Archive for the ‘Friday Fictioneers’ Category

The Letter

Posted: April 22, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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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.”

Decision Made

Posted: April 8, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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It’s Wednesday-Friday! Thanks to Dale Rogerson for posting her FF story or I wouldn’t have remembered the day. And thanks to Rochelle for keeping us on track with wonderful photographs to inspire 100-word stories. This photo was provided by Jeff Arnold. Thanks, Jeff, we all need rainbows these days.

Mom loves me, I know she does, but, even though my name is Angela, she calls me Ditzy. Always. No Kidding.
Tonight, I’m living up to that name in spades. After meeting him once, David said, “Come to my boat. I’ll make you dinner.”
Sure, he’d described his boat, color, size, and told me the number of the mooring slip. Now, with the wind whipping blonde curls in my eyes, I don’t remember.
Red? Blue? Sailboat? Motorboat? Slip 9? 14?
Heck! You only live once. I choose the white yacht at the end of the rainbow.

Today’s Friday Fictioneer photo was submitted by J Hardy Carroll ~ thank you! And thanks to our Fairy Blog Mother for including it for today’s prompt!

Roselia saw things in black and white. No grey maybes in her world.
Last week we fought over nothing.
Eat at Rock-n-Rogers or Sandy-Ds?
Hell, the difference between a good burger and a good burger.
Who cares?
Roselia.
There we were in her ’59 Caddy. She’s driving, flappin’ her lips about Sandy’s.
I’m glaring out the window thinking about cars flying off cliffs; people caught inside like birds in silver cages.
Before I know it, all at one time I open the door, jerk the wheel and leap out.
Plenty of grey in my world now. I like it like that.

Waiting

Posted: March 11, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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Used to be I saw quite clearly. Crisply. Now, standing here waiting for you, the world seems fuzzy.
You said, “Wait for me on the bench.” Which bench? There are two. Already five women have strolled by.
Thinking the first one was you I hugged her. Tight. She gasped and gently pushed me away.
Once I realized she was a stranger, I figured she should’ve slapped me. Hard. Now I’ll wait until you say my name.
Fuzzy. Damn fuzzy.
“Clarence?”
“Amanda!”
Dressed in white, you walk toward me. My heart sings.
“Come, Mr. Whitworth, your wife passed five years ago.”

Saving Papa – 1941

Posted: February 27, 2020 in Friday Fictioneers
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Ten days before Papa’s return from his mission, Mama gifted me a miniature theater with twenty-two minikin figurines. My ladies wear frocks of silk. The gentlemen sport suits of wool.

Mama spent tedious hours explaining the figurine’s placement on the stage. Formations include: ‘Stay in The Forest’, ‘Run’, ‘We’re Safe.’ Nothing makes sense. But no one questions Mama.

Tonight five uniformed men stormed our home, shouting, “Where is he?” Luckily, Mama understands German and the men knew no French. Mama shrugged, kissed one man on the cheek, and turned to me. “Fosette, ‘Run’. Place the stage in the window.”

It’s my prerogative to break the rule that not one more story should begin ‘Once upon a time’ for, once upon a time all I wanted was you, you, you.
Once upon a time, we happily followed agreed-upon lines. My space. Your space. Our space.
Slowly, lines blurred. You convinced me black is white. I’m wrong, you’re right. Always.
You drew me into a vodka-filled world sprinkled with pills. Kept my brain soft even as your words hardened my heart.
Now, at this time, I’m through with your ratchety emotional staircase – spiraling down.
There is so much more than you.

I’m so grateful to Rochelle for posting the Friday Fictioneers prompt a day early! I’ve missed being here and her wee error was perfectly timed. She truly is a wonderful Fairy Blog Mother!

Most have forgotten. Shame on them.
Some say it never happened. They are wrong.
I was there, picking up the pieces.

Before it began I collected grandmothers exhausted by a good life,
babies that died too soon, worn-out fathers.
A simple cycle. Life. Death. Life.

After? Oh, after, I lifted souls from broken bodies on battlefields,
from children in the rubble of bombed-out houses,
from Jews, homosexuals, the crippled and mentally insane
left in makeshift graves dug in forest mud.

Please believe me. I do have a heart.
And you, mankind, broke it every day for six interminable years.

No need to tell me your sad story. I know how your world worked with Angela. Upside down. Crisscross. Days and memories folding over one another until you couldn’t tell up from down.
Sometimes she was the woman you couldn’t wait to see, other times, angry times, you ran from her, faster than the wind. Even after your children disappeared you found reasons to stay.

No crying on my knee. No bunching my skirts and wailing about Angela locked behind bars. She made her choices, you made yours.

At one time my choice was you.

when we met
you said you would do
anything to get money
in order to take care of me.
you bought me furs, diamonds,
two, no three, trips to paris.

i never asked how you paid.
why would i?
why should i?
i was hopelessly
ecstatically in love.

marriage was never mentioned.
i didn’t reveal
boring, unimpressive tom.
avoided asking if you had a wife
or children.

today, flying high over the lake
you, at last, reveal your secret.

tom, you say, is tired of me.
has paid for everything.
you inform me
the final payment arrived today
then shove me out the door.

 

Lake Whatcom is about a half-mile from my house.

https://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g58350-d2527907-Reviews-Lake_Whatcom-Bellingham_Washington.html

Well, this is certainly an interesting picture. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields who chose the photo and to Roger Bultot for submitting it to our Fairy Blog Mother.

We called you Big Stan the Pretzel Man. Not kindly. You didn’t seem to mind. You gifted us salted pretzels slathered with spicy yellow mustard and told stories about your grandma, cotton plantations, the hard times and the easier ones. We kids sat, picking scabs on our knees, gobbling pretzels, wanting to get away while our mother’s voices repeating, “Be polite to Stan” rattled around in our heads.

The day they found you beaten, your cart burned to a pile of twisted metal and exploded glass, we pretended we hadn’t seen anything and slowly drifted away.