Posts Tagged ‘revenge’

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.

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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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This is my 104 word letter in response to the lovely picture of moths beneath a highly-edited sign at a McDonald’s in Somewhere, USA.

moths

Dearest Wilbur,
Your comments and suggestions should be directed to someone who cares.
F.Y.I, that is NOT me.
(Perhaps your new secretary will oblige)
I don’t care if you hate my green dress and despise the brown one.
(You seem to like your secretary in ~ or out of ~ blue)
I will not dye my hair blonde.
(Like your secretary’s)
Pleasing you is no longer my concern.
(Your secretary is doing a fine job)
From now on you can eat at McDonald’s, iron your own clothes, and dust your own dust.
I sincerely thank you for fifteen miserable years. Claudette
P.S. I sold your cat

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How could Emily have avoided the cracks? Even with the feet of a six year old the bricks were too close together.
“You’ll break your mother’s back,” Grandma had said. Did Emily want that? Sometimes – when she was very mad.
Had she made it happen? Maybe. She knew she’d purposely made Father angry.
Told him about the man Mother met for lunch.”They hugged, Daddy.”
He had roared and pushed Mother this way and that until she tumbled down the stairs.
Grandma came after the ambulance left. “Don’t cry, little one, your uncle is in town. He’ll watch over your mother.”