trussed her up seven months ago. She still be alive. I visit her every day. Something in her eyes begs me to set her free. Can’t do no such a thing. Even if I had enough muscle to throw her overboard, I’d be next. So, tomorrow I’ll tap on her shell so’s she’ll poke her pretty head out, and I’ll just chop it off.
For three months, Mr. Lin sat on the bus’s upper deck, scowling out the window. Children pointed. Laughed. Only because he scared them.
For three months, Mr. Lin sat on the bus’s upper deck, struggling to compose a letter to his wife. String together words he hoped made sense. I pressed the forget-me-knots you gave me between the pages of your favorite book. Our grandchildren are smart and strong. You’ll never receive the last postcard I sent from America. I miss you. The doctors say they regret you’ll never be a day over 60. My heart is broken.
(This is a tribute to my friend Laurel Leigh who died from lung cancer. Laurel never smoked. She had a wonderful laugh, was a giving spirit, and was my first writing instructor – who became a loving friend. She will never be a day over 60. Yeh, I know, life isn’t fair.)
My granddaddy was the last boatman to man the Bull of the Woods loggin’ scow. 1926. Had itself a steam donkey and shallow paddle wheel. Didn’t want to get stuck in no mud. Winches pulled the darn vessel over grass so’s it could load up with timber.
Don’t laugh, girlie. I ain’t lyin’. Boats can float on land.
The Bull hoisted logs; towed timber rafts across shallow waters just to get poplars to them underground iron miners so’s they could truss up crumbly dirt walls.
No, the tunnels didn’t have no sparkly lights to show the way. Go to sleep.
Bull of the Woods is the person in charge of a logging operation in Washington State. When I looked it up, I found this article and off I went. Thanks to Rochelle for posting my photo and to anyone that contributes a story. We are quite the merry band.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bull-of-the-Woods_Logging_Scow
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