The Circle

Wednesday-Friday has once again provided an interesting photo prompt posted by our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Here are my 100-words.

These are the bones of our people, stacked one upon another to form the perfect protective structure. Time means nothing to us. We come. We go. Live and die, yet we are always here, guarding our children and their children and on and on and on. No one tires of the process. While alive, we smile up at our ancestors. Celebrate their strengths and weaknesses. Thank them for watching over us. We know that following death we will shelter the cheerful and the lost, participate in weddings and funerals through our spirits. A never-ending circle that brings comfort and peace.

 

Centuries Apart

Today Pegman took our merry band of flash fiction writers to Gwynedd, Wales. Thanks, Karen, for taking me up on my suggestion! A couple of weeks ago a picture of Gwynedd was the wallpaper on my computer and I thought it looked fascinating. I’ve gone over my word-count by one after whittling fifteen words out of the story (sorry).

Had you been lucky, you would have seen
nineteen barefoot girls slip into the glen,
flowers in hand, hearts full of joy.

Perhaps you would have averted your eyes
as they removed blouses and corsets
before lacing the hems
of their striped linen skirts
over rabbit skin belts round their waists.

Without a doubt
the desire
to gently touch a shoulder or knee,
would have overwhelmed you
for their skin glistened
whiter than the inside of an oyster shell
dropped upon the sand.

And your heart would have soared
when the glen filled with laughter
as the girls braided ferns
through silken blonde hair,
their own or that of their sisters’.

One step closer
you could have admired
the silver-blue fire of their wide-set eyes.
Now it’s too late,
that color is lost to the world.

What a day you missed
simply because you were
too many centuries away.

Ghost

Had the bell rung five minutes earlier? Ten?
Tommy didn’t know, not really, he never paid too much attention to time
only the sound that brought his best friend back from wherever he had gone.
That was what he always paid attention to – Andrew rising or falling from the ground or sky.
The orange flowers had been moving when Tommy raced around the corner
shouting his dead friend’s name.
Now they are still. The bell is quiet. No Andrew. No friend.
Why hadn’t he waited? Five minutes? Ten?
Will he ever return?