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.

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.

Silence

Posted: May 13, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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“Samoa-Samoa-Tonga-Tonga-Talofa-Malo-Aloha.”
At the age of three, Clara was a musical prodigy, at five she spontaneously burst into song as if the family lived inside a musical.
“Hey, baby, why don’t you run over and pick out a T-shirt for daddy?”
Clara met the suggestion with an eye roll before skipping away.
Anita watched her daughter’s long blonde curls bounce against her tiny back, did her own eye roll thanking God for the blessed silence as her child disappeared in the crowd.

The blessed silence has gone on for two excruciating years. And now, today, the search for Clara was ended.

Sophia stands knee-deep in snow
clad in a once-elegant
now raggedy, red-velvet cape

she has occupied that table
no, no, not the corner table
that one is saved for people in love
the other table
the one set for four

when she and Thomas were together
there were never four
just him
just her

him bringing blue sapphire rings
capes of velvet
her carrying hopes, dreams
and laughter

champagne flavored kisses
nights of love so strong it made her hurt
inside and out

but now, tonight
he’s laughing with his wife
and two children
creating a balanced table of four

Diaries

Posted: April 26, 2020 in What Pegman Saw
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Charles – Explorer

August 11, 1861
Bathed in rosy light, the mountain’s noble brow gleams in the glory of the setting sun. Beyond the jagged outline of the eastern peak, which rises abruptly from a gentle incline, lies a rough, almost horizontal platform. 3000 feet lower, like the trough between two mighty waves, rests the saddle separating the sister peaks.

August 15, 1861
The trough is all that hinders me, but what an all! Snow at eye level. Clouds above. White upon rocks and sky. Shining masses, looking like newly-washed sheep!  I cannot describe the sensations thrilling my heart. Knowing my caravan of men will keep me safe, I must continue. For God. For country.

Johannes – Preacher

August 18, 1861
We are in the midst of Chagga thieves, trickish men, who only desire our property. My single earthly friend disappeared after striving to reach the mountain’s peak with a caravan consisting of local thieves. God bless his soul.

The Letter

Posted: April 22, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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Thanks, Rochelle, for posting yet another photograph for our merry band to ponder then jot down the 100-word story that pops into our mind. I find I’m getting a little down in the dumps about the state of the world so I tried to go on the lighter side again this week. Thanks to all who read and comment. Cheers!

26 June 

My Dearest Loraine,
No paper available. Using the flip side of a wine label.
We are stationed in Paris. Nazis everywhere.
Gregor is dead.
At least he died smiling.
Screams of the wounded are driving me mad.
Kiss the babies for me.
Love, Ted

Loraine shifts Barbara Sue on her hip. Kisses her baby-soft hair then reads the note for the fourth time, doing her best to make out what Ted had truly written.
Samuel tugs the hem of her skirt. “Mama?”
“Ah, Sam,” she says, “I fear the censors may have too much time on their hands.”

Decision Made

Posted: April 8, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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It’s Wednesday-Friday! Thanks to Dale Rogerson for posting her FF story or I wouldn’t have remembered the day. And thanks to Rochelle for keeping us on track with wonderful photographs to inspire 100-word stories. This photo was provided by Jeff Arnold. Thanks, Jeff, we all need rainbows these days.

Mom loves me, I know she does, but, even though my name is Angela, she calls me Ditzy. Always. No Kidding.
Tonight, I’m living up to that name in spades. After meeting him once, David said, “Come to my boat. I’ll make you dinner.”
Sure, he’d described his boat, color, size, and told me the number of the mooring slip. Now, with the wind whipping blonde curls in my eyes, I don’t remember.
Red? Blue? Sailboat? Motorboat? Slip 9? 14?
Heck! You only live once. I choose the white yacht at the end of the rainbow.

Winter Baby

Posted: April 4, 2020 in What Pegman Saw
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Today Pegman took us to Happy Jack, AZ. And I managed to write a happy story! Thanks for reading.

You told me town was shuttered due to inclement weather but I have to get home. Need to get to you. I love you.
You said you were fine. Everything at home was normal. But I heard worry inside the soft tones in your voice. I know you.
Streets are pretty bad. Looks like Doc Wilson is stuck on Main Street. So is Lars Nielson. I’m gonna’ make it, though. I’m better than this weather.
Why on God’s Green Earth did I drag you to Happy Jack? Hotter than the hinges of the hot place in summer. Glacial in winter. Lonely.
But you’re a strong gal. Always.
Almost home. One more mile. Mile and a half. Up the stairs. I’m home.
“Sarah?” Nothing. Then the tiniest whimper from the bedroom. My heart aches.
But you smile from the bed and show me our baby.
“Look, Samuel, we have a son.”

Brothers

Posted: March 28, 2020 in What Pegman Saw
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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.

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.