Suspension

 

“It cannot be saved.” The mechanic stuck stained hands in blackened pockets of oily coveralls.

Shelly tilted his head in bewilderment.

“Perhaps a new suspension…” he chanced. “A bit of wax or paint job.” Shelly could not recall the last time that the car was operational, nor how to do a thing on its behalf, but surely all that the conveyance needed was an odd term or two and the tinkering of a sufficiently grimy man.

“The only suspension that can help this pile of rust,” the mechanic muttered, “will be one that suspends it en route to wrecking.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Fleur Lind

 

 

Aloft

 

It was the opposite of everything. No more the steady breath of fire in the hearth. No more the solid oaken walls that Grandpa hewed and Grandma charred. No more the steady view that only seasons marked.

She was aloft atop the bedding, swaying on the ruts, the creaks of wooden wheels squeaking out of step with the team’s heavy clip-clop.

Another place awaits, Ma says, though where or what Faith couldn’t tell. How when all who’d gone before hadn’t returned?

Pa’s steady shoulders hitched with the reins. “Prepare,” he said. “We’ll circle wagons and there’d be chores ‘fore long to tend.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Alicia Jamtaas

For The Sake Of

sixteen-miles-out-3CA_-xcpulY-unsplash

(Photo: Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash)

 

There might not be an end to this, she thought.

It broke her heart to even think it. For she did not recognize herself in this thought. This worry.

Hardship was a familiar thing. She understood struggle. The effort of building muscle against force.

She knew suffering.

But not this. Not the deliberate harm.

Not the anfractuous path of sorrow inflicted purely for the sake of pain.

She knew not what to do with that.

Other than build a barrier around her soul to protect what was left, grieve for the need to do so.

And hope.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: anfractuous in 97 words