Brothers

Today, Pegman took us to Brasilia, Brazil. Thanks, Josh and Karen, for getting my writing mind back in gear!

Photo by Martin Karplus

Long ago, we needed no one. We had money and land, crops and livestock.
Women flocked to us. We were that handsome. That strong. That wealthy.
Children were conceived. Born. Or not. Many survived into old age. Others died playing the foolish games teenagers relish.
We mourned them before convincing our women to return to the connubial bed.

We picked our favorites. Both women and children. We favored male off-spring. Although we were aware a few girls were needed to keep our lineage viable.
If supplies grew low, we traded with neighboring tribes passing across our lands. Goats for girls. Or we stole as many girls as needed. Goats are precious.

Now, only I, Lucio, and my brother, Joaquim remain.
No goats, no children, women, or neighboring tribes.

We tell stories at night. We spar. We mourn parties with beautiful dancing women.
Most of all, we miss the laughter of children.

Haven’t Seen the Caddy in Awhile

Today’s Friday Fictioneer photo was submitted by J Hardy Carroll ~ thank you! And thanks to our Fairy Blog Mother for including it for today’s prompt!

Roselia saw things in black and white. No grey maybes in her world.
Last week we fought over nothing.
Eat at Rock-n-Rogers or Sandy-Ds?
Hell, the difference between a good burger and a good burger.
Who cares?
Roselia.
There we were in her ’59 Caddy. She’s driving, flappin’ her lips about Sandy’s.
I’m glaring out the window thinking about cars flying off cliffs; people caught inside like birds in silver cages.
Before I know it, all at one time I open the door, jerk the wheel and leap out.
Plenty of grey in my world now. I like it like that.

Waiting

Used to be I saw quite clearly. Crisply. Now, standing here waiting for you, the world seems fuzzy.
You said, “Wait for me on the bench.” Which bench? There are two. Already five women have strolled by.
Thinking the first one was you I hugged her. Tight. She gasped and gently pushed me away.
Once I realized she was a stranger, I figured she should’ve slapped me. Hard. Now I’ll wait until you say my name.
Fuzzy. Damn fuzzy.
“Clarence?”
“Amanda!”
Dressed in white, you walk toward me. My heart sings.
“Come, Mr. Whitworth, your wife passed five years ago.”

Saving Papa – 1941

Ten days before Papa’s return from his mission, Mama gifted me a miniature theater with twenty-two minikin figurines. My ladies wear frocks of silk. The gentlemen sport suits of wool.

Mama spent tedious hours explaining the figurine’s placement on the stage. Formations include: ‘Stay in The Forest’, ‘Run’, ‘We’re Safe.’ Nothing makes sense. But no one questions Mama.

Tonight five uniformed men stormed our home, shouting, “Where is he?” Luckily, Mama understands German and the men knew no French. Mama shrugged, kissed one man on the cheek, and turned to me. “Fosette, ‘Run’. Place the stage in the window.”

More Than You

It’s my prerogative to break the rule that not one more story should begin ‘Once upon a time’ for, once upon a time all I wanted was you, you, you.
Once upon a time, we happily followed agreed-upon lines. My space. Your space. Our space.
Slowly, lines blurred. You convinced me black is white. I’m wrong, you’re right. Always.
You drew me into a vodka-filled world sprinkled with pills. Kept my brain soft even as your words hardened my heart.
Now, at this time, I’m through with your ratchety emotional staircase – spiraling down.
There is so much more than you.

Keep it Simple

After last week’s dark post, I promised to write a light-hearted tale for Pegman who took us to Free State, South Africa this week. 147-words later, I think I’ve managed to do just that.

Life is good. Always.

Even in early spring when the weather turns hot and dry, and plants are dead or dormant, and supplies of autumn nuts are exhausted. In that season our people gather around permanent waterholes to hunt besbok and wildebeest that cannot range far from the receding waters. After rain replenishes the earth, ladies gather fruit, berries, bush onions. Children capture grasshoppers, beetles, caterpillars, and moths to supplement the meat our men bring home.

Mornings are met with a smile. We know what is expected and band together to accomplish our tasks. Community is key.

Evenings bring peace. The world softens. We laugh and dance and make love in the shadows. Women pass babies from lap to lap so they know they are loved. No one shouts at the children. Ever.

Our lives may seem simple but we would never trade them for yours.

Postcards

Today Pegman took us to Minsk. I’ve once again gone to the dark side because I’ve recently started a class about the Holocaust. Dark times. Dark story. On the other hand, Happy New Year, fellow Pegman Writers!

You send taunting postcards from AfricaChinaNorwayPortugal. Some signed MissYou, WishYouWereHere. Others WeWillVisitHereTogether-Someday. The worst say WeWillNeverSeeOneAnotherAgain. They arrive in a neverending mixed-up rotation I can’t process.
But this last postcard broke me. You are the one person who knows my parents were thrown into a ditch then shot by Schutzmannschaft in Minsk. You know, because, just as you shouldered your rifle you noticed me, legs shattered by a hail of bullets, clinging to my father’s chest.
For some godforsaken reason, you pulled me out of the mud. Hid me inside your coat. Gifted me to your wife who kept me as if I were a child of her own. You? You merely kept me.
Twenty years later I lie here, half a woman with a gun beside my bed while you travel the world with your mistress, and send postcards. Today, Herr Stein, I choose WeWillNeverSeeOneAnotherAgain.