(Photo: Beth Hope on Unsplash)
She became an essence.
A sliver
Of her dreams.
Nothing near the child
She’d been, who played
A fairy’s magic theme,
With arms a fledgling’s
Widespread
Wings.
Life tossed her
From the nest.
Unhinged.
She a feather now.
A mere sliver
Of a being.
For the dVerse Quadrille challenge of: Sliver
Twenty kilometers. His heart thumped in his ears. His muscles screamed for relief. He pushed through. Almost there. A bit more. One last hill.
Done.
All he needed to do now was get to his bike. Pedal home. Thankfully, mostly downhill.
He’d have a warm shower while the coffee brewed. Get some oatmeal going. Fry an egg. Make toast. His mouth watered.
A distant rumble sounded, and he looked up. The heavy bank of clouds that followed him, finally caught up.
Light flashed. Whoa! So close! A second wind propelled his legs as he sprinted, suddenly energized, to his bike.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: @ Dale Rogerson
“I gotta go,” Ari stuffed a sandwich into her mouth with one hand and a sweater into her bag with the other.
“Wait!” Ella’s eyes remained on her phone’s screen.
“Can’t.” Ari grabbed the keys. “I’ll be late for work.”
She left before Ella said another word, or at least, without hearing it.
They needed her job. Ella, per usual, was “between jobs.”
And I’m mostly between heaven and earth, Ari chuckled. She got into the car, shifted gears, and took a deep breath. Meditation was a crucial part of acrobatics. Even if it was not Cirque, but only shark-diving.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
(Photo: Stefan Spassov on Unsplash)
His claim was
Impartiality.
In practice he exhibited bias
So pervasive
As to blind him.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: impartiality in 15 words
(Photo prompt: Brenda Cox)
She saw the red bus nearing. Her eyes stung. Must be the jet-lag and little sleep. Home seemed far. Unreal, almost.
Or was this home?
She pressed her bag against the fullness in her chest.
This question was part of what she’d come all this way to explore.
The crush of people carried her onto the vehicle. Up the staircase. To the top.
She leaned into the seat and let the sounds of a language she’d forgotten wash through her. Awakening belonging. Remembering despair.
She’d been four when her adoptive parents came.
One day she belonged here. The next, nowhere.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Photo: Uwe Conrad on Unsplash)
She cried into the onions, peeled the taters, chopped the carrots, minced the garlic, seared the chicken bits.
Around her a cacophony of coughs.
A prodigious sneeze.
She wiped. She washed her hands. She stirred.
The panacea simmered.
There’s nothing chicken soup won’t fix.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Panacea in 44 words
Mama said it would be “an adventure.”
Lizette knew this meant no argument. No whining. Mama needed “Mama Time”.
“Just the weekend,” Mama said.
Lizette knew this meant at least a week. Till Mama grew tired of her new Beau. Or the Beau grew tired of Mama.
Did Uncle Ronnie know Mama’s language? Will he care?
It was dark when they arrived. Light flickered in the cabin’s window.
Mama let her out. Told her to knock. Drove away as the door opened.
Lizette shuddered. Entered. Gasped. Sighed.
The chandelier tree. The moose. Her uncle’s smile.
She could stay a while.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Alicia Jamtaas
(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
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