A Hard Man to Please

Samantha cowers at the edge of the fire escape, bare legs sticky with sweat, while Leroy shouts, “Well, Sa-man-tha, how many angles does your story have?”

A brick-hard fist to her eye. “Car broke down?”

Another to her stomach. “Visiting your sick mother? Again?”

“No story. I . . .”

He grabs her little finger. How many times has he broken it? “Maybe you met Jimmy Joe AGAIN! Instead. Of. Making. My. Dinner.”

“The baby . . .”

“Fuck the baby!”

“Leroy . . .”

His phone rings. “Yeah? . . . What? . . . Where? . . . Dead?”

Leroy pockets his phone. Glares.

Samantha offers a weak smile, “Now I’ll have more time for you.”

I’m late to the Friday Fictioneers party and, once again am submitting a grim story. Sorry gang. Thanks to Rochelle for continuing to post photos to inspire us to write a 100-word story. Also, thanks to Lisa Fox for the photo. Write on!

Suicide Note

I constantly check my reflection in your eyes.

Am I pretty? Too fat? Too thin? Too loud? What do you think of me as I cry while you call me stupid and punch me over and over again.

Why am I not good enough?

My world revolves around your ups and downs. Trapped beneath your umbrella of greed I wear gaudy greens, blues and reds per your request. I am the pawn you play because I am beautiful. With me on your arm men with money give you whatever you want.

No more.

I wish you nothing but pain. Lizbeth

The Price of Looking Away

Today’s thought-provoking photo was provided by Jean L Hays. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting it for the Friday Fictioneers to mull over and create a 100-word story.

Time was Angie felt like a pretty bird.
Time was Lester was kind. Gentle.
He’d give her small gifts. River rocks. A sand dollar.
One morning he brought home a clutch of robin eggs
bluer than his eyes.
She made him put them back.

Now Angie feels as if she’s
cooped up with a tiger.
Lester’s gone all crazy. Mean.
He steals things or rips them apart.
Hair combs. Stockings. Earrings.
Anything that makes her feel feminine and soft.

Angie knows it’s her fault
and doesn’t complain.
She let Lester’s daddy hit the boy
too many times.

 

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The Price of Freedom

Today Pegman took us to Billinudgel, NSW, Australia. Many of the pictures I found were of floods, and of course many weren’t, but that’s what caught my eye. Thanks to Karen Rawson for providing the Pegman gang a chance to write another 150-word story.

She hoped the water would keep him away, after all, his boat sank, cars couldn’t get up or down the street, and he couldn’t swim to save his own miserable life.
Maybe he’d drowned when the dam broke. She could hope for that too.

She’d hoped for a few things before. Nothing big. Just kindness topped with a gentle touch and a sweet word.
Instead, he’d delivered anger, solid punches and so many threats she lost track.
So, it was often a surprise when he shredded her dresses or dumped ants in the molasses or . . .

No more surprises. None. It was her turn to win.
She waded through the gasoline-slicked flood water warping her cheap vinyl floors to nail plywood over the windows and boards across the doors.
Humming “Freedom” under her breath, she lit a match, kissed the flame and dropped it on the rainbow ribbons of fuel.

(149-words)

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Read the Table

I know ya’ll will think this real queer, but Netta jotted a note next to every wine stain on her tablecloth. Used a Sharpie; make it stick.

Weddin’ night 5/21/68
Mama passed 7/18/68
Baby stillborn 3/21/70
Bought me a rowboat. Waaaa-hoo!!! 8/20/70
For why did Hank shoot Boomer-the-Mutt? 6/1/71
Floozie in our house!!! 1/1/72
Hank done punched me!!! 3/12/73
Bought me a new fry pan, feelin’ better 3/15/73
Damn! Punched me again! 12/24/73
Walloped s.o.b. in the head Mary Merry Christmas.  12/25/73
s.o.b ain’t movin.’ 12/26/73
Real nice row in the swamp today 12/27/73

I’m tellin’ ya, read the table. Them dates is scattered, but the truth is in there. Guarantee.

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Summer Dreams

Today Rochelle Wisoff-Fields both provided and posted the photo prompt for the Friday Fictioneers Clan. Our Fairy Blog Mother takes good care of us.

 

Bent beneath the children’s backs, the grass smelled like spring and hope and freedom.
“What you see in them clouds?”
June, “I sees a angel. Wings spread wider ‘n Papa’s arms stretch when he wants a hug.”
Todd, “A frog wid fifteen fat legs. Cut ’em off so’s Mama can pop ’em in the frypan.”
Rosie, “An airplane. Me flyin’ it.”

Back at home, the house smelled of old grease and unwashed, drunken Papa.
The frying pan sat empty, but the bed was full of Mama, bruised and broken.
“Soup?” Rosie stared at the last cans in the cupboard. “Or beans?”

(100 words)

Tag Along

Me and Scruffs been followin’ them ladies for days,
tryin’ to decide if we should catch up
or head off on our own.

Daddy told me to, “Git and don’t come back.”
I packed me some apples, loaf of bread and got.

Been sleepin’ under the stars.
Better n’ sleepin’ under Daddy’s ratty old roof
waitin’ for him to come into my room
after Momma goes to sleep.

Once, Scruffs got after Daddy.
Bit him on his naked behind.
I laughed
’til Daddy pulled out ol’ Scruffs’ teeth.
Then I cried.

Someday we’ll have our own roof.
Fer now we’ll just follow them ladies.