Lavra’s Strange Soups

My sister Lavra had 120 children.

Babka, how can that be? She would die from birthing so many. Feeding them? Impossible!

None were hers by blood but through a bond created by war. If Lavra had food, street orphans had food. Babka shrugs. Scruffy little mites but with smiles pure as gold. Lavra made soup from scraps of this, and that bombed out of grocery stores. Or her friend’s homes. Onion/boiled-leather soup, cabbage/stray cat soup. Soup. Soup. Always soup. That is why she wouldn’t drink any on her deathbed. Also, that is why 120 people are here to honor her.

Before and Now

Today Pegman took us to beautiful Varanasi, India. Typical of me, I found the most depressing picture in a collection of beauties and wrote a down-hearted 151-word story. (Sorry I went over my 150-word limit.)

Before the wars. Before the waters rose. Before the children and elders died. Before. Before. Before.
Before now, our city was full of laughter, the scent of herbs and exotic spices, music and life’s noisy clatter.

Our buildings were colorful. Deep pinks, brilliant oranges, gentle greens.
Women wore dresses sewn from gossamer silk and finely woven cotton. And smelled of Jasmine tea.
Wisemen grew long white beards and dispensed knowledge collected throughout the ages.
For three-hundred-years, there was no turmoil.

Then the storms came. Storms filled with lightning, thunder and too much rain. Storms between husbands, wives, and children.
Storms of unwanted people arriving from all over the world to flood our city with discontent for it is built on the last piece of land remaining above water.

There is nowhere to put them. They take what they want, especially our happiness, and give nothing in return.
So, this is now.

Not Who They Thought He Was

Today’s picture prompt was provided by J. Hardy Carroll and posted by our fearless leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, a master cat herder. Thanks to you both.

Before the war, football, cars, and pretty girls were the only things James thought about. He was the life of parties that never ended before 3 a.m. Girls called him. Everyone in town started wearing pink and blue shirts because that’s what he wore.

Superstar.

After the war, people glanced at his prosthetic and moved their eyes to a spot above his shoulder, acted like they couldn’t quite place who he was and walked away. He felt invisible.

Tonight James had a surprise for them. Hefting his baton, he strutted out on the field in a short-skirted, perfectly pink majorette uniform.

 

100-words

 

The Sisters Three

Today Pegman took us to Coniston Water, Lake District, England. I took a stroll around and found this picture. Thanks, Karen and Josh, for providing another great idea for a 150-word challenge.

As children, my sisters and I danced among these stones, singing the praises of gods we did not know while wondering why anyone should be guided by spirits they could not see.

Rayana, the eldest. A beauty with a voice filled with the music of one-hundred crystalline bells.
And a mind that held world-knowledge that surpassed each of our elders.
Oh, her many qualities swayed armies.

Clarene, the brave. Villagers compared her strength to that of our most powerful axman. Her gentleness to the heart of a dove.
When war broke out, she was our fiercest defender and most compassionate healer.

What were my qualities? Selfishness. Anger. Revenge. All wrapped up in ocean-blue eyes and golden hair. As were we all.

So, I warn you, the next time you sit, mead in hand, do not ask our elders how the village survived for lies will drip from their tongues.

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An Ancient Winter War

I have missed What Pegman Saw, so am dipping my toe into the 150-word waters of a story about North Coast, Finland. Thanks, Pegman!!!

We inhabit a land of seagrass and women who wear armor.
Our children are strong. Our men brave.
Together we have lived upon these shores for one thousand years
and will defend it to the death.

At night the polar skies glow with fox-fire.
The days glisten with sunshine and laughter.
Our fields produce crops you have never heard of,
and we will never share.
The forests surrounding our homes
are alive with bear and lynx.
They do not frighten us,
for they are here to serve.

So, even though you have three times our number of sailing ships,
filled with twice as many soldiers armed with weapons of hammered steel,
do not think, for one moment,
you have the slightest chance of conquering our people.

For we will rise up in a fury so strong
the hearts of your bravest men will tremble.
Send your army.
We are here.
Waiting.

An Old Man’s Memories

This week, Pegman transported us to Peleliu, a WW II battlefield. Thanks for an inspiring place to write! I’ve never heard of this island or its history. Ah, so much to learn, so little time. (P.S. “Urasai” means “Shut Up”)

 

“I don’t know who these kids think they are! Trash on the altar!”
“Kozue, they mean no harm.”
“Hush! You know nothing! They come, laugh at the statues, fornicate on the steps, play loud music and dance! They show no respect for those who died here.”
Realizing his wife will drone on for a very long time, Hideshi allows her words to fade to the far recesses of his mind even as unwelcome memories float before his eyes: Blood Tears Broken limbs Missing limbs. And into his ears: Screams Threats Commands Gunfire Gunfire Gunfire rat-a-tat-tat. Over and over and over. And the smell of death: Festering wounds Urine Excrement Blood.
Ah, to have memories of this ungodly battlefield replaced by thoughts of beautiful young girls making love with curious boys, the smell of perfume, the scent of too much aftershave, the glorious sound of laughter, music, and sighs . . .
“Kozue! Urusai!”

Failed Rescue

The jpg name of this thought-provoking picture is Antiques Along the Mohawk, making this week’s prompt twice as interesting. Thanks to Rochelle for taking the picture and posting it for the Friday Fictioneers writing prompt. Below is my 100 word submission.

10:32 p.m. – The sound of warning bells rolls across the water. Sybil wakes.
10:33 p.m. – She rises, draws on her blue velvet robe and peers through the grease-coated window of her prison, sees nothing but the light of the full moon sparking off the waves. She waits.
10:59 p.m. – Two ships, one large, one small sail around the bend, skysails snapping.
11:06 p.m. – Without hesitation the yellow guardsmen split the night with shouts and cannonballs, smoke and ash and fear.
11:35 p.m. – Tears glisten on Sybil’s cheeks as she watches both ships sink below the surface, dragging her Daniel to the bottom of the sea.

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