Posts Tagged ‘anger’

Susana stands stiffly, watching people run to the water’s edge, and return.
Each picks up a stone or bottle fragments polished by wave-driven sand.
Some discover Japanese glass floats in blue or green.
Others find pearls tucked inside broken half-shells. And squeal.
They have no idea they are stealing when they slip her treasures inside their backpacks.
Still, their ignorance makes her angry.
She conjures wind that whips sand, and rocks and driftwood into an angry funnel
that dances down the beach and swallows them whole.
Susana smiles in the silence and slowly bends to collect what is left behind.

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Apology

Posted: February 14, 2018 in Friday Fictioneers
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For fifty-six years I’ve pinned this photograph to the wall or taped it to the mirror.
Sometimes it’s buried in my wallet.
How I miss you.
Because it was Christmas, you wore a red velvet dress.
Because I was angry I wore black boxing shorts and a torn yellow shirt.
At the party, you laughed, smiled and flirted with me
as if I weren’t the biggest jerk around.
We both drank too much, I know that, but I drank until I couldn’t see.
Still, I heard – brakes squealing, shattering glass.
And. One. Shrill. Scream.

(94-words)

Anna’s Escape

Posted: November 1, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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Photo Prompt Sarah Ann Hall

How Sasha loved his women, lined up before him nervously waiting to be led to the ball like splendid mares from a stable.
He alone had chosen their gowns, for he knew what was best for each.
Cerulean-blue for green-eyed Tatiana, moss-green for blonde-haired Marie.
But where was his prize? His Anna? His pride?
Inside a flurry of robes; with a curse and a promise, Sasha burst into her rooms.
A quarter of a mile away, barefooted Anna, dressed in a simple grey shift and rough woolen cape, heard the shot that killed her guard.

(100-words)

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Telltale Eyes

Posted: May 20, 2015 in Friday Fictioneers
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Friday Fictioneer Wednesday has rolled around again. Thanks to Santoshwriter for the beautiful picture prompt.

FF_santoshwriter (1)

It’s a good day when baby don’t cry. I knows he’s just a little ‘un, but with all the scrubbin’ and cookin’ I gots to do for the mens, I ain’t got much time left to tend him each time he whimpers or pees hisself. Sam Joseph says to just hang baby naked in a pint-sized hammock and let him do his business. No mamma can do that. ‘Sides I gots to feed tiny man. End of day I’m beat, and sometimes beatin’ by Master Tom. He don’t much like the fact baby gots his blue eyes and bad temper.

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How could Emily have avoided the cracks? Even with the feet of a six year old the bricks were too close together.
“You’ll break your mother’s back,” Grandma had said. Did Emily want that? Sometimes – when she was very mad.
Had she made it happen? Maybe. She knew she’d purposely made Father angry.
Told him about the man Mother met for lunch.”They hugged, Daddy.”
He had roared and pushed Mother this way and that until she tumbled down the stairs.
Grandma came after the ambulance left. “Don’t cry, little one, your uncle is in town. He’ll watch over your mother.”

Their Story

Posted: October 22, 2014 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , , , , ,

PHOTO PROMPT Copyright- The Reclining Gentleman

Let’s say we have a man and a woman. Let’s say they’re in a boat. Let’s put the boat in a lake.
He wraps an arm around her. She leans into his shoulder, kisses him and says, “Love you.”
Oh, I know it can go another way.
Maybe she doesn’t want the arm there. You can tell because she pulls away.
Maybe she’s waiting to tell him, “I’m pregnant.” or “I’m leaving.”
But I’m telling you it goes the first way.
Maybe they remove their clothes,
make love with swans floating around them. Hokey, I know.
But this is their story, not mine.