Father’s Protection

Today Pegman took us to Melbourne, Australia. Scrolling through pictures, I found this hotel? restaurant? on planetware.com and found it quite unsettling. Thanks to Karen Rawson and Josh Hardy for providing us with Pegman fun.

Mother,

The skies have returned to glacier-ice blue. Five years passed before the greasy-black smoke of burning tires dissipated. We lived underground. The land is littered with grenades, bullets, and bones. We collect them, put them in piles for later use. Angelina builds walls from grenades. Now that sunlight sparks off the metallic angles, her structures are quite beautiful. Felicia creates windchimes from bullets and vines. If even one tree remained, we would hang her creations from the branches. Please, don’t worry, these reminders of war are no longer dangerous, Frederick has made it so.

What do I do? Build a place for each of us to live, safely and alone. Only four people remain but constructing homes from the bones of your loved ones takes time. Each is built with care.

Do not return. You would be uncomfortable here. My roof is made from Father’s ribs.

Sincerely, Damien

(150-words)

 

The Drowning

Today Pegman took us to Baltimore, Maryland where I found a little green boat I’d love to be in today. It’s hot for inhabitants of the Pacific Northwest and a wee paddle would be fun! Thanks to Karen Rawson and Josh Hardy for another great place to write about.

 

Yep, the last picture I took.

You old fool everyone knows you see things. And that photo’s so fuzzy just about anything could be floating in the water.
Have some soup, Papa.

She rises up at the strangest times. Sometimes beside lovers picnicking in their boats or little boys skipping rocks along the shore.

Geez if I hear this story one more time, I’ll stab my eyes out.
No soup, Papa? How about a biscuit with jam?

Doesn’t scare me. Nope! Not one bit. Fact is, I look forward to seeing her rise above the waves.

If there is a God, please let him sew this old man’s mouth shut.
Tomorrow we’ll go to the Ness and see what we can see. Maybe she’ll be there. Like hell.

You crazy?

You’re asking me that question?

She won’t rise if you’re there. Your baby sister won’t visit anyone she doesn’t like.

 

Not Your Fault

I’m cheating this week and posting another FF story. These 100-words have been rolling around in my head for three days and I had to write them down. Thanks to anyone who takes the time to read them.

For years I believed that
if you bothered
to dig deep enough
to look into my soul
and see me
me
for who I truly am
you would love me more

And, if you could decipher
the thoughts mixed into
the words I spoke
out of anger
or in defense
or defiance
you would love me more

But at last I realized
it wasn’t your fault
that our love was
withering like flowers
left too long in the sun

It was mine
for I sheltered my soul
and protected my thoughts
out of  fear
of being loved too much

Some Bad News. And A Contest!

Hey, Look! A Writer Fellow!

She’s the best.

Longtime readers of this blog know that I am crazy about Sarah Josepha Hale.

Sarah was the first female magazine editor in America. She was also one of the greatest magazine editor’s in America, transforming the struggling Godey’s Lady’s Book into the most widely read magazine in 19th century America. She used this magazine as a bully pulpit to promote positive change: charitable giving, healthy living, patriotic causes, college educations for women, and—most famously—a nationalized Day of Thanksgiving.

She also wrote books­­­­­—lots and lots of books—including Northwood, the first novel in the U.S. to condemn slavery (predating Uncle Tom’s Cabin by 25 years). She also wrote the most famous poem of all time: “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

And she did all of this while raising five kids as a widowed, single mother.

Seriously, just how awesome is that?

Sarah’s life and achievements dazzle me; that’s…

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Edita’s Gift

Pegman took us on a trip to Karlovy Vary, Czech Republic. Thanks! Pegman for getting our collective minds set to create a 150-word story.

As a child, Edita wanted not just a single dollhouse, but an entire village.
Having wealthy parents helped and through the years, Edita collected house after house, painted them in colors that made her happy.
Through time, Edita put trees beside the houses, cherry trees with delicate pink blossoms in spring and maples with fiery red leaves in fall.
She added spruce trees in parks, merry-go-rounds and a river littered with sailboats and swans.
By the time she was twenty, tiny birds floated in the air above her village and fox prowled the forests.
When she was forty, Edita’s parents died, leaving her millions.
She added a school and churches of every denomination, stores, and two hospitals.
Clothing stores popped up after Edita turned seventy and she was becoming tired.
Ten years later, Edita passed away, leaving her village to people arriving from foreign shores
so they could have a home of their own.

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The Priests

Today, Pegman took us to San José el Huayate, Chiapas, Mexico.

“Come,” they said.
“Offer your soul to God,” they said.
Words: Let Him protect and guide you. He alone offers peace.
More: Poverty will be annihilated. Evil banished. Your people will thrive beneath His benevolent gaze.
Still more: Crops will multiply, tenfold. Village children will flourish, grow tall and strong and smart.

When we did all that was asked, the truth swallowed us whole.
In spite of an exact amount of rain and sun, crops died.
Their coffers grew as ours diminished.
Some of our children perished before they were born.
The rest wished they had.

Too late, we asked, “Who is this benevolent God, this Christ?”
Too late, we realized His priests were greedy and war-like.
For they raped our women, stole our food and molested our children.
Erected churches over our cornfields and sacred grounds.

No more! Today we take back our lives inside howling winds and swirling knives.

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Crossed Letters

I think I cheated this week….(I didn’t complete this thought and Lynn and K.Lawsen questioned why I thought my story was cheating. So ~ Yesterday was a busy day filled with politics in our community. I thought it was cheating because I didn’t stick to the city of Córdoba.)

My Dearest Samuel,
If only you were here. You and I would sit before the fire, me telling you the happy news that we are expecting a child, you smiling. Upon your return, we shall make no more plans for your explorations. Instead, we will enjoy our lives here, in your ancestral home listening to the giggles and shouts of our children chasing one another amongst the roses.
All my love and more, Louise

My Sweet Louise,
All has gone awry. I’ve not climbed a single rock face. Aconcagua works against us. The clothing we chose is unfit; our party is freezing to death. The porters fled three days ago. We have no food. Rock slides occur daily. Sadly, a boulder killed our dear Thomas. You and I may never see one another again Think of me when you walk in the rose garden.
I will love you forever, Samuel

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No Luck with Magic

Tashira collected everything, just as the old ones had instructed. Two hundred fairy wings stored in a crystalline jar. Four dragonfly eyes, two red and two green. A gossamer gown from Princess Hashir, the troll who lived beneath the Covfefe River. She melted three bars of gold to create a candelabra that held a single candle created from the tallow of bears. All that work for nothing. William the Orange remained a king who played while his selfish children ruled the kingdom, and tomorrow she would marry the eldest son who looked every bit like Dracula. Tashira began to weep.

100-words

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An Ode to Hitler

Pegman took us to the Yorkshire Dales today. I think seeing The Promise last week drew me back to the dark side of life. I apologize. Anyway, here is my 147-word story from Yorkshire. (Thanks, K. Rawson for providing an inspiring place to write!)

We met at a crossing between life and death.
Both of us treading lightly over a tarnished silver lining.
You lost your wife.
I lost my mother father brothers
and a sister.
But during those endless years, everyone lost someone.
Maybe, compared to other’s grief our’s carried no weight.
Babies died.
Babies were murdered.
Babies – of which we had none.
But the grief we felt was crushingly heavy.
We stumbled, you and I, before falling so deep we had no desire to survive.
Still, anger kept us alive.
We did our work, ate our bread and fought for watery soup.
Slept in rags on splintered boards balanced above skittering mice.
Sixty years later we sit, saying nothing.
There is no need.
Your twisted back and my childless womb say it all in a voice so loud it should shatter glass.
YOU COULD NOT KILL US ALL

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An Unfulfilled Life

The swirl and grind of life never fazed Annette.
She went to work, hated her job, came home.
She tended the children, as required.
Due to no effort on her part
all five grew into fine young men and women.
Annette observed them moving away.
Never bothered to call them
nor worried if they didn’t call her.

Once slim and beautiful, Annette grew fat.
She sewed larger clothes.
Her hair became limp and dull.
She cut it.

When Annette’s husband said she no longer cooked well
she bought take-out.
She attended his funeral without tears.
Not a soul attended hers.

(100 words)