Posts Tagged ‘dreams’

Since one cannot kill or disappoint a character every week, today I’m submitting a wee bit of humor. When I first looked at the picture with sleepy eyes, the name of the building read Bloomingobles. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting a fun picture and to Marie Gail for submitting it.

“Momma?”
“Yes, Ezra?”
“What is Bloomingobles?”
Oh, Lord, what is he on about now? “Bloomingobles?” And why do I have such an odd child?
Ezra pointed toward a building halfway down the block. “There! That store!”
“Bloomingdales, lovie, not gobles.”
“Well, when I have my store it won’t be named something no one can pronounce.”
Such big dreams. Pie in the sky. Why can’t my Ezra want to hunt and fish like the other little boys?”
Twenty years later David Abercrombie and Ezra Fitch opened the doors of their first hunting goods store.

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The Gift

Posted: September 13, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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Been on a bus fifteen days, following my dream to tour the U.S. of A. Course my dream wasn’t set on a bus of screaming children and women who won’t stop talking. Neither was I going to be seventy-five and homeless. But the world hands you rotten apples and you make do.

My hair looks a fright, clothes are dirty and I smell a bit, probably why the waitress at the bus-stop lunch-counter is giving me the stink eye. She reaches for a plate, slaps something on it, slides it down the counter.

I’ll be damned! Toast with a smiley face.

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Another gunshot

“I gonna go to college and become a writer.” Hands on hips, Sicily cocked her chin and struck a pose. “My pitcher will look spectacular on the back of all my books.”

“College.” Jamar snorted through his nose and cuffed his sister’s arm. “Not me, no way. I gonna be a mechanic and fix rich folks cars. That’s what I gonna do. Be richer ‘en Methuselah, sure enough.”

“Both of youse is dumb as dirt. Ain’t gonna’ happen,” Felicia said. “Ya’ll should do like me. Be a hairdresser to movie stars. All them actors, black or white, wants pretty cornrows and beads braided in their hairs. I’ll be the rich one in this family.”

Inside, listening to her children and watching the hearse move slowly down the street, Celia put a hand to heart. “No sir,” she whispered. “Don’t care what my babies do long as they gots plans.”

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Today Rochelle Wisoff-Fields both provided and posted the photo prompt for the Friday Fictioneers Clan. Our Fairy Blog Mother takes good care of us.

 

Bent beneath the children’s backs, the grass smelled like spring and hope and freedom.
“What you see in them clouds?”
June, “I sees a angel. Wings spread wider ‘n Papa’s arms stretch when he wants a hug.”
Todd, “A frog wid fifteen fat legs. Cut ’em off so’s Mama can pop ’em in the frypan.”
Rosie, “An airplane. Me flyin’ it.”

Back at home, the house smelled of old grease and unwashed, drunken Papa.
The frying pan sat empty, but the bed was full of Mama, bruised and broken.
“Soup?” Rosie stared at the last cans in the cupboard. “Or beans?”

(100 words)

The Collector

Posted: March 2, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
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I’m glad to be back in the pack of Friday Fictioneers after a three-week absence caused by a glorious trip to a small town in Mexico. WiFi was iffy at best. So, here is my 101-word submission for this week. I can’t wait to enjoy stories written by my fellow FF gang members.

Copyright-Sean Fallon

Sanji was a collector.
She collected blue glass floats, bound them inside lost fishing nets and rescued sailors drowning at sea.
She collected thick green moss and willow twigs in order to weave soft nests
for creatures caught in the manmade catastrophes of fire and ice.
But the most important thing Sanji collected were the sweet dreams of elders.
These she wrapped in bright silks of turquoise, ruby red, and shimmering gold.
She gently placed them in a jar made from diamonds and dispensed them
to children tortured by nightmares riding inside the whirling storms of war.

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