Lavra’s Strange Soups

My sister Lavra had 120 children.

Babka, how can that be? She would die from birthing so many. Feeding them? Impossible!

None were hers by blood but through a bond created by war. If Lavra had food, street orphans had food. Babka shrugs. Scruffy little mites but with smiles pure as gold. Lavra made soup from scraps of this, and that bombed out of grocery stores. Or her friend’s homes. Onion/boiled-leather soup, cabbage/stray cat soup. Soup. Soup. Always soup. That is why she wouldn’t drink any on her deathbed. Also, that is why 120 people are here to honor her.

Pink vs Gray

Thanks to Rochelle for continuing to be our Fairy Blog Mother and to Na’ama for providing this very pink picture.

Samuel consistently wore pink shirts, pink socks, pink dungarees, and gum boots. Mother didn’t mind; she’d wanted a girl. Nor Father. In fact, he thought pink enhanced his son’s pale complexion. Who did mind? His classmates. Often, they rolled him in the mud to “erase the pink” and added a punch to his nose and kick to the ribs just for good measure.

Of course, Samuel grew up. And after years of trial and error, found the perfect girl. Kindly, she filled his closet with the subdued gray clothing he thought he’d been wearing all along.

One Saved, Two to Go

 

Come to  باغ وحش تهران.”
The map didn’t help. Joshua couldn’t find one point reading باغ وحش تهران.

3 p.m. Don’t be late
He turned to a passer-by. “Time?”
The man made no eye-contact.

The bleat of horns, santour music, giggling women in hijabs,
and the sickly sweet smell of liver kabobs muddled his brain.
He couldn’t think, didn’t want to.
Action was needed. Now.

Or she will be sold to another.

Joshua spun in a circle.
A small boy stepped out of the crowd. “Need help, Mister?”
Joshua jabbed a finger on باغ وحش تهران.
“Oh!” The child pointed a finger toward a compound across the street.
“My favorite place.”

Joshua dodged through traffic, between the gates, down a concrete pathway.
When handed the money, Garshasp grinned.
“Almost too late. Almost.”

Tomorrow Eram Park Zoo’s elephant compound would be minus one baby.
Still, Joshua’s work had just begun.

 

When I saw the Google map of Tehran, I thought, “Heck, why not just use the map itself for today’s What Pegman Saw?” My eyes focused on the Eram Park Zoo and an idea spun out from there. While visiting their website, I felt really sad about the animal’s environments and wished I could free every one of them. I’m sure the caretakers are kind and do the best they can, but the animals don’t look very happy.

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The Gift

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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What Happened to the Tips?

The last light-hearted story I attempted to write turned out to have wife-beating and kidnapping as key features. So, today I have paid particular attention to making a feel-good story for Christmas. The picture that inspired the story was provided by Roger Bultot and posted, as usual, by our fairy blog mother, Rochelle. Thank you both.

Everyone declared Lizzie the best dang gal they’d ever met.
Best gal. Worst gal. Lizzie didn’t care what they called her.
She always worked hard: serving coffee, wiping tables, taking guff.
The townspeople were poor, so she never expected tips
but not one goll durn patron left a tip for over 5 months.
How’s she gonna’ get by?
Those quarters were Lizzie’s bus money. Shoot.
She’d been walkin’ to the diner for a month.
Lizzie flipped the lights. Locked up.
Outside sat a good-looking used car
festooned with balloons.
The tag dangling from the longest string read,
“Merry Christmas! Lizzie-Girl!”

 

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The Collector

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.

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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Angel in Black

Wow! Wednesday/Friday again. The photo prompt was supplied by C.E. Ayr and posted by our Fairy Blog Mother Rochelle. I usually don’t pre-read anyone’s submissions before writing mine. Today I broke the rule and, after reading Rochelle’s (and only Rochelle’s), I felt the need to show her characters a hint of kindness. (A link to the Jewish Ghetto Police during WW II https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jewish_Ghetto_Police)

“Be by the gait, half-past ten.”
“But . . .”
“On time, or someone else will have it. Many wait in line.”
“May I bring a friend?”
“Ah, a menage a trois!” She turns in a swirl of sable and Chanel.

Frightened beyond words, the two creep along the wall without whispering. If a dog barks or they leave a moon shadow…
The reward is worth the fear.

Tonight she is clothed all in black, smells of nothing. She passes one sandwich, two, through the bars. Nadine and Martine grasp them with eager hands.

Poor kinder, tomorrow Jüdische Polizei will liquidate the ghetto

 

Someone Else’s Shoes

Even though you have a good life – a great life – you often long to walk in someone else’s shoes.

Take the guy you found on Facebook – by accident – and you thought “what a funny guy” because the picture was of a road sign that read INDIAN WRITING with an arrow below the words, and the arrow was pointing at the guy, an Indian, standing in the road with a notebook and pen – writing. You ask him to be your friend and, even though he has no idea who you are, he says yes. The more posts you read, the more you like him. He is an archaeologist. You did archaeology for twelve years! He posts selfies: him on the rim of the grand canyon, him holding an ancient pot shard, him uncovering the floor of a long-abandoned hogan. Oh, how you want to walk in his shoes – for just a day, maybe two. He posts pictures of his legs spread long on a couch with his favorite cat nestled on his knees. You love cats! He is also a rancher. He posts pictures of empty cattle troughs and thirsty cows. He explains how many trips it takes to fill each trough by water truck. How much that costs. He shows pictures of dying cattle. His last post says he is out of money. Not even two pennies to rub together. You decide your shoes fit just fine.

Take your favorite co-worker. We’ll call her Eva. Everyone admires her – loves her if truth be told – not just because she is a Scandinavian beauty with hair the color of golden silk and eyes bluer than flax flowers. They love Eva because she does simple things: throws “baby” showers for newly acquired pets, remembers children’s birthdays, brings chocolates to anyone feeling down and out, and always, always laughs at corny jokes. You love Eva because she called every night for a week after your mother died. You would wear her shoes in an instant if it meant you could learn how to be as thoughtful and kind as Eva. One day Eva is fired. Gone in a snap. True, she deserves to be let go. Each day for a month she has carefully peeled the end paper off a spool of thread – thirty shades of pink – then put the end paper back. Not much, but surely dishonest. You don’t know why she has stolen thread, nor do you care. No one asks. Not even your boss – no second chances. Everyone drops Eva like a hot rock. Especially you. Stealing is wrong – even something as simple as three yards of thread is too much. Later you discover she lives in a broken down trailer on the wrong side of town with her mother – turned invalid by her drunken father. She supports both of them and two nephews abandoned by her sister. Today a hand-made quilt arrives for your newborn baby girl The card reads “Love, Eva.”

Today you decide your shoes feel a bit worn, too tight, and maybe you need to rethink the style.