Posts Tagged ‘good life’

After last week’s dark post, I promised to write a light-hearted tale for Pegman who took us to Free State, South Africa this week. 147-words later, I think I’ve managed to do just that.

Life is good. Always.

Even in early spring when the weather turns hot and dry, and plants are dead or dormant, and supplies of autumn nuts are exhausted. In that season our people gather around permanent waterholes to hunt besbok and wildebeest that cannot range far from the receding waters. After rain replenishes the earth, ladies gather fruit, berries, bush onions. Children capture grasshoppers, beetles, caterpillars, and moths to supplement the meat our men bring home.

Mornings are met with a smile. We know what is expected and band together to accomplish our tasks. Community is key.

Evenings bring peace. The world softens. We laugh and dance and make love in the shadows. Women pass babies from lap to lap so they know they are loved. No one shouts at the children. Ever.

Our lives may seem simple but we would never trade them for yours.

The Dream

Posted: December 2, 2015 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , ,

Walk through the gate. Follow the light.
I will be yours forever.
For you, my men will erect a castle
using crystal, marble and steel.
For you, the women shall sew garments
of silk decorated with golden threads,
glistening diamonds.
Walk through the gate.
Be mine.

“Tonya!” The young woman jolts awake. “Bring me them nails!”
She stands.The flour sack dress she’s been hand-stitching for a week falls to the dirt.
Squinting into the sun, she sees her man hammering together boards, building a one-room shack in a field of weeds.
She rubs her pregnant belly.
Life couldn’t be better.


Raina Ng’s delightful photo and an article on NPR this morning inspired today’s 102 word story. Somehow they seemed to mesh. Kitche picture prompt Aila’s kitchen is quiet. She snugs into her silk dress and matching satin pumps, lights the paper lanterns and opens the door to her guests. How she loves the sound of laughter, the clink of crystal, the glorious tales her friends tell. Children race through the house of twenty rooms, their shrieks cause no disruption. Midnight comes. Goes. Where is my Raul? Aila wonders. The door bursts open, “The president has been shot! Come, Aila! They are searching for you!” Ten days later Aila lives in a migrant camp. What remains of her life? Six kids and an orange party dress.