(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)
Impressed, she was.
The image etched into her mind.
The angle of his neck,
Head bent over the
Guitar,
Engraved
Onto her heart.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Engrave in 23 words
Impressed
Anecdotes of Life
Her Vision
She tried. But still she could not see.
Not the way she should have. Not the way others expected her to. Not how they could. All crisp lines and sharp edges.
There was no focus to her sight. No defined hues.
No boundaries.
No wonder others thought she had no need for any.
She used to think it was her fault. Her eyes a reflection of failure.
She’d seen a doctor since. In secret, but at least this one was hers to hold in confidence.
Her optic nerve had never fully formed.
But her heart, she now knew, saw perfectly.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
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Sweet Redress
(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
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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
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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
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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
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Unlocked
(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
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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
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Hanging In
(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
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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
Na'ama Yehuda 
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