Posts Tagged ‘love’

Today Pegman took us to Wroclaw, Poland. I found this jolly Christmas village in the Magnolia Park Mall. In my mind, this tale started fairly fun before taking a dark turn. Sign of the times? Perhaps.

Let’s say that just this once Mikolaj loves Christmas. We’ll pretend Cecylia hasn’t left him and he has one last chance to buy gifts for their children. One boy. One girl.
Maybe not. Maybe Cecylia never had children and she spends all her time in the bedroom wondering why and her tears cause Mikolaj to run to Magnolia Park, the horrible mall at the center of Wroclaw, and he fights the crowds to buy his wife teddy bears, slippers, and her favorite perfume. Anything to slide under the tree to stop the crying.
Or perhaps our Mikolaj isn’t married. Maybe his parents fought all the time and he never wanted a life like that. Or they loved so deeply he knew, absolutely, he couldn’t have a life like theirs so didn’t even try.
In the end, let’s say his parents died in Auschwitz on Christmas day and Mikolaj was never born.

(150-words)

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I fashioned this story for Friday Fictioneers from a Native American prayer my sister copied down for me while our mother was in hospice. It now hangs on the wall beside my writing desk. I find the words very gentle and soothing.

Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“When you need me, I’ll be there.”
“Where, Mama?”
“In a warm wind that blows your hair; the diamond glitter on snow.”
“But I want to touch you. Smell you. Give you kisses and hugs.”
“Oh, baby, you can. Feel me in a soft summer rain. Smell the earth. Listen to the whir of a thousand dove wings in circled flight. Look for me in each new dawn. And every brilliant sunset.”
“But where will you actually be, Mama? Where?”
“Oh, baby, I will be inside you, draped around your heart. Do not think of me as gone.”

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Today Pegman took us to Cape Crozier for a wee camping trip. This is my 150-word story about this rocky place.

My Dearest Angela,
The wind blew brusquely last night. Twice I found myself braving the cold to place rocks around the tent base while Charles slept soundly. Although his face is blackened by frostbite and most of his fingers are gone, he remains a pleasant companion.
I’m afraid we shall be trapped on this outcrop until spring. Snow has fallen for ten full days and buried our supplies. How I wish I had planned better. We were forced to abandon our scientific equipment two months ago for it became too heavy for the ponies to pull. Our clothes soak up moisture and do not dry out. We have eaten our leather boots. Ice crystals tear at the wool of ours socks. They are shredded.
The ponies ran away four days ago.
We have eaten all the dogs.
My one wish is to see you. Faithfully yours, Frances

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Photo by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

The stones rang with laughter, the sound of bells and shouts from women so lonely they felt they would never be whole again. Battles had raged for five years, not a man remained in the village. On nights flush with drunken soldiers from foreign countries chickens and pigs were slaughtered, family quilts used for tents. Now, now, their men were only ten miles out, physically and mentally broken and bent. But these women were prepared, for they adored their men and no-longer-boys. Mattresses had been stuffed with chicken feathers, broth stewed from pig bones, love stitched into every new quilt.

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Black Widow

Posted: September 21, 2016 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , ,

It’s Wednesday-Friday again, the day we Friday Fictioneers put fingertips to keys and type out 100-word stories inspired by the picture prompt our Fairy Blog Mother posts. Hooray! for Rochelle! Thank you. And Hooray! to my fellow bloggers. I look forward to each and every one of your stories.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

My Dear Mrs. Pinkington,
At the age of 85, I never thought I would find love again
but have discovered more beauty in you than any other woman.

Tsk. Tsk. You old fool
Nellie Pinkington inspects the barely visible surgical scars along her hairline.

I would be honored if you would agree to marry me as soon as possible.
In our waning years, we have little time to spare.

You don’t know the half of it.

All I own will be yours. Please say yes.
Sincerely, Walter

Grinning, Nellie opens the satin box containing fifteen
Or is it sixteen?
wedding rings.

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Perhaps these 102 words are a bit off-center, I’m not sure. Thanks to “Mrs. Russell” for the photo and to our fearless leader, Rochelle, for posting yet another interesting picture to lure us into doing our very best in 100 words.
PHOTO PROMPT - © Connie Gayer (Mrs. Russell)

“Thou speak’st aright this night.”
Bam!
“I am hard-wired for this job!”
Bam!
“Two down, lots to go. A merrier hour was never wasted!”
Bam! Bam! Bam!
“Man. Woman. Man. Woman. Must be equal on both sides.”
Bam!
“No kids.”
Bam!
“Naked legs and naked arms a-tangle as they fall. Silly grins and kisses all. No flowers pressed upon the eyes. Got a gun today.”
Bam!
“Shoots straight. Shoots true.”
Bam!
***
At dawn our Puck tip-toes from the woods, whispering, “If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended. That you have but slumber’d here. While these visions did appear.”

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PHOTO PROMPT - © C. Hase

June watched her boys tumble across the yard like puppies. Not one of them was right in the head – she knew it for a fact. Nasty old Mable didn’t need to tell her. No she did not. Clem: Ten – can’t count to one. Joe-Bob: Nine – forgets his own name. Stew: Eight – if a tree toppled, he’d just let it fall and squash him dead. It’s their daddy’s fault. Knocked each one in the head when they were little babies. But Daddy’s gone. June saw to that. Shot him. Threw him in the sea. Now she’s left with a black-haired chain of fools. She loves each link.