Today Pegman took us to Armenia. I got lost in the beautiful photographs of the country then absorbed by the sad history.

You assumed I died in the Sheykhalan fire.
No.
I am still here.
And so are you for I recorded your stories
of hatred and stored them in my memory boxes,
each marked with a name.

Aslan (Lion): Broke into our home to slit the throats of our men.
Erol (Courage): Coward. Stuck my father’s head on a spike beside our kitchen door.
Tutku (Desire): Raped my mother and me then forced us to walk naked under the Mesopotamian sun.
Haluk (Happy): When we cried out for water, you gave us vinegar instead.

I stored thousands of your hate-stories but now, for balance, I must pull out a few of our own.

Aeron: Danced across the sand in silvery moonlight until we clapped and began to sing.
Havik: Sheltered the smallest of us within his enormous, naked shadow.
Poghos: Threw me out the window and saved me from the flames.

 

Advertisements

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)

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)

 

Today Pegman took our merry band of flash fiction writers to Gwynedd, Wales. Thanks, Karen, for taking me up on my suggestion! A couple of weeks ago a picture of Gwynedd was the wallpaper on my computer and I thought it looked fascinating. I’ve gone over my word-count by one after whittling fifteen words out of the story (sorry).

Had you been lucky, you would have seen
nineteen barefoot girls slip into the glen,
flowers in hand, hearts full of joy.

Perhaps you would have averted your eyes
as they removed blouses and corsets
before lacing the hems
of their striped linen skirts
over rabbit skin belts round their waists.

Without a doubt
the desire
to gently touch a shoulder or knee,
would have overwhelmed you
for their skin glistened
whiter than the inside of an oyster shell
dropped upon the sand.

And your heart would have soared
when the glen filled with laughter
as the girls braided ferns
through silken blonde hair,
their own or that of their sisters’.

One step closer
you could have admired
the silver-blue fire of their wide-set eyes.
Now it’s too late,
that color is lost to the world.

What a day you missed
simply because you were
too many centuries away.

Today, on Cinco de Mayo, Pegman took us to Tulum, Mexico where I discovered a lagune. While wading, I met Carmen who told me her story. Thanks, Karen, for posting another good idea for a 150-word tall tale.

Two-hundred years have passed since Carmen was nominated “Keeper-of-Souls.”
Oh, how she rues the day,
for now, time moves so slowly she can divide seconds into quarter segments
then each of those into thirds.

The Not-Dead don’t realize that
the Truly-Dead are an unruly bunch.
All day, Abuela Maria fights with Tío Ricardo.
Gato Isabella continually tries to re-kill Tortuga Mateo.
The Gemelos, Poco and Pica, are weary of their conjoined hips
and often draw knives from the shadows.

Solace comes on Día de Muertos when every soul is required to spend the day with the living.
Carmen doesn’t care if they visit people they loved or people they despised
as long as every abuela, gato, tio, twin, and tortuga disappear.

Then, very quietly, she removes her dress,
pours a glass of chilled wine and
slips into the soothing waters of her secret cave
and screams until her throat goes dry.


heylookawriterfellow

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…

View original post 462 more words

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.