(Photo: Angiola Harry on Unsplash)
It did not matter that
The evidence was there for all
To see.
The crumbs.
The chocolate stains.
The broken shards of Nana’s cookie
Jar with
That crack from when Pawpaw drank
Too much and thought he was a
Knife thrower
But missed
The block.
It didn’t matter she was
Caught.
The child was
Unrepentant.
“Cookies are for eatin’, Nana.
No good letting them go stale
In that
Pot!”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Unrepentant in 69 words
(Photo: Hal Cooks on Unsplash)
It’s not my fault
That she won’t stop
Talking.
My side of the family has never been a
Chatterbox.
My papa says nary a word.
My mama can hardly be called
Garrulous.
It is your relations who are incessantly
Loquacious.
With them one cannot get a word in sideways.
A dinner lasts three weeks.
A quarrel, half a century.
So do not come to me
Complaining
About Junior’s wordiness.
“You should listen to yourself,” you say?
Shifting blame is something
Else
Your whole family does
Pretty much endlessly.
For Sammi’s Weekened Writing Prompt of: Loquacious in 88 words
“It won’t fit.”
Sandra looked up from kneading. Mollie’s face was red with exertion.
“What won’t?” she asked, resuming the stretch-fold-stretch-fold rhythm. Working dough relaxed her. The knowledge that each pull and press moved energy from her muscles into what would later feed them. The cycle of it.
“The laundry. Nothing fits.”
“That’s odd,” Sandra noted. “I washed linens in it just the other day.”
“But nothing fits!” Mollie’s voice shook. “Not a sock!”
Sandra paused. She forgot how easily her sister got flustered even by simple things.
“It’s a Space-Savor model,” she offered. “Have you tried shrinking the items first?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Na’ama Yehuda
“You should have let them check it first.”
“It’s not that bad,” Stephen tried.
“You always act as if you know everything,” Martha pressed. “Five more minutes and they would have found the glitch.”
Stephen shrugged. “I’ll fix it.”
“Like you did the hole in our sky?” Martha retorted, satisfied with how his hands tightened on the steering wheel. At least he was getting a taste of the frustration he was causing.
“Now our daughter will have to grow up with a partial simulation,” she added. To rub it in.
“Our simulated daughter.”
He always did get the last word.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Fleur Lind
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
“They don’t know how to park around here.”
Gail rolled her eyes. Just like Stella to find something to criticize, instead of taking in the big picture. And this was big! “How old are those?” she pointed at the castle’s remains on the hill. The walls stood sentry still. Empty windows portals to the past.
Mom consulted the guidebook. “11th Century. Even older foundations.”
Gail opened the window. The warm air smelled of old stone and fresh bread.
“Close that thing,” Stella groaned. “It’s probably full of plague.”
“Too late, then. Might as well stop for lunch before we’re dead.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: Sandra Crook
(Photo: SOCMIA Fotografía on Unsplash)
Get the kids. Get the bags. Pack the boot. Start the car.
And save that look for your Mother,
For having her jamborees so far.
Did you pee? Did you wash?
Are you sure the doors are locked?
Where’s your brother? Why right now?
Where does he think we’ll squeeze in his guitar?
No, you won’t.
Not you, too.
Don’t care if the harmonica will be something to do.
Off we go.
Off we are.
Right into bumper-to-bumper trucks.
We’ll never make it.
Best turn back.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Jamboree in 86 words
“What a dump.” Larry kicked at a holey plastic disk on the dusty ground.
“Perhaps,” Bill acquiesced. “But it is my dump.”
“Fit for a match,” Larry snickered. The place stunk.
Bill regarded his cousin. He recognized the green-eyed monster behind the hooded eyes. “Perhaps,” he replied finally, “but I foresee another kind of match.”
“Like what?” Bill had the Midas Touch. It drove Larry nuts, but maybe this time he’d get some of it to rub off on him. Could use some green.
“Plastic sheeting, sprinklers, plants.”
“Bullshit.”
“Already got plenty here!” Bill laughed. “Used to hold animals, that.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Bill Reynolds
“Why this thing?”
“They don’t like pancakes.”
Stella frowned.
Stephan chuckled. Too serious for her own good.
Her stare continued. He wanted dessert. He demurred.
“Bad accident last year. Someone got run over.” He slapped his palms for emphasis. “Totally.”
She kicked his shin.
“Ow!”
“Not the Stop sign, the lamppost! Too tall.”
Stephan’s eyes traced up to her manicured nail.
“Ah, they had to.”
Stella lowered her glasses. Warning or curious? He couldn’t tell.
“That family of giants down the street? Any shorter and the lamp ignites their hair.”
Forget dessert.
Her glare incinerated what chance he had left.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo by: © Dale Rogerson
(Photo: Emilie Dwire on Unsplash)
She was never big on plans.
It drove her parents mad, but her impromptu projects did turn out well more times than they did bad.
So they said nothing when she began digging a hole in the backyard.
And weren’t sad
When gold was found
Amidst the sand.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Impromptu in 48 words
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