Paper Dreams

Wednesday/Friday is here again. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting such a pretty picture provided by Priya Bajpal. My stab at writing a 100-word story follows.

photo by Priya Bajpal

They suggested Anya write wishes on paper and put them in a jar
saying this small action would provide hope.
Selecting the color and texture of the paper
was more difficult than knowing her wishes.
Food. Water. Freedom from pain.
Small comforts. Clean sheets. Crisp gowns.

Every day Anya slipped a wish into her crystalline jar
then nestled a polished shell on top
because Father told her shells carried
luck within their curls and swales.

Skeleton thin, and calling
for water, water, water,
Mother died writhing in pain.
Anya dropped a match in the center of her wishes.

 

The Best Laid Plans

I figured Bernard had nothing to do in this run-down out-of-sorts neighborhood
but sit on the wall, head down, fingers tapping.
Probably sex messaging.
Ruining his life one blip at a time.
Sad, he was a good-looking boy
but I had no time for a fellow digging his own grave.
I had plans.

2008 Bernard disappeared.
Likely ran away or was stabbed in a fight.
I no longer have the energy to wonder.
Too busy fending off my husband’s fists,
scrapping with my kids.

Still, there’s time to read this morning’s headline.
“Bernard Phillips Named New School Principal”

Well, I’ll be damned.

 

Susan’s Birthday Party

Yep! It’s Wednesday-Friday. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for posting the picture prompt taken by Fatima Fakier Deria. And now, my 100-word story.

Susan’s dress is perfect, tiny blue flowers and cream-colored lace. New white stockings and black satin shoes.
Last night Mama pin-curled her hair. Now it hangs in bouncy blonde ringlets around her small, freckled face.
Anticipation lights her from within.
Nine-years-old today!

An hour passes. No one comes. Two hours. A breeze rises. She puts on a sweater that doesn’t compliment her dress.
Raindrops leak from the sky one by one until mud splatters her stockings and shoes.
Mama calls. Susan doesn’t go in.

Finally, a rock tumbles under the fence.
The attached note reads, “You knew no one would come.”

Landmine

After staring at this picture for awhile a story finally came to mind. Sorry, it turned a bit bleak in the end. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting our Friday Fictioneers’ party each week, and thanks to my fellow attnedees for reading and leaving comments.

Photo by Marie Gail Stratford

Just like the yarn in Grandma’s weaving basket, the threads of Lilliana’s life were all tangled up.
Used to be she knew precisely where she was headed and what waited at the end.
Used to be nothing, nothing could get in her way.
Yeah, used to be.
But now she couldn’t see beyond the thin, grey line of her new life.
Sure, people tried to help, said reassuring words, promised the moon.
She listened, straight-backed and graceful.
Even smiled – sometimes.
But Lilliana knew, absolutely, that women without feet were never asked to join the ballet.

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Death Bed Wish

Yep, it’s Wednesday-Friday again. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields we have a beautiful picture (provided by Roger Bultot) to stir our imaginations.

Photo by Roger Bultot

I’d like to live the remainder of my life in the rose glow of candlelight.
Somewhere within the shadows bordering darkness and expectation
where the world is neither full of wild desire nor deep disappointment.

There, my children would softly hum accompanied by a choir of crickets
and the thrum of one-hundred bullfrogs.
And fireflies would spark in the midnight air.

Instead, I’m trapped in the bright neon glow of fluorescent bulbs,
held in place by blue plastic tubes twisting like snakes around me,
listening to the thump-thumb of an oxygen pump
while my children softly cry.

The Wishing Tree

Wednesday-Friday has rolled back around. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields we have another picture to weave a 100-word story around.

At some point, everyone delivered a wish.

The believers arrived regular, bearing all kinds of gifts.
Patty: Appeared every Sunday totin flowers, til “Baby” was born too early.
Wall-eyed Lester: Brought colored rocks. Hopein for a girlfriend. I tried. I did!
Ain’t seen neither of em for a while.

The scoffers turned round after some twist of fate or nother.
Lindsey-June: Stage 4 cancer. Didn’t even try.
Jim-Bob: 57 Chevy caught fire on bridge #7. No fixin that!
Clairene: Not nobody can patch a dog flattened by a truck.

Today, everyone delivers one wish.
Wall-eyed Lester revs his chainsaw.

I make a wish.
No one tries.