Quick Thinking

When we heard Yankees shootin pigs over to the Baggerly farm
us kids took to hollerin like the devil was at the back door.
Mama? She straightened her spine and instructed the boys to gather up Daddy’s oil cans.
Told us girls to tie sugar, salt, and flour in paraffin paper and cram the packets inside them cans.
Meanwhile, she poked chickens in flour sacks; hid em in the woods.
When the Yanks arrived, saw oil cans lined up in Mama’s kitchen
and pine pitch stuck in her honey-blonde hair, they declared her crazy and backed out the door.

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Drawing the Line

 

I’s been workin’ in Massah’s garden over forty years. Planted beans, corn, rutabagas, watermelon.
Raised his childrens and his chickens. Only rung the necks of dem birds, though I wanted to kill dem boys most every day.
They was mean little ones and downright nasty as growed menfolk.
Killin all kinds of things cause they could.
I drew one big ol line when they shot my man; sold our baby girl.
Luckily no one ever checked the plantings. Deadly Night Shade grows over der in dat corner.
Now dem boys serve as fertilizer, though most peoples think dey be servin in the da war.

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Grandmother’s Advice

Thanks, Dale Rogerson, for these beautiful bouquets (haven’t I seen these beauties before?) And, thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for posting them for the Friday Fictioneers.

Never sell yourself short, my beauty. Sometimes the world will require you to stay low as savanna grass; watching, waiting. Other times you must walk softly forward camouflaged as a delicate rose or an unremarkable daisy; collecting information, storing it in your heart. But a moment will come when you will be forced to take up the sword, shine like a bird of paradise in your glory and fight.
Machete resting against her fiery red dress, Rusayla strode across the sand. She had gathered and stored information about the men who stole her grandmother’s cattle. There would be no time to run.

 

 

 

 

Crossed Letters

My Dearest Husband,
How I wish this letter could be carried on the wings of a dove
for it is that symbol of peace I wish to convey.
Our last words were fraught with anger
drowning in tears, weighted with terror.
Please know, beyond all doubt,
my heart, soul and body will always
and forever be yours.
Your loving wife, Louisa

Dear Mrs. Longsfield,
With sorrow I must inform you that
your husband was wounded in the battle at Gettysburg.
Although he received the best surgical care
he succumbed to pyaemia July 29 of 1863.
Your friend in common affliction,
A. Lincoln

(Pyemia was spelled pyaemia in a Civil War letter I found written by Abraham Lincoln. The definition follows – Septicemia caused by pyogenic microorganisms in the blood, often resulting in the formation of multiple abscesses.)