(Photo: Tom Pumford on Unsplash)
Her fingertips betrayed her. Flitting over the edge of her shirt. Spinning the loose string that twirled and fluttered in loops of tightening and release.
He might come. He might not.
Her quiet hope.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Flutter in 34 words
(Photo: Duncan Kidd on Unsplash)
They were all of them going to the fair. But her.
She had to stay home. Tend the fire. Knead the dough. Rock the cradle.
She still recalled her dreams of growing up. The independence.
The folly.
She went from burdened by her folks, to burdened by her husband.
The dream now an albatross.
A wail rose from the other room. The baby.
Could have been her own dejected cry.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Dejected in 70 words
“I’m not going!”
There it was. Mira’s famous pout.
Dahlia sighed. “Stay home, then.”
“And leave me all alone? You always think only of yourself!”
Get a mirror, Dahlia turned to the door. No use arguing when her twin was in a mood. “Party is next week, and I’m going. You do you. Now, I’m off to Fab Fabrics.”
Mira sniffled. “I don’t need another quilt.”
“I know,” Dahlia smiled. “This one’s for me.”
“You already have a quilt, no fair you’ll have more than I!”
Dahlia smirked. “Actually, it’s for the party. Gonna make me a dress to impress.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo credit: © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“Told you there’d be amenities!” Bob beamed.
Raquel looked around the campsite. Mud. Mess. And Misery. She bit her tongue. Only herself to blame. She should have known.
“When something is too good to be true, it is too good to be true,” her Ma always said. And of course, her Ma was (always) right.
Ma also told her that Bob was bad news, a bunch of trouble, and would never amount to anything.
True on all three counts.
She took a deep breath. She made her bed, and she was gonna lie in it. Even in a tent.
Photo prompt © AJ Wilson
She stormed in and stood, panting, hands on knees.
“What is it, girl!” Penny jumped, spilling some tea. A chain of horrible scenarios tumbled through her brain.
“She’s excited, not scared,” Margo barely lifted her eyes from the book she was destroying.
Clara nodded. Still unable to speak.
“I. Found. It!” she finally managed.
“Found what?” Penny snapped, then bit down her irritation. It was tiring, being the elder. The responsible one. The level-headed, boring, taskmaster sibling.
“Our perfect future homes!” Clara announced. “We can live next to each other, strung along the avenue like peas in a pod.”
Photo prompt © Dale Rogerson
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