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.

The Rest Are Locked Outside

Auntie June arrived wearing a blue checkered skirt and sparkly red stilettos.
Couldn’t tell if she was Italian, Mexican, or a plump Irish woman who’d seen too much sun.
Her merlot-red hair smelled of seaweed. Neither unpleasant nor compelling.
And we knew her onyx-colored eyes held secrets.
“Not your real Auntie,” Father whispered.”She’s your new tutor.”
We rolled our eyes.
June was otherwordly. Taught us magic tricks and spells.
June began an exercise routine. We grew strong.
Our June made us laugh. At our elders.
Our June divided us. Kids against parents.
My June chose me to continue her plan.

A Grandmother’s Love

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.

Dancing

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

“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.

Outside Looking In

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

The Letter

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.”