The Threat

My Dearest Sonya,
I leave tonight. Father drinks too much. Mother constantly cries. My brothers fight in a war that makes no sense. But you know all this. I can’t say where I’m going and haven’t much money but join me, I beg you. Since it is impossible for us to be seen together, I’ll come to the market at noon. Wear a yellow dress if the answer is yes, blue if the answer is no.
Your Raul

Sonya reads a second letter, feels the threat. Slowly she slips into her black dress to signal Raul’s father that his son intends to flee.

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The Price of Looking Away

Today’s thought-provoking photo was provided by Jean L Hays. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting it for the Friday Fictioneers to mull over and create a 100-word story.

Time was Angie felt like a pretty bird.
Time was Lester was kind. Gentle.
He’d give her small gifts. River rocks. A sand dollar.
One morning he brought home a clutch of robin eggs
bluer than his eyes.
She made him put them back.

Now Angie feels as if she’s
cooped up with a tiger.
Lester’s gone all crazy. Mean.
He steals things or rips them apart.
Hair combs. Stockings. Earrings.
Anything that makes her feel feminine and soft.

Angie knows it’s her fault
and doesn’t complain.
She let Lester’s daddy hit the boy
too many times.

 

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Revenge

Susana stands stiffly, watching people run to the water’s edge, and return.
Each picks up a stone or bottle fragments polished by wave-driven sand.
Some discover Japanese glass floats in blue or green.
Others find pearls tucked inside broken half-shells. And squeal.
They have no idea they are stealing when they slip her treasures inside their backpacks.
Still, their ignorance makes her angry.
She conjures wind that whips sand, and rocks and driftwood into an angry funnel
that dances down the beach and swallows them whole.
Susana smiles in the silence and slowly bends to collect what is left behind.

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Correcting a Mistake

Today’s photo was provided by Russell Gayor’s wife, Connie. I tried my best to write a serious story, but when I saw our fellow Fictioneer standing in a hole filled with mud and water, I had to go on the light side. Thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for posting it.

Used to be, Ernest was the best darn farmer in these parts.
Long before the 4th of July rolled around
his corn was way higher than your kneecap,
and his beets was bigger en bowlin balls.
I kid you not.

Then he up and married Widow Smith.
Worst dang thing he ever coulda’ done.
She don’t like nothin green on her plate.
Says corn makes her intestines ache,
and beets turn her teeth red.

Personally, I think she might be a vampire.
She sure sucked the life out of our Ernest.

Say, now that I think on it,
I ain’t seen her round for a while.

 

 

Glass House

Today, we Friday Fictioneers can thank our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for the photo prompt. Thanks, Rochelle.

They said people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.
But our glass house, with its eccentric angles and high ceilings, was so perfectly beautiful
we felt above everyone else and threw stones with such fury no one knew when to duck.
Our stones consisted of angry words tweeted and Facebooked across the net,
leaving no need to own what we did. Times were glorious. We had such power.
Slowly they figured out where the stones originated.
Their revenge was quick and thorough.
Now our house is made of steel with perfectly formed angles
and bars across the door.
(100-words)

Dad’s Adventure

I seem to have made up for going over the word limit on my last two Friday Fictioneer stories by coming in under the 100-word limit by 7-words! Thanks to our fairy blog mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, we have a pair of tape covered boots to write about this week.

Dad seemed to be held together with duct tape.
The old man used the silver strips to repair his straw hat, reinforce his raincoat,
patch his bicycle tires and the toes of his rubber boots.
When I caught him using it to anchor his glasses to his face
I hid the tape in the back of a drawer he never, ever used.
Or so I’d thought before the police called.
“Arrested? Why?”
“It’s bloody strange, mate. The booking officer wrote:
Unlawful possession of wild raccoon taped to bicycle seat.
No headlamp on bike.

(93-words)

 

Lost Chances

Photo by K. Rawson

We remember the clatter of boots on steps, the boyish shouts and the click-clack of swords made of sticks.
Our eyes still see flashes of red, purple and orange T-shirts as the boys scattered through the woods.

The tips of our fingers long to brush back silken hair and peer into eyes of blue or green and see,
really see
what they wanted.
Just give us the chance.

But those times are lost.
They didn’t know what they wanted so they took what was given.
Now our boys linger in pools of sorrow with hollow eyes,
waiting for feelings of euphoria and ecstasy.