Posts Tagged ‘children’

Photo by Jan Wayne Fields

Berit built a home from thin slivers of glacial ice cut from the exact center of Gígjökull. Two albino Savannah cats kept the inside warm; two thousand fireflies lit the pathway to her door. The pantry was laden with starfish, and eel, skua eggs, and sun-dried kelp. Lavender leaves collected down by the sea scented the bed sheets of five small beds. The echo of children’s laughter filled Berit’s ears, visions of sweet faces formed a ring around her heart. Exile meant nothing if King Jostien kept his promise. Berit waited two hundred years.

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js
<!– end InLinkz script —

Advertisements

Today Pegman took us to Wroclaw, Poland. I found this jolly Christmas village in the Magnolia Park Mall. In my mind, this tale started fairly fun before taking a dark turn. Sign of the times? Perhaps.

Let’s say that just this once Mikolaj loves Christmas. We’ll pretend Cecylia hasn’t left him and he has one last chance to buy gifts for their children. One boy. One girl.
Maybe not. Maybe Cecylia never had children and she spends all her time in the bedroom wondering why and her tears cause Mikolaj to run to Magnolia Park, the horrible mall at the center of Wroclaw, and he fights the crowds to buy his wife teddy bears, slippers, and her favorite perfume. Anything to slide under the tree to stop the crying.
Or perhaps our Mikolaj isn’t married. Maybe his parents fought all the time and he never wanted a life like that. Or they loved so deeply he knew, absolutely, he couldn’t have a life like theirs so didn’t even try.
In the end, let’s say his parents died in Auschwitz on Christmas day and Mikolaj was never born.

(150-words)

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js

Lovers come to the bench.
The teenagers spy.
Ephemeral. Unmoving. Only their heads peek ’round the hedge.
None speak. They simply watch.
Tommy ponders the smoothness of women’s skin.
Annabelle enjoys the muscles rippled across men’s backs.
Susanne resents everything about the couples. Would stop them if she could.
For the siblings will never feel such things, make such sounds
or hear the words, “I love you.”
Suffocation should have put an end to anticipation and hope.
But, they feel the need to return. Night after night.
Year after year.
Century upon century.

Today’s Photo Prompt was provided by Liz Young 

Angel in Black

Posted: January 27, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , ,

Wow! Wednesday/Friday again. The photo prompt was supplied by C.E. Ayr and posted by our Fairy Blog Mother Rochelle. I usually don’t pre-read anyone’s submissions before writing mine. Today I broke the rule and, after reading Rochelle’s (and only Rochelle’s), I felt the need to show her characters a hint of kindness. (A link to the Jewish Ghetto Police during WW II https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_Ghetto_Police)

PHOTO PROMPT - © ceayr

“Be by the gait, half-past ten.”
“But . . .”
“On time, or someone else will have it. Many wait in line.”
“May I bring a friend?”
“Ah, a menage a trois!” She turns in a swirl of sable and Chanel.

Frightened beyond words, the two creep along the wall without whispering. If a dog barks or they leave a moon shadow…
The reward is worth the fear.

Tonight she is clothed all in black, smells of nothing. She passes one sandwich, two, through the bars. Nadine and Martine grasp them with eager hands.

Poor kinder, tomorrow Jüdische Polizei will liquidate the ghetto

 

Each morning Beatrice goes down to the sea to collect pieces of glass –
thrown among the driftwood by high tide –
and strings the colored fragments into necklaces and bangles for her arms.

She makes her dresses of silk and satin, corduroy and canvas,
and decorates them with pelts from wolves, bear, and elk.
Village children dare each other to touch her hair
which shimmers like star dust blended with thin threads of gold.
She pays no heed.

After three months her bruises are gone,
the fingers Spencer broke before leaving are beginning to mend –
but her mind remains fragile and bent.

three_chairs

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.”