Posts Tagged ‘revenge’

Today Pegman took us to Gurara Waterfalls, Nigeria. Thanks k rawson for an inspiring place to write about!

Used to be we ladies came here to scrub de sweat out of de armpits of plaid shirts
and rinse mud off de cuffs of heavy jeans.
Those stains meant our men were working hard in the fields
to support us and our little babies.

Our skirts and blouses are held together with patches and buttons in odd places.
No one minds. Them ratty old clothes never kept us from laughin and kissin the little ones,
nor sharing stories over a communal fire while cookin a fine meal for our men.

But things changed after the oil company came
and our men got new jobs.
Now dey stay in town after dark,
drinking de beer and spending money on ladies dat ain’t us.
Now we don’t care if the clothes are clean.

Last week, we ladies had a meeting.
It was decided.
Tonight’s soup will taste slightly bitter.

149-words
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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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I know ya’ll will think this real queer, but Netta jotted a note next to every wine stain on her tablecloth. Used a Sharpie; make it stick.

Weddin’ night 5/21/68
Mama passed 7/18/68
Baby stillborn 3/21/70
Bought me a rowboat. Waaaa-hoo!!! 8/20/70
For why did Hank shoot Boomer-the-Mutt? 6/1/71
Floozie in our house!!! 1/1/72
Hank done punched me!!! 3/12/73
Bought me a new fry pan, feelin’ better 3/15/73
Damn! Punched me again! 12/24/73
Walloped s.o.b. in the head Mary Merry Christmas.  12/25/73
s.o.b ain’t movin.’ 12/26/73
Real nice row in the swamp today 12/27/73

I’m tellin’ ya, read the table. Them dates is scattered, but the truth is in there. Guarantee.

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Since last week’s Pegman prompt was in a devastated part of West Virginia, our host decided we deserved a vacation on the lovely island of Mauritius. I looked at countrysides and ocean fronts and finally stumbled upon this drawing. When adding the picture to my post, I accidentally pasted it twice, side-by-side. The scene reminded me of an old stereoscope picture. So, I turned the offer of a fun light-hearted vacation into a bleak 150-word story. Sorry, Pegman.

 

Jacques-Henri peered through the stereoscope’s two prismatic lenses. After a long moment, the pictures morphed into a single, three-dimensional scene.
“You say this is Father’s land in Mauritius?”
“Indeed, sir. Acquired the property October 21st, 1810 along with the one-hundred-twenty slaves working the cane fields. Quite lucrative.”
“So all this is mine now, including the slaves?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly?”
“You see, the slaves were freed in 1835. The freedmen and women remain on the land, but you don’t own them.”
Jacques-Henri peered closely at the figures on the road. “They still work the fields?”
“That’s what . . . ”
“Oh, get on with it, man! What are you trying to say?”
“They reside in the houses, till and harvest but . . . ”
“But?” Jacques-Henri roared.
“. . . keep the money from the cane sales for themselves.”
Jacques-Henri lowered the stereoscope. “Not any longer. Burn them out. Kill the men, sell the children. Bring the women to me.”

 

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I’s been workin’ in Massah’s garden over forty years. Planted beans, corn, rutabagas, watermelon.
Raised his childrens and his chickens. Only rung the necks of dem birds, though I wanted to kill dem boys most every day.
They was mean little ones and downright nasty as growed menfolk.
Killin all kinds of things cause they could.
I drew one big ol line when they shot my man; sold our baby girl.
Luckily no one ever checked the plantings. Deadly Night Shade grows over der in dat corner.
Now dem boys serve as fertilizer, though most peoples think dey be servin in the da war.

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Thanks, Dale Rogerson, for these beautiful bouquets (haven’t I seen these beauties before?) And, thanks, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, for posting them for the Friday Fictioneers.

Never sell yourself short, my beauty. Sometimes the world will require you to stay low as savanna grass; watching, waiting. Other times you must walk softly forward camouflaged as a delicate rose or an unremarkable daisy; collecting information, storing it in your heart. But a moment will come when you will be forced to take up the sword, shine like a bird of paradise in your glory and fight.
Machete resting against her fiery red dress, Rusayla strode across the sand. She had gathered and stored information about the men who stole her grandmother’s cattle. There would be no time to run.

 

 

 

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It’s Wednesday/Friday again! Today’s picture prompt, provided by our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle, was taken by Lucy Fridkin. Thanks to both of you.

lucy-sol-1

The whump-whump of the tug’s motor was the only heartbeat Jason needed to hear.
He liked people alright;
even got married – once.
But he loved isolation best, so the knock on the wheelhouse, and whispered, “May I board?” surprised him.
So did the way his best friend, Alice, looked.
“Roger . . .” Her bruised eye said it all.
“I’ll take care of it.”
After drink took Roger into a deep sleep aboard My Mistress, Jason drained the fuel, hooked her up to his tug and headed north out of the harbor.
Ten days and much shouting later, Jason cut his payload adrift on the frigid Bering Sea.

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