The Circle

Wednesday-Friday has once again provided an interesting photo prompt posted by our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Here are my 100-words.

These are the bones of our people, stacked one upon another to form the perfect protective structure. Time means nothing to us. We come. We go. Live and die, yet we are always here, guarding our children and their children and on and on and on. No one tires of the process. While alive, we smile up at our ancestors. Celebrate their strengths and weaknesses. Thank them for watching over us. We know that following death we will shelter the cheerful and the lost, participate in weddings and funerals through our spirits. A never-ending circle that brings comfort and peace.

 

Chernobyl Was a Very Bad Thing

Today Pegman took us to Pripyat, Ukraine. Years ago I met a Greek couple who had been affected by the Chernobyl Disaster. Although they were elderly, they were frailer than their age warranted. “Chernobyl,” the husband said, “was a very bad thing.” I’m dedicating this story to them.

 

Oh, such a racket! Men shouting, babies whimpering, feet stomping, horns honking, dogs barking!
The eerie sound of gears grinding to a halt.

“Enough noise to wake the dead,” someone said. But the dead did not wake up.
Thirty-two years later the bodies are no longer counted because after all this time
there is no proof The Disaster caused the aches and pains that drag people toward death then allow them to plunge into darkness.

No proof?

For nine days heat from the fire spilled poison up into the sky where it drifted like a bevy of black angels hiding inside the wind.

How far? Who knows?

Tourists come to view the remains of our town, snap pictures of themselves in front of the decaying Ferris wheel, dust-covered dolls hiding behind gas masks, empty beds, blackened toys.

But no one can take a selfie beside the acrid scent of destruction.

 

A Final Letter

Today Pegman took us to Cape Crozier for a wee camping trip. This is my 150-word story about this rocky place.

My Dearest Angela,
The wind blew brusquely last night. Twice I found myself braving the cold to place rocks around the tent base while Charles slept soundly. Although his face is blackened by frostbite and most of his fingers are gone, he remains a pleasant companion.
I’m afraid we shall be trapped on this outcrop until spring. Snow has fallen for ten full days and buried our supplies. How I wish I had planned better. We were forced to abandon our scientific equipment two months ago for it became too heavy for the ponies to pull. Our clothes soak up moisture and do not dry out. We have eaten our leather boots. Ice crystals tear at the wool of ours socks. They are shredded.
The ponies ran away four days ago.
We have eaten all the dogs.
My one wish is to see you. Faithfully yours, Frances

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An Old Man’s Memories

This week, Pegman transported us to Peleliu, a WW II battlefield. Thanks for an inspiring place to write! I’ve never heard of this island or its history. Ah, so much to learn, so little time. (P.S. “Urasai” means “Shut Up”)

 

“I don’t know who these kids think they are! Trash on the altar!”
“Kozue, they mean no harm.”
“Hush! You know nothing! They come, laugh at the statues, fornicate on the steps, play loud music and dance! They show no respect for those who died here.”
Realizing his wife will drone on for a very long time, Hideshi allows her words to fade to the far recesses of his mind even as unwelcome memories float before his eyes: Blood Tears Broken limbs Missing limbs. And into his ears: Screams Threats Commands Gunfire Gunfire Gunfire rat-a-tat-tat. Over and over and over. And the smell of death: Festering wounds Urine Excrement Blood.
Ah, to have memories of this ungodly battlefield replaced by thoughts of beautiful young girls making love with curious boys, the smell of perfume, the scent of too much aftershave, the glorious sound of laughter, music, and sighs . . .
“Kozue! Urusai!”

One More Winter

At the time Douglas Mawson and his partner Xavier Mertz were struggling to survive in the Antarctic by eating the livers of their dogs, it wasn’t known that Husky liver contains extremely high levels of vitamin A. Such levels of vitamin A can cause liver damage to humans. With six dogs between them (with a liver on average weighing 1 kg), it is thought that the pair ingested enough liver to bring on a condition known as Hypervitaminosis A.

Mawson looked at the thin blue icicle
hanging off the peak of his tent.
He needed to move or he would freeze
along this hellish coast of the Antarctic.

Mawson chewed the last bit of husky liver
and strapped on his crampons.
An hour later he tumbled into a crevasse.
Saved because the sledge wedged tightly into the ice above him,
Mawson struggled out using the harness attached to the sledge.
Tired, hungry and hallucinating, he trudged forward on bleeding feet.

Heart thumping he climbed the hill above base camp
and watched his rescue ship, the Aurora, disappear over the horizon.

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Never Ending Time

It’s Wednesday – Friday again! Doug, thanks for this picture. There’s so much going on it was difficult to decide what to write about. Most of all it made me want to go to a warm beach and collect flotsam and jetsam that has floated up on the sand. Thanks, Rochelle, for keeping our merry band of writers on our toes.

Time seemed jumbled – years piled upon years.
People from all over the world visited Toyashi,
bringing shells, beads, bottles, rocks.
Payment was not important.
In return he healed their wounds
with elixirs he himself created.

He loved many who had come,
stayed, then died.

At first the years arrived like storms
full of laughter and dancing.
Later they resembled warm summer days
he wanted to last forever.
Now they are cold and never ending.
Like Toyashi.

The one thing people asked for –
knew he had –
was the secret to eternal life.
That elixir Toyashi would not share
and wished he’d never found.

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Too Late

Hog grass, spindle weed and seven spider eyes
are lined neatly beside the ancient bowl
carved by Jim the Cripple.
One more ingredient and Balenchia ‘s village will be saved.
Woolen skirt lifted high above her knees, she runs across the sand
to the pond where the Eedysed larvae hangs.
Nibble fingers pluck the moist tangle from its lair.
Balenchia races back.
Drops ingredients in the bowl in the exact order
listed on the papyrus scroll.
She chants. Drizzles cat blood on top.
Poultice done, Balenchia smiles.
The blanket over the door flips open.
Her brother announces, “All are dead.”

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The Twin

Friday Fictioneers has reared it’s pretty head once more. This is my contribution at 101 words. Thanks, Bjorn, for the thought provoking picture. I’m sure this desolate building will inspire some sad tales this week.

First, German tanks rolled through
shelling buildings to rubble.
Next came Russians, finally Americans.

People hid in basements between
walls humming with the weight
of the enormous machines
rumbling past their
front doors.

When the soldiers were gone
Francine’s entire family was dead.
The neighbors who remained buried
Momma, Pappa, and baby Michelle
in what was left of the cemetery.

But Francine had hidden Franklin
in her pretty pink room.
Arranged him in the chair Pappa gave
her for Christmas.

She placed weak tea and crumbled cookies
on the stool beside him
saying, “Momma told me I must
always look after you.”

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