Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

Cry For Help

Posted: January 25, 2023 in Friday Fictioneers
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June 25, 1911

Dear Minnie,

As threatened, Walter committed me to The Asylum. The floors and walls are cold. If I had a windowed room, only miles of trees that never seem to bear leaves would be visible. How can that be?

Daily, I am forced to work in the fields wearing only a slip. The guards stare and jeer. Tuesday, surgeons performed a lobotomy on sweet Annie. Now she stares and constantly drools. Perhaps it’s a blessing that I merely get electroshocks to cure what ails me. Menopause.

Please try to free me.

Your sister, Clara

Pink vs Gray

Posted: January 18, 2023 in Friday Fictioneers
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Thanks to Rochelle for continuing to be our Fairy Blog Mother and to Na’ama for providing this very pink picture.

Samuel consistently wore pink shirts, pink socks, pink dungarees, and gum boots. Mother didn’t mind; she’d wanted a girl. Nor Father. In fact, he thought pink enhanced his son’s pale complexion. Who did mind? His classmates. Often, they rolled him in the mud to “erase the pink” and added a punch to his nose and kick to the ribs just for good measure.

Of course, Samuel grew up. And after years of trial and error, found the perfect girl. Kindly, she filled his closet with the subdued gray clothing he thought he’d been wearing all along.

Growing up, my mind was all kinds of fuzzy. Now I know it was cause, every day, Daddy told me I was dumber than a rock. Said I’d never learn what 2+2 equals but might find me a man someday who wanted lots of children. Why would a person have even one child after learning they ain’t nothin beyond a nuisance? Well, I showed him, yes, I did. Wrote three books. One about sea shells, one on mushrooms, and another about birds along the seashore. Got em published. Found me a wife, too. She don’t want no children either.

This is my 99-word contribution to Friday Fictioneers. Thanks, Rochelle, for keeping this merry band together by posting a photo prompt every Wednesday! Today’s photo was taken by Dale Rogerson. Thanks!

Disappointing Future

Posted: October 26, 2022 in Friday Fictioneers
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My Sophie cajoled me into living a gypsy life. We have little. A wooden trunk holds velvet dresses covered with gold sequins and tiny brass bells, while a small, cedar-scented draw contains tattered pants and two neatly folded shirts. Nights I play guitar as Sophie, red hair glistening in the firelight, keeps rhythm with black castanets. Days Sophie tells fortunes in exchange for food. Eggs, a dozen carrots, deer liver, cow bones. She realizes good fortunes bring better food but never lies. Tonight our caravan burst into flames. Perhaps Andrzej was more upset with his future than we imagined.

Wasted Time

Posted: October 19, 2022 in Friday Fictioneers
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My life wasn’t supposed to turn out all jumbly with different events stacked one atop another without sequence or meaning. Admittedly, wearing my own rendition of rose-colored glasses made time pass – beautifully. Every minute, every hour looked better after a sip of wine, a glass of whiskey, a line of cocaine or two. Meth. But one can live like that for only so long. Pressure builds, and BOOM, time disappears. Ask Angie Mike Tessa Larry. All their lights went out last month. Mine is starting to dim. And really? I don’t much care.

Suicide Note

Posted: October 12, 2022 in Friday Fictioneers
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I constantly check my reflection in your eyes.

Am I pretty? Too fat? Too thin? Too loud? What do you think of me as I cry while you call me stupid and punch me over and over again.

Why am I not good enough?

My world revolves around your ups and downs. Trapped beneath your umbrella of greed I wear gaudy greens, blues and reds per your request. I am the pawn you play because I am beautiful. With me on your arm men with money give you whatever you want.

No more.

I wish you nothing but pain. Lizbeth

Peoples came to church all sorts of ways. Early on, mens rode showy horses while their gals sat in buggies, shadin their pasty faces. Us poor folk walked, heads low so’s we wouldn’t look at no one. Cause problems.

Later, cars, mostly black, kicked dust in our eyes. Preacher Thompson had a fancy red truck. Course he did.

During the flood, Dawson piled us in his shrimp boat and blasted over them waters. Got to church directly on time. Thompson sermoned about the power of giving before claiming Dawson’s boat as a righteous offering.

Now Dawson ain’t got no money.

No Regrets

Posted: August 10, 2022 in Friday Fictioneers

yeah, used to be that guy or a guy like that. shaved my head. tattooed my scalp. wore keys that meant nothin on chains hangin from my belt. jingle-jangle. joined some guys. scared regular citizens for no reason. yelled at an old lady til she cried. real tough. nabbed a stroller. baby and all. hid it on hester st. laughed til our sides split. more shit went down. then julio found a girl. and left. then marcus, deric, little sam. i kept on keepin on. someone had to. now i’m scratchin my memoir on a wall in cell block 8.

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.


The Dancer

Posted: September 23, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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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.

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.