Sweet Redress

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(Photo: Hannes Wolf on Unsplash)

 

She didn’t mean for it to happen. Or she did.

She was no saint.

Sure, decades have passed. Much water under bridges.

A better person would have let it go.

Not Linda.

Not when Marilee had deliberately spilled nail polish onto Linda’s gown on competition day.

Twenty years of rumination.

Until … Marilee’s brand new car.

Linda gifted a young neighbor with spray paint.

An aspiring painter with bad aim.

Sweet revenge.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Revenge in 72 words

 

Her Own Shadow

 

Evening light filtered through partially open curtains. Outside the porch’s floorboards sighed. A car’s engine coughed into life. The scent of crushed leaves and motor oil drifted on an errant breeze.

She sighed.

There will be time to sort through the tangled mess inside her heart, to sweep up shards of life, to breathe out the echoes of words she wished to never have heard.

Not yet.

For the moment, she just sat.

A shadow of her former self.

In a house that wept emptiness.

And let the space behind her eyes

Hold her as she waited

To be found.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo: © Dale Rogerson

 

Madam Toole

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Photo: Mick Haupt on Unsplash

 

Madam Toole

Had a rule:

No one sitting

On her stool.

That chair

Was her

Jewel.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of “rule” in 16 words

 

Greenhorn

 

“A pile of junk,” she had called it.

“My pile of junk,” Tim had responded, knowing then that if it came to choice, it would not be her he’d choose. And not because he cared for wheels and metal more than for flesh and blood. If Daria could not see why Poppa’s beloved Greenhorn was worth saving, she could not see worth where it sat.

Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. Memories and family.

His only. Family.

Daria found a man with a Jaguar.

Tim renovated Poppa’s car.

Found Miranda.

“A classic!” she exclaimed.

Flesh and heart. Worthy of Poppa’s car.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Brenda Cox

 

 

 

 

Singled Out

 

 

He didn’t mind.

Not really.

She tossed him out, she did. A punishment. For being “self-absorbed” and “unmotivated.”

Fair blame, it was. If needing quiet time was selfish, and if not finding it important to climb the never-ending escalator of social comparison, spelled lacking motivation.

Emily liked that stuff.

He did not.

A mismatch more than an actual problem.

For him.

He’d have to find better insulated housing before winter. But in the interim, the camper offered everything he needed.

Shelter. Nature. Quiet. Calm.

Perhaps he’d send Emily a thank you card. Next time he was in town.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Bill Reynolds

 

Unlocked

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(Photo: Deann DaSilva on Unsplash)

 

She knew she never should have let it run

Amok.

Should have kept it

Always

Locked.

But she wobbled

At the sight of keys under the

Rock.

It ran,

Before she could even feign

Shock.

 

 

 

 

For Sammi’s weekend writing prompt of Amok in 35 words

 

The Waiting Game

 

“So I sit here…”

“…and wait,” Misha confirmed.

Clara sighed. When she agreed to babysit her nephew, she thought playgrounds and picnics. Not nonstop rain and hours in a gloomy cafe while her car was being repaired.

She looked around for the boy. Yep. There. His red top. He’s crouched behind the same table. Every. Single. Time.

“I give up!” she announced.

“Ta-da!” Misha popped out like a cork from a bottle.

The four-year-old ran to her and wrapped his arms around her torso. “Best play-date ever, Auntie Clawa! I love this Waiting Game!”

Clara smiled. “Wanna hide again?”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © David Stewart

 

 

Hanging In

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(Photo: Ray Fragapane on Unsplash)

 

They didn’t know then

Or still

What track life will

Bring.

Yet they hold on,

By bootstraps

Hoping

For just enough breath with which to

Sing,

To the sun

That would rise,

To the hope

That would

Cling.

Till dawn will

Another story

String.

 

 

For dVerse Quadrille Poetry challenge

 

Indefinitely

Photo credit: © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

They didn’t know when Power would return.

When they’d be allowed to leave.

Only that it would have to.

Because it had been promised. And they’d been raised to listen. And believe.

The grid was down. The streets were bare. The shelves that once were filled to the brim were naked in the lanterns’ glare.

It mattered none.

When they had faith.

Power had said, before he left, the back of the car packed with goods he “had to take to the needier elsewhere,” that they were meant to wait, “indefinitely, if need be.”

An test of faith.

Till death.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Almost Viable

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(Photo: Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash)

 

She was almost there.

The core of her was almost

But perhaps not quite. Viable.

It took so much of her. To form. To build.

To be.

To sift the valued from the wreckage.

The meaning

From the hurt.

That there was little left.

Yet.

For viability.

Nonetheless it was still in there.

Nascent. Waiting.

For the rain.

For the sunlight.

For the nourishment.

For what had already sprouted and was on its way

To the life

She was.

And could

Sustain.

 

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Viable in 82 words.