Broken Heart

When we met, you colored the pages of my life with soft words and kindness one day and ear-splitting shouts of joy on another. Of course, there were word wars; one expects them in any relationship.

I couldn’t have loved you more.

Oh, the life we lived. Trips: Egypt, Spain, Ghana; the backyard for fried chicken and champagne picnics.

We bought: one couch, a king-sized bed, a canoe. Adopted: three tabby cats.

Our children gave us grandchildren – each one looks like you. Dark-skinned; sinewy.

They’re all I have left.

Today, I will burn each colored page you unknowingly gifted my life.

Silence

“Samoa-Samoa-Tonga-Tonga-Talofa-Malo-Aloha.”
At the age of three, Clara was a musical prodigy, at five she spontaneously burst into song as if the family lived inside a musical.
“Hey, baby, why don’t you run over and pick out a T-shirt for daddy?”
Clara met the suggestion with an eye roll before skipping away.
Anita watched her daughter’s long blonde curls bounce against her tiny back, did her own eye roll thanking God for the blessed silence as her child disappeared in the crowd.

The blessed silence has gone on for two excruciating years. And now, today, the search for Clara was ended.

The Lure of Smashing Pennies

Time was, Rita loved the clickity-clackity of steel wheels on metal rails,
the long, low sound of a whistle at midnight and noon.

For many, the coal-oil scent of trains,
the sight of rails disappearing over the horizon
quickened the heart, caused feet to roam.
Not for Rita. She spread roots and settled.

Then the hoot of the whistle turned to squealing brakes.
Metal grinding on metal replaced the rhythmic clickity-clack
and an iron-scent of blood filled the air.

How many times had she told little Tom, “Keep your coins in your pocket.”?
She hefted her suitcase and locked the door.

 

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.

Apology

For fifty-six years I’ve pinned this photograph to the wall or taped it to the mirror.
Sometimes it’s buried in my wallet.
How I miss you.
Because it was Christmas, you wore a red velvet dress.
Because I was angry I wore black boxing shorts and a torn yellow shirt.
At the party, you laughed, smiled and flirted with me
as if I weren’t the biggest jerk around.
We both drank too much, I know that, but I drank until I couldn’t see.
Still, I heard – brakes squealing, shattering glass.
And. One. Shrill. Scream.

(94-words)

Timothy’s Savior

Well, isn’t this desk a fine mess? It almost makes me feel like cleaning mine – almost. Instead, I wrote this 100-word story about it. Thanks, Rochelle, for posting yet another picture to make the Friday Fictioneer clan put fingertips to keyboards.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Timothy ripped the clock from the wall, pulled the plug on the refrigerator, threw his computer out the window just to quiet its hum. No sound should remind him of his old life. Still, his heart pounded so violently, blood rushed in his ears – like the echo of ocean waves caught inside a nautilus shell. That’s what Angie would have said. But Angie, his heart of hearts was gone. Absolutely nothing mattered.
“Daddy?”
Timothy turned from the window. And there, standing with her stuffed penguin clutched in one hand was little Beatrice. He knelt and opened his arms.

An InLinkz Link-up

https://static.inlinkz.com/cs2.js
<!– end InLinkz script

Shamar’s Thirteenth Birthday

Shaktiki Sharma provided this thought-provoking picture for this week’s 100 word Friday Fictioneer prompt. And, as always, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posted it for our merry band. Thanks to you both.

Mind whirring, Shamar jangled two quarters,
bus money Mama handed him saying,
“Don’t come back ’til 3:00. Need me some time.”
“I’m a man now,” Shamar thought, stepping aboard the bus
from N.Y. to Chicago.
“She won’t never see me again.”

“5:00! Where is that child?”
Tanisha asked the current man in her life.
He shrugged.
Balloons hung everywhere.
A HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner snapped on the lawn.
Tanisha drifted to Shamar’s room
doing the same thing,
hoping for a different result.

And for the first time, she saw the note.
“Take this $100 and get the hell out.
Your mama don’t need you no more.”

(102 words)

 

Wait

This was inspired by a school shooting on October 24, 2014. A fourteen year old boy – who apparently had everything in his favor including family ties, strong tribal connections, a winning smile, intelligence and a good sense of humor – shot four fellow students and himself. He and another are dead. Two girls are alive but so disfigured they have not yet been identified and one young man may have lost his jaw. What is it about young heartbreak that drives children to such measures? (Remember, this boy had one foot merely dangling over the boundary between childhood and the world of a teenager, and was years away from becoming a man.)

Son- Before the Story
i am broken
how will i mend?
how is it possible
to shine in her eyes
one day
and be invisible to her
the next?
I cannot sweat it off

Father – Before the Story
just wait
you have loved her one short year
a nano-second, a blink
there will be another girl
many other girls
that will shine in your eyes
take time
wait

The Story
there is no waiting
son hides the gun
in his day pack
between a sandwich
and her class picture

lunchtime – eight shots
two dead
four disfigured for life

Crossed Letters

My Dearest Husband,
How I wish this letter could be carried on the wings of a dove
for it is that symbol of peace I wish to convey.
Our last words were fraught with anger
drowning in tears, weighted with terror.
Please know, beyond all doubt,
my heart, soul and body will always
and forever be yours.
Your loving wife, Louisa

Dear Mrs. Longsfield,
With sorrow I must inform you that
your husband was wounded in the battle at Gettysburg.
Although he received the best surgical care
he succumbed to pyaemia July 29 of 1863.
Your friend in common affliction,
A. Lincoln

(Pyemia was spelled pyaemia in a Civil War letter I found written by Abraham Lincoln. The definition follows – Septicemia caused by pyogenic microorganisms in the blood, often resulting in the formation of multiple abscesses.)