After looking at this beautiful street light for quite a bit this morning, I took Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s photo prompt to a world of fantasy. Thanks, Sandra Crook, for providing the picture that stumped me for awhile.

“But they say Tassanet women can tell the future by looking at the light.” The clash of sword against sword almost drowns out Anistad’s voice.
“Auch, no. Only Auntie Rena can.”
“Look again, maybe you’ll see something this time.” Screams of pain rise above the din of battle. “We need to know!”
Petty-June stares at the glass globe until tiny white spots appear before her eyes. “Nothing!”
“Again!”
“Then you’ll leave me be?”
Battle-smoke fills the room.
A nod.
Another look. The spots grow, morph into butterflies, shape-shift into ravens and finally become a rage of brilliant red dragons.
Petty-June whispers,”They’re coming.”

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

Advertisements

Today Pegman took us to Versailles. What a beautifully opulent choice.

Twelve-year-old Giselle sits on the floor, skirts tucked neatly between her knees, silently thinking, dreaming, really.

Tonight this hall will be filled with flirtation and wine. Men and women alike will display themselves in dresses or jackets and pants tailored in pink, gold or baby-blue silk. Their faces and wigs powdered, eyebrows darkened with charcoal and cheeks stained cinnabar-red they will slip handkerchiefs from lacey sleeves while keeping feathered fans ready to cover smiling lips as their wide-open eyes beg for more. More wine, more food, more trysts upstairs or down, no one cares. All they desire is more, more and more.

Who pays for it all? Why the king himself. For he relishes everything and always expects more.
But who really pays?  People like our Giselle conceived on a such a night. She rises, picks up her mop, looks down the long hall and begins her never-ending task.

<!– start InLinkz script –>

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js
<!– end InLinkz script –>

I wrote 97-some words this morning, saved them, and went off to teach my aerobics class, expecting to do a last minute edit when I returned. Meanwhile, my husband hit a “random” button that deleted my story. Ah, well, round two. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting this thought-provoking picture taken by Dale Rogerson.

When you walked out
a tangle of thorns encased my heart
creating minuscule fissures and tears
that bled memories, hopes, and dreams

Time
that’s all it took
years and years of time
but I have
at last
healed

The pits and gashes slowly filled
with the sound of laughter
gifts of river-worn pebbles
faded sand dollars
and small winsome smiles

Now, if my mind dares to whisper
You still love him, seek him out
My heart roars
If you do I will quit you!
For I only beat
in order to protect the child
he left behind!

95-words

<!– start InLinkz script –>

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js
<!– end InLinkz script –>

A Quiet Argument

Posted: November 29, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , ,

As you can see, What’s His Name submitted the black and white picture prompt that our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, posted to inspire our merry band of Friday Fictioneers on this last Wednesday of November.

“A lifetime is stored behind those doors.”
“Junk, Grandpa, all junk. If that old barn burned down tomorrow, nothing would be missed.”

Nothing?
While I fought in WW II, your Grandmother penned letters by the window because sitting alone in the house was too hard.
When I returned, your father was conceived in the loft amidst the smell of fresh hay, chicken feed, and the sound of happy tears.
You boys wrestled in the horse stalls and you proposed to Milly in that old barn.

“Go inside. Feel the memories, then tell me you want to tear it down.”

100-words

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

Legend? or Not.

Posted: November 26, 2017 in What Pegman Saw
Tags: , , ,

Today Pegman took us to the Isle of Wight where mermaids occasionally appear on offshore rocks.

Me mum says selkies ain’t real.
The lads say they’ve seen ’em by the dozens
just offshore among the breakers along the English Channel.

What’s a man to believe?

Out on the sea, day in and day out,
riding the pounding waves or
slipping over water flat as glass
one hears things that could be the call of gulls
or might be the songs of women.

And who’s to tell what one hears
is either right or wrong?

Perhaps it depends on what you need
or what you want or what you’ve been a missing
at any certain time.

Alls I know is that I believes
in women who sing the siren song
because I’ve heard their voices,
seen their rainbow-colored tailfins appear
and disappear, depending on the light

If I could, I’d follow them
right down to the bottom of the sea
where there ain’t nothin but silence

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

The Priests

Posted: November 18, 2017 in Uncategorized

Today, Pegman took us to San José el Huayate, Chiapas, Mexico.

“Come,” they said.
“Offer your soul to God,” they said.
Words: Let Him protect and guide you. He alone offers peace.
More: Poverty will be annihilated. Evil banished. Your people will thrive beneath His benevolent gaze.
Still more: Crops will multiply, tenfold. Village children will flourish, grow tall and strong and smart.

When we did all that was asked, the truth swallowed us whole.
In spite of an exact amount of rain and sun, crops died.
Their coffers grew as ours diminished.
Some of our children perished before they were born.
The rest wished they had.

Too late, we asked, “Who is this benevolent God, this Christ?”
Too late, we realized His priests were greedy and war-like.
For they raped our women, stole our food and molested our children.
Erected churches over our cornfields and sacred grounds.

No more! Today we take back our lives inside howling winds and swirling knives.

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

Since one cannot kill or disappoint a character every week, today I’m submitting a wee bit of humor. When I first looked at the picture with sleepy eyes, the name of the building read Bloomingobles. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting a fun picture and to Marie Gail for submitting it.

“Momma?”
“Yes, Ezra?”
“What is Bloomingobles?”
Oh, Lord, what is he on about now? “Bloomingobles?” And why do I have such an odd child?
Ezra pointed toward a building halfway down the block. “There! That store!”
“Bloomingdales, lovie, not gobles.”
“Well, when I have my store it won’t be named something no one can pronounce.”
Such big dreams. Pie in the sky. Why can’t my Ezra want to hunt and fish like the other little boys?”
Twenty years later David Abercrombie and Ezra Fitch opened the doors of their first hunting goods store.

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js