Our Colette, His Colette

His only instruction, wear orange, not her favorite color, but Colette would wear dresses of burlap if doing so captured Theodore’s heart. Our Colette spent many francs, she wouldn’t divulge the number, on pearls to decorate the crown of her auburn hair. Another unknown sum purchased a dram of rose-scented oil to draw her lover to the hollow just below her ear. His lips met the mark. Oh, what pleasure.

Theodore’s Colette, now heavy with child, wears stained cotton shifts and oversized shoes. The mistress of the house watches Colette slip in snow while fingering pearls gifted by her husband.

 

Sincerely, Damien

Mother,

Foliage has returned. Five years passed before the greasy-black smoke of burning tires dissipated. We lived underground. The land is littered with grenades, bullets, bones. We collect them. Angela builds walls from grenades. Beautiful structures. Felicia fashions windchimes from bullets and vines.

Do not worry, these reminders of war are not dangerous. Frederick makes it so.

I am building homes. We live separately. For safety. Only four people remain but constructing homes from the bones of loved ones takes time.

Do not return. You would not find comfort under my roof, for it is made from Father’s ribs.

Baggage

When my heart shatters like a single mussel shell beneath your angry words and I fall to my knees and cry for mercy, kindness, forgiveness, a gentle hand or a whispered I love you, will you be there, not to shout questions or offer unneeded advice but to gently lift me up and guide me, not to your home or mine but to a place of warmth and softness where our baggage of discordant history has no place and the sound of children’s laughter brings delight instead of angst?

The Dancer

See her? The gypsy?
Braid the color of broom straw?
Yes, her. A bundle of bones hung inside that velvet dress. Long ago it was probably blue or black. Maybe silver.
A giggle. Long ago.
The scent of mildew follows her everywhere.
Unpleasant at best.
Very.

Andrea hears the women. Isn’t affected. She sways beneath her ancient blue smock, recalling the days she danced by firelight, wearing gossamer gowns, while the women’s fathers clapped. Whistled. Became red-faced from whiskey.
Remembering the nights the men came to her lilac-scented tent, she winks a blue eye and wishes the women well.

Black Magic

Lacy’s shop is packed with found objects. Townpeople claim magic hides within them. Some say good, others whisper wicked.
Mamma says, “Nope, you ain’t goin’ in!” Today I disobey. The bell above the door jingle-jangles. Lacy shoots me the stink-eye. Don’t care. Her store smells like magic: dried rosemary, old books, mouse droppings. I rattle a bowl of colored shells, rub the forehead of a human skull. Lacy raises an eyebrow. I shuffle on.
When Mamma finds me, she shakes me hard. Twirls me towards a mirror. My eyes are purple cowry shells and my curly blonde hair has vanished.

Fire Walkers

Thanks to J Hardy Carroll and Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (Fairy blog mother extraordinaire) Friday Fictioneers have a thought-provoking photograph to inspire a 100-word story. Happy Wednesday/Friday

Our people call them Fire Walkers, Truth Talkers, Father, Mother.
They populated the world centuries before the people arrived, and will inhabit the hills and valleys long after we’re gone.
We ask their advice in both love and war, for they are kind and wise. Humble. They name our children and bury our dead.
No one conjures these gold and ruby creatures. Fire Walkers appear when most needed.
At dusk, three rose from the currents of the Miwak River bearing favorable news and sad.
No more floods or firestorms. The animal population will triple.
Our people must abandon the earth.

The Proposal

Today’s photo prompt for our 100-word challenge was provided by our fairy-blog mother Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thanks, Rochelle.

Isabel dances as if gravity does not exist. Her long velvet skirt floats in a patchwork cloud of violet, burgundy, and gold, bordered by glittering silver lace.
Have I mentioned her hair? Scented with jasmine and bergamot, and darker than the inside of night, it cascades to her waist. Each strand flickers with stardust and miniature pink pearls.
Do not laugh when I say God made her shoes, for who else could create beautiful footwear, supple and sturdy, from bright orange starfish and seaweed?
Today I present Isabel a ring made of silver dragon’s teeth. My heart prays she agrees.

The Rest Are Locked Outside

Auntie June arrived wearing a blue checkered skirt and sparkly red stilettos.
Couldn’t tell if she was Italian, Mexican, or a plump Irish woman who’d seen too much sun.
Her merlot-red hair smelled of seaweed. Neither unpleasant nor compelling.
And we knew her onyx-colored eyes held secrets.
“Not your real Auntie,” Father whispered.”She’s your new tutor.”
We rolled our eyes.
June was otherwordly. Taught us magic tricks and spells.
June began an exercise routine. We grew strong.
Our June made us laugh. At our elders.
Our June divided us. Kids against parents.
My June chose me to continue her plan.

A Grandmother’s Love

Grandma collected geodes. When she cracked them, instead of crystals, the stones contained small, exotic worlds.
Some called her a witch. I call them jealous.
Who could reject a tiny world occupied by three sleeping owls? Or a beach littered with sand dollars the size of a baby’s thumbnail?
She gifted her treasures to people with wounded souls.
Until today, I’d never received one.
Papa hands me a velvet-coated box. “She saved this one for you.” He nestles the box in my shaky hands.
Inside the geode? The scent of lilacs and a wee fairy with Grandma’s enchanting smile.

Dancing

Today’s Friday Fictioneer picture was provided by CEAyr and posted by our fairy blog mother, Rochelle. Thanks to you both!

Woodstock. 1969. You. Me. Miles of mud.
An ocean of people
and music with a beat that carried straight to the heart with a thrum

You: with your six-foot-plus frame clad in fringed leather, sometimes. And beads, always.
Me: a four-foot nothing chick wearing one flowered dress for days. The flowers? Carolina blue, like your eyes.

How did we find one another in that crowd of shouters.dancers.lovers?
Never mind. No matter.
I only remember Dancing. Dancing. Dancing.
Beside you. We never touched.

Now, with miles of memories created over an ocean of years
we dance chest-to-chest
Just you. Just me.