Do Not Take Advantage

Oh, how the mighty do fall. Some with a great deal of angry noise. Others quietly. Either way, roots of the never-ending lies that forced them to their knees are exposed for all to see. Friends and family, entwined in a web of destruction, remain to pick up the pieces.

I’ll not do that, for you are the epitome of corruptness. Base. Vile. Greedy.

Yes. I present the list I’ve kept in my heart for too many years. Perhaps your children will hide the truth. Or one of your many lovers.

The only thing I offer? My silence.

Safety

You are nine, have taken a long way home, and by now, your mother is frantic. The ache in your bruised bones tells you so.

Because it looks like rain, you have two choices, duck into the house beside the trail or arrive home sopping wet. Either option will prove dreadful. Seeking shelter equals increased tardiness; coming home in soggy clothes guarantees a hailstorm of anger. Both promise a beating.

So, you choose shelter. You are two feet away. The door glides open. A wood fire, the scent of rabbit stew, and a waxen-winged woman greet you. She smiles. “Welcome home.”

Blue Light

Momma said, “If you get lost, retrace your footprints.”

But Samuel’s tracks were jumbled among so many others he didn’t know where to run. And it was dark. Cold. And the man with the torch radiating sapphire-blue light was just…over…there.

During the chase, Samuel lost the boots Poppa grudgingly cobbled because Momma asked him to more than twenty times. Leather boots with star-embedded soles.

“You’ll leave impressions that are yours alone.” Momma smiled.

Fearing Poppa’s anger more than the man swinging the torch, Samuel planted his bare feet in the snow and studied the blue light drawing closer.

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.