Posts Tagged ‘escape’

Today Pegman took us to Aosta Valley, Italy. What a beautiful place!

Isabelle, something’s wrong with your Grandmother.
Why not call her Mother? What?
Look at her quilt. No pattern. The threads are all off-kilter.
For God’s sake, she’s already done Log Cabin, Flying Geese, Bear Paw. Leave her alone! Let her color outside the lines. Let her be.
It’s not like her. Do you think she has Alzheimer’s?
No more than you or I. Why don’t you ask her what she’s up to? Such beauty in the colors. The velvet textures. The silver thread. Look closely, Mother, look.

Come here, daughter.
I knew Grandma was listening.
See this zig-zag line?
Of course.
The road your father and I traveled to escape Aosta Valley during the war.
The unusual colors?
The colors of the mountains that sheltered our home.
This is . . . beautiful. But you’re scaring me.
Why? There’s a sweet memory in each stitch and every one leads to you.

The Threat

Posted: June 20, 2018 in Friday Fictioneers
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My Dearest Sonya,
I leave tonight. Father drinks too much. Mother constantly cries. My brothers fight in a war that makes no sense. But you know all this. I can’t say where I’m going and haven’t much money but join me, I beg you. Since it is impossible for us to be seen together, I’ll come to the market at noon. Wear a yellow dress if the answer is yes, blue if the answer is no.
Your Raul

Sonya reads a second letter, feels the threat. Slowly she slips into her black dress to signal Raul’s father that his son intends to flee.

Anna’s Escape

Posted: November 1, 2017 in Friday Fictioneers
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Photo Prompt Sarah Ann Hall

How Sasha loved his women, lined up before him nervously waiting to be led to the ball like splendid mares from a stable.
He alone had chosen their gowns, for he knew what was best for each.
Cerulean-blue for green-eyed Tatiana, moss-green for blonde-haired Marie.
But where was his prize? His Anna? His pride?
Inside a flurry of robes; with a curse and a promise, Sasha burst into her rooms.
A quarter of a mile away, barefooted Anna, dressed in a simple grey shift and rough woolen cape, heard the shot that killed her guard.



Posted: October 28, 2017 in What Pegman Saw
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Today Pegman took us to Norfolk Island. An interesting place full of intriguing history.

Just last eve Aengus, Mich, Enda and me drew lottery straws. Mich drew the shortest. Me and Enda the long. That left Aengus the murdering lad. Mich the lad to die. We other two will witness all and be more than glad to tell.

If you’re nay here on Norfolk Island where Satan rules with a floggin whip and the fields be strewn with blood, you’ll think we friends have turned our backs against the lads we love.

But if you knew we four and the place we are from
you’d recognize the bond we share
through Father Maguire who preaches suicide as sin

But now we’re left to fixin things the very best we can

Mich’ll be freed by Aengus’s blade. Aengus freed by the rope. With any luck Enda and me will escape this wretched island of death with truths to tell back home.

The ‘Lottery’ explained by an entry in an Irishman’s Diary
The extent of the horror experienced on Norfolk Island between 1824 to 1847 led to what was known as “the Norfolk lottery.” Irish convicts feared that suicide, being an unforgivable sin, would send them to eternal hell.To get around the dilemma they devised a plan where four convicts drew straws: one would be murdered, one would be the murderer and two would act as witnesses at the trial to ensure a conviction.The victim would escape life without fear of going to hell, the murderer would be executed, escape a miserable life and the fear of going to hell, and the witnesses would testify at a trial in either Sydney or Hobart. Just getting off the island was a holiday for them and would possibly present an opportunity to escape.

Today Pegman took us to Cape Town, South Africa. While scrolling through the sites I found this lovely sculpture on the lawn – somewhere.

“Damn it, June! You’ve hidden my eyeglasses again.”
You can’t keep track of your own nose, old man. “I think you left them on the lawn, next to the lounge chair, Samuel.” June tosses a sweater in the laundry bag.
“Why on God’s green earth would I do that?”
Why indeed. “You read out there last evening.” Five pairs of underpants and a bra go on top.
“That has nothin’ to do with nothin’. Where’d you put ’em?”
If I had a penny for every time you asked that I’d be rich. Two shirts and three pairs of slacks fill the bag. June tugs it closed before lacing up her favorite tennies and slinging the bag across her shoulders. “I’ll go check.”
” ‘Bout time you did something worth doin’.”
Junes steps on Samuel’s glasses on her way to the car, ticket to France bunched in her fist. It sure is.

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PHOTO PROMPT - © Dale Rogerson

“Last time I seen Teadora she was collectin’ them river weeds she weaves in ta’ baskets.”
“Been weavin’ that same old basket over a year. Ain’t got no real shape. Looks more like a banana than a bowl. Big, too”
“She’s a crazy nigger. Not worth a hoot. Stupider than a stump.”
“And I paid 800 bucks for her.”

Behind the house, Teadora listens. Smiles. Loops the bag over her shoulder. Inside? All her belongings – one blouse and raggedy scarf.

By the light of a half-moon she strolls to the river bank, climbs in her tule reed boat and paddles away.


PHOTO PROMPT ©David Stewart

Sitting alone, listening to umpa music, wasn’t what Rolando had planned.
The night was to be full of adventure, excitement, freedom. And flight.
Yes, he and Fastina were escaping this tiny town full of prejudice.
Returning to Mexico where people ate tortillas stuffed with chicken mole
while listening to mariachi music. And dancing.
Fastina’s father had shouted, “No!” Rolando’s mother? She cried.
Still, the couple packed their bags – hid them by the gazebo.
So where was Fastina? She promised to meet him at 10:00.

Fastina screamed Rolando’s name as five enormous white men
watched another rip the buttons off her blouse.


Posted: January 7, 2015 in Friday Fictioneers
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Wednesday/Friday has rolled around once again. This is my 100 word submission for Friday Fictioneers inspired by sad news reported on the radio last week. Do they ever report good news? Every now and then, I suppose. On that note . . .

Begin the Route

They’d left Myanmar on Nakaji’s fishing boat – just the three of them.
“Stupid idea,” Swimon had shouted.
“You got $300?” Nakaji had asked.
High seas, enormous freighters then the big storm. They lost everything – the child, each other.

Which way to go now? Nakaji fidgeted at the crossroads.
He recognized her star pasted to the pole – proving Swimon had made it here alive.

People hurried by whispering “Arrest” “Riff-raff”
What did that mean?
Across the street clogged with cars, he saw her beautiful face. Called, “Swimon!”
He stepped from the curb.
“No you don’t!” Police. Handcuffs. Swimon disappeared.