Posts Tagged ‘music’

Today’s picture prompt was provided by our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I imagine this room is in her home and people gather ’round on couches and chairs, wine in hand, to listen to music and laugh.

Gracie nestled across his chest.
The little-girl-heat on a swampy night was stifling.
Thompson didn’t mind. He loved the child from her black curls down to her shell-pink toenails.

A breeze lifted the smell of fish spawn and hyacinths.
Home.
The music of wind chimes, bullfrogs and coyotes vied with piano music from Gator’s Bar all lit up across the Teche.
Glasses clinked.
A woman laughed.
That was the troublesome part.

Sighing, Thompson stepped into the bateau, baby in one arm, suitcase in the other, and
the vision of a tight red dress and stiletto heels dancing around in his head.

 

Advertisements

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.

Lessons

Posted: October 8, 2014 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , , , ,

Copyright-Rochelle Fields

Irena arrived by Kindertransport. Although strange, her new parents were kind.
“Poppa” played banjo at the pub. “Momma” mended clothes.
Neither earned much money.
Unlike her friend Amelia, placed in a house where daily lessons were beaten into her,
Irena learned English listening to “Poppa” recite words to songs.
He pronounced them slowly, spelled them for her while she carefully drew letters on the chalkboard beside the window.
Years passed. Irena grew tall and lanky and beautiful. She forgot her home in Warsaw Ghetto, forgot how to speak her native Polish.
Never, ever did she forget her real Momma and Poppa looking out the window of an entirely different train.