Grandma’s Journal

“In my teens, pharaohs wooed me on Khufu boats.” Granny rubbed her journal’s spine; her grandchildren scooched closer.

“At twenty, I lived among a finagle of fairies collecting stars and moonbeams in jars we traded to elven for rubies and diamonds.”

Seamus let out a low whistle. Angie raised an eyebrow.

“At twenty-five, minstrels took me in. I played the lyre while falling in love with a golden-haired man.”

“Grandpa?”

“Yes. Yes. Now go. I’m tired.”

Seamus whispered, “She’s nuts.”

As Granny fell asleep, her journal slipped from her lap. Elves, fairies, moonbeams, rubies, and diamonds rolled across the floor.

The Steps I’ve Taken

Oh, the steps I’ve taken to make you happy, always hoping you would be proud of me while I entertained your cronies, raised our children, and played with our grandchildren even as you disappeared weekend after weekend after weekend. I forgave every excuse you delivered with harsh words and rock-hard fists. Today, I’m saying goodbye and good luck. No regrets. May your golden years and your new wife serve you well.

Lavra’s Strange Soups

My sister Lavra had 120 children.

Babka, how can that be? She would die from birthing so many. Feeding them? Impossible!

None were hers by blood but through a bond created by war. If Lavra had food, street orphans had food. Babka shrugs. Scruffy little mites but with smiles pure as gold. Lavra made soup from scraps of this, and that bombed out of grocery stores. Or her friend’s homes. Onion/boiled-leather soup, cabbage/stray cat soup. Soup. Soup. Always soup. That is why she wouldn’t drink any on her deathbed. Also, that is why 120 people are here to honor her.

Broken Heart

When we met, you colored the pages of my life with soft words and kindness one day and ear-splitting shouts of joy on another. Of course, there were word wars; one expects them in any relationship.

I couldn’t have loved you more.

Oh, the life we lived. Trips: Egypt, Spain, Ghana; the backyard for fried chicken and champagne picnics.

We bought: one couch, a king-sized bed, a canoe. Adopted: three tabby cats.

Our children gave us grandchildren – each one looks like you. Dark-skinned; sinewy.

They’re all I have left.

Today, I will burn each colored page you unknowingly gifted my life.

An Ode to Missing Indigenous Women

You imagine me a meek woman. Dress me in a billowy pink dress sewn from rough silk decorated with powder-blue ribbons – a doll on display. But locked in this cabin, who will see me? Grandfather Cedar? Brother Bluejay?

Sister Sun hasn’t touched my skin in ages. Yes, I will use that word because I know neither month nor year. You have turned me into a pale-faced ghost.

But watch out, my friend. Throughout my days of confinement, I have summoned my ancestors: Bear, Raven, Beaver. Became strong. Soon I will fly from this prison, leaving Coyote to exact my revenge.

I might be stepping outside my bounds on this subject, but I know a Makah woman who disappeared years ago. I knew of her from childhood. She grew into a lovely young lady, then “disappeared.” This story is for her.

Sister Love

I have purposely been seated at a table littered with plastic-coated sheets of scriptures penned by the apostles Ezra, Nehemiah, and Soloman. Oh, don’t get me wrong, not the Bible’s apostles; I’m talking about the three founding brothers of the Heavenly Women’s Retreat two miles off Jensen Road.

Note: only women occupy the chairs; their eyes focus on Ezra’s wife, Annabelle, obviously swollen with child. Her seventh?

Rumor? The baby is Soloman’s.

I won’t read these “scriptures.” I won’t be brainwashed or convinced to join the cult.

What will I do? Rescue my sister. Annabelle will sleep beside me tonight.

Not the Best Advice

Life ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, Little Buddy. No matter how much muscle you put inta’ livin’ your life, it tosses you a hard ball. Your dog gets run over, kids at school steal your lunch. (Shoulder shrug) Your mom dies. Look, I ain’t sayin’ her death ain’t a catastrophe, but hey, that’s the way life rolls. She’s here, then she ain’t, then you gotta’ make your own lunch. Look, you’re a tough little dude; now get out there and play in the street.

Tommy flipped his father the bird and burst into tears.

P.S. Last week, Tracey informed me that advertisements showed up alongside my posts. I researched the issue for about two hours and couldn’t figure out how to make it stop. Please let me know if they show up again, OR if you have suggestions, please shoot them to me. Happy Friday Fictioneers Day. Thanks, Rochelle, for being our host and providing a thought-provoking picture.

Alejandra’s Violin

By age four, Alejandra played violin much better than her father. At ten, she performed for noblemen and kings, each engagement recorded by an operculum shell attached to the edge of her instrument with resin from a sacred cedar. Slowly, the shells deepened the tone of her violin, creating a sound like no other. Magic! some whispered. Others shouted, Witchery!

Her figure blossomed, and men fell hopelessly in love as her bow glided over the strings. Wives, and some mothers, grew jealous and began to whisper Witchery so loudly that one day Alejandra and her music simply disappeared.

Letting Go

Papa! Look! One side of that big cloud is the color of mercury; the other side is gold. And the little one on the right is a cream-colored rose!

Yes, Moppet.

And there! Those weeds look like snowballs with flecks of green glitter inside. Do you see that? Do you?

Oh, Moppet, your imagination tires me, Papa says, only to himself.

Papa! We could ride for miles across this snow, passing icebergs on sleighs painted with flowers!

Now Papa watches his daughter slip into her husband’s arms knowing he is blessed with a woman who will change his world.

Sanctuary

Pietra looked forward to laundry days at the river; she felt well-loved there. Her bare foot touching Maria’s, Maria’s touching Annelise’s, Annelise’s pressed into Graciella’s, one end of a rope tied around her ankle, the other around her son’s. He’d once floated downriver.

The women told stories against the background slap of their men’s shirts against rocks; the sound of cold water dripping from jeans hung on bushes to dry in the sun, reminding them their work was near completion.

Sometimes the friends stayed longer than needed. Braiding one another’s hair, laughing, perhaps drinking tea, for they knew what waited at home.