Posted: July 27, 2016 in Uncategorized
It’s Wednesday/Friday and time for the merry band of Friday Fictioneers to follow our fearless leader, Rochelle, down a tangled path littered with 100 – or so – words. Thanks to all my fellow writers for contributing well thought out stories of fiction that keep me entertained for days.
“Look at her,” they said.
“Her dress is ugly,” they said.
“She is ugly!”
The girls began to giggle.
Anna studied her reflection in the lake. Her dress was sewn from gossamer silk with narrow blue stripes and golden buttons.
Her mother had whispered that Anna’s hair was “soft as eiderdown” while braiding the long blonde strands.
“And stupid,” they said.
Confused, Anna stepped into the water, ruining her silver pumps.
She swam away from shore while the girls laughed and threw stones.
When the principal announced “The Siemens award for math goes to Anna Friedland”
Anna floated face down in the lake.
Posted: July 20, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
“Give me your tired . . . poor . . . huddled masses, blah blah blah.” Thompson stares at the replica of Miss Liberty where Mayor Bernard plopped her down at the entrance to the harbor. “Without askin’ a god damn one of us.”
Well, the masses came to huddle – everywhere.
“S’posed to be too cold for them to migrate here. Give me the creeps.”
Big ones, little ones, black, white, yellow, red.
“Even stripey.” Thompson grimaces. “Liberty and Bernard can have ’em all.”
Thompson starts his engine and pulls away from shore not realizing two enormous stripey snakes are huddled in his bed.
Posted: July 13, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
Crocks rattling against the walls of her stone farmhouse
Rhona crammed memories inside a sporran: her wedding shift, mother’s thimble, dead daughter’s rattle.
After two months of eating nothing but apples, the shift no longer fit.
Still, Rhona needed something to remind her of happier days.
“Head north,” her husband had instructed before falling in with the Jacobites.
“Bring the stones to ensure your passage.”
Clothed in dark trousers and a clan MacDougall shawl
Rhona pushed through a crush of villagers, moving south.
Enveloped in billowing smoke,
she hoped no one would notice the ruby earrings hidden beneath her hair.
Posted: July 6, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
Sorry to one and all for another gloomy story. Maybe it’s the clouds outside and the lack of heat inside. Thanks to our fearless leader, Rochelle, for posting another thought provoking picture, and to my fellow Fictioneers for providing inspiration with their 100-word tales.
Alala, whose name means The Lost One,
knows every twist in the back alley – day or night.
She prefers night. But day will do.
Blind women can’t be choosey.
Begging bowl nestled among the folds
of her blue skirt, Alala settles in the dust.
Children skid bike tires until
pebbles scratch across her feet.
Her voice floats passed shuttered windows,
over bent antennas and dangling wires
toward the one person she hopes will hear.
Coins clatter in the bowl. Her husband has come!
“Leave before sunset.”
Alala’s smile melts into her acid-burned skin.
PRINCESS SADAR WILL MARRY THE MAN
WHO PRESENTS A GIFT NO WOMAN HAS EVER RECEIVED
AND CAN NEVER BE GIVEN AGAIN.
For one hundred years Mulvane had coveted Sadar
with her yellow hair and sapphire eyes.
So in the fall he collected pure tree resin
in a solid silver jar.
In the dead of winter, he gathered delicate
ice crystals and slowly lowered them inside the resin
to leave impressions as they melted.
He waited two thousand years
while hundreds of men brought Sadar offerings.
When Mulvane presented her with crystalline shadows
frozen in blue amber
her smile said yes.
My 93-word contribution to Friday Fictioneers is a bit bleak this a.m. It reminds me of the way our rental house looked after the first renters moved out – I kid you not. Many people thought they were running a meth lab. Instead, one woman had become addicted to pain meds and begun chain smoking in the living room, coating all the interior walls with nicotine. To no avail, her partner tried to cover it up but broke into tears as we walked through the ruins. In the end, we sealed the walls with varnish to get rid of the odor. Enough said. Thanks to Ted Strutz for the photo and to the lovely Rochelle for posting it.
Come to me, run to me
This is my lair
Full of promises, at first
Flowers Sunshine Laughter
Soon I will not need to ask
You will beg to come
The smell of the smoke
The draw of the needle
The hiss of happiness in your veins
Others will join us
Pretty ones, sad ones
But then we all become monsters
In the end
Do we not?
Our lives rust
Our dreams turn to
Our bodies scream
Still, we come
The jpg name of this thought-provoking picture is Antiques Along the Mohawk, making this week’s prompt twice as interesting. Thanks to Rochelle for taking the picture and posting it for the Friday Fictioneers writing prompt. Below is my 100 word submission.
10:32 p.m. – The sound of warning bells rolls across the water. Sybil wakes.
10:33 p.m. – She rises, draws on her blue velvet robe and peers through the grease-coated window of her prison, sees nothing but the light of the full moon sparking off the waves. She waits.
10:59 p.m. – Two ships, one large, one small sail around the bend, skysails snapping.
11:06 p.m. – Without hesitation the yellow guardsmen split the night with shouts and cannonballs, smoke and ash and fear.
11:35 p.m. – Tears glisten on Sybil’s cheeks as she watches both ships sink below the surface, dragging her Daniel to the bottom of the sea.