The Couple

Once again, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has provided a photo prompt to poke our creative writing skills. Thanks for using my photo, Rochelle. I had so much fun watching these two talk during Covid. I snapped many pictures but missed their goodbye so asked them to do it again. They were more than happy to and, when I checked to see if they minded my publishing their pictures, they said it was fine and he asked me to email the entire series to him.

Let’s say he came home; good news flowing through his veins. A raise! He can’t take time to run upstairs, so shouts, “Kristine!” until his wife arrives at the window, all smiles and excitement.

No, he’s leaving, angry. The company fired Kristine today. She begs him to stay, leaning so far out the window she nearly falls. He shouts, “You are too mouthy!” “A flirt.” The neighbors cover their ears.

Finally, let’s say they met at a party; spent the night talking, don’t think otherwise. This morning’s goodbye is hard. Let’s give them another evening and see where things go.

The Proposal

Today’s photo prompt for our 100-word challenge was provided by our fairy-blog mother Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Thanks, Rochelle.

Isabel dances as if gravity does not exist. Her long velvet skirt floats in a patchwork cloud of violet, burgundy, and gold, bordered by glittering silver lace.
Have I mentioned her hair? Scented with jasmine and bergamot, and darker than the inside of night, it cascades to her waist. Each strand flickers with stardust and miniature pink pearls.
Do not laugh when I say God made her shoes, for who else could create beautiful footwear, supple and sturdy, from bright orange starfish and seaweed?
Today I present Isabel a ring made of silver dragon’s teeth. My heart prays she agrees.

Winter Baby

Today Pegman took us to Happy Jack, AZ. And I managed to write a happy story! Thanks for reading.

You told me town was shuttered due to inclement weather but I have to get home. Need to get to you. I love you.
You said you were fine. Everything at home was normal. But I heard worry inside the soft tones in your voice. I know you.
Streets are pretty bad. Looks like Doc Wilson is stuck on Main Street. So is Lars Nielson. I’m gonna’ make it, though. I’m better than this weather.
Why on God’s Green Earth did I drag you to Happy Jack? Hotter than the hinges of the hot place in summer. Glacial in winter. Lonely.
But you’re a strong gal. Always.
Almost home. One more mile. Mile and a half. Up the stairs. I’m home.
“Sarah?” Nothing. Then the tiniest whimper from the bedroom. My heart aches.
But you smile from the bed and show me our baby.
“Look, Samuel, we have a son.”

Waiting

Used to be I saw quite clearly. Crisply. Now, standing here waiting for you, the world seems fuzzy.
You said, “Wait for me on the bench.” Which bench? There are two. Already five women have strolled by.
Thinking the first one was you I hugged her. Tight. She gasped and gently pushed me away.
Once I realized she was a stranger, I figured she should’ve slapped me. Hard. Now I’ll wait until you say my name.
Fuzzy. Damn fuzzy.
“Clarence?”
“Amanda!”
Dressed in white, you walk toward me. My heart sings.
“Come, Mr. Whitworth, your wife passed five years ago.”

Big Plans

It’s been a while since I took a trip with Pegman. I’ve missed the fun. I rarely read other author’s work before writing a story of my own, but I did this time and am glad. “Big Plans” is piggy-backed on Lynn Love’s story. Thanks, Lynn, for inspiring me. Happy Holidays!

Photo by: Iakov Filimonov / Shutterstock.com.

Do you see the boy? No, not the one in the red shirt, the other boy.
Oh, yes, the look in your eye tells me you see him now. His face is pleasing is it not?
When I grow up I will marry him and have at least six children.
We will live in a house made of red brick held together by fine-grained mortar flecked with gold.
Our garden will overflow with passion flowers and iridescent blue butterflies.

What? Impossible? Nothing is impossible.
I will not sell mangoes as Mother does.
Nor will I continue to mudlark while Father unloads ships on the dock.
For I have discovered what is in the containers being sent offshore.

I may be young but I am not ignorant.
The men who own those metal boxes will pay me to stay silent.
What? Indeed, they will pay me very, very well.

Pain Relief

Boy-o-boy! Don’t know what me and the boys drank last night but it must’ve been good.
Must’ve been plenty.
Nothing’s in focus. Buildings are all wonky and, at this end of the street, there’s a giant caterpillar face.
Do you see it? Just there?
Oh, never mind.

Džons. That’s what we drank! That’s what the clean-up crew always drinks.
Me, Juris, Edgars, even Ilze drink when we’re done digging through rubble looking for the remains of our families.
Ilze. So beautiful! I hope we’ll marry when this ugly war is over.

Džons is the only way to relieve the discomfort of concrete dust that dries our nostrils,
and clear the stench of moldering flesh.
Džons. Džons. Džons.
Džons runs through my veins day and night.
Džons keeps me sane.

“Come with me, Love.” Ilze gently steers her husband’s wheelchair out of the garden and into the asylum’s foyer.

Come With Me

Violins
pink roses and red wine smoother than velvet
Kisses down my neck
across my shoulders
over the rise of my breasts

You seduced me with promises
Whispering
Come, cross the bridge
from a dull
ordinary life to
one filled with excitement
and laughter
A life only I can provide

I
Love
You

My head spun
at the sound of your voice
My knees shook
when you slipped
a thin silver ring
on my finger

And, then
there it was
A new life full of
hard work
successes and failures
tears and tantrums
lost jobs

And found friends
Beautiful children
Pets who adopted us
and pets who allowed us to adopt them

Excursions
to the store, jobs
And finally
across the sea
to Paris Madrid Africa

Now it is I who
kiss your shoulder
and warm your wizened breast
with a time-wrinkled palm
And a whispered

I
Love
You
More

The Land of Cobblestones

I must admit I’m addicted to Friday Fictioneers, so today I put aside an hour of editing my manuscript to add a story to this mix of wonderful flash fiction writers. Thanks to one and all who find time to read my story.

Siegert pulls the picture from his pocket.
He knows exactly how many cobbles create the path
from his old room to the gardens,
the rectory
to, well, anywhere on the grounds.
He’s counted each with his feet.

Excitement welled when Siegert heard adopted.
But soon he hears,
“The boy’s quite stupid. Rarely talks.”
Silence is golden, they told me so
“He stumbles.”
I cannot see out of my left eye
“No one actually likes him.”
Please, all I want is love

The train whistle blows.
Siegert knows it’s but a ten-hour trip back
to the land of cobblestones and priests.

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Fiolett’s Man

Today Pegman took us to Yellowstone. Besides Prismatic Pond, the mud pots were my favorite part of this national park, so I chose them for my story. Thanks for setting the stage, K. Rawson! (Translation of the names: Vulkan – Volcano, Fiolett – Violet, Jordskyelv – Earthquake.)

“Nei,” Vulkan forbade the use of even a cupful of clay from the mud pot at his feet.
“Please.” Fiolett knew if she had time, and now perhaps secrecy, she could create someone who would love her for all time.
“Nei,” Jordskyelv thundered, for he wanted her himself.

A month later, more than a cupful lay on Fiolett’s cabin floor.
The clay felt cool between her palms.
Days passed. Arms, gentle enough to cradle her appeared. Legs, sturdy and strong, soon lay beside them.
Shoulders, hips, a broad back, and finally, a head.
On this, Fiolett molded a face with features balanced between kindness and power.

She kissed her creation and slid him inside the kiln.
For ten interminable days, the fire burned.
On the eleventh, she opened the door.
Fire had done its work.
But so had Jordskyelv for the beautiful head of Fiolett’s man was completely broken and torn.

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There’s No Letting Go

Today Pegman took us to Abaco, Bahamas. Thanks, Karen and Josh for transporting us to such a beautiful place.

Bahama Beach Club

She will say there’s no specific reason
why she returns year after year after year.
But you know she just can’t admit there’s no letting go.
Truth be told, you can tell she welcomes the pain of seeing that chair, their chair,
where they sat each and every night.

He’s been gone for ten years, four days and an hour.
And, honestly, they hadn’t been together that long.
A week? Two?
You watched her fall in love.
And she fell so hard.

Even you had a difficult time resisting his blue eyes,
the wisps of blond hair that seemed to float up toward the ceiling,
his melt-your-heart smile.
And those dimples.
Oh, those dimples.

But from the beginning, you knew there was something wrong.
Something off-kilter.
His lack of focus.
The way he cried.

You want to tell her it’s the way of things.
Babies die.
Instead, you walk away.