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

 

Almost Viable

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(Photo: Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash)

 

She was almost there.

The core of her was almost

But perhaps not quite. Viable.

It took so much of her. To form. To build.

To be.

To sift the valued from the wreckage.

The meaning

From the hurt.

That there was little left.

Yet.

For viability.

Nonetheless it was still in there.

Nascent. Waiting.

For the rain.

For the sunlight.

For the nourishment.

For what had already sprouted and was on its way

To the life

She was.

And could

Sustain.

 

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Viable in 82 words.

 

Might As Well

sandra-crook

 

“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

 

Road Ready Monologue

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(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

 

No Time For That

 

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There was never enough time.

For that.

No time for the things that mattered but were not deemed essential. 

No time for the space that was given no paths to traverse.

None for the slow breath that could have allowed a pause

In the constant

Race.

Because there was never time.

For that.

Too much buzzed already

From the break of dawn to the collapse of night.

No time for

Time.

And so, she stopped it.

 

Stopped time.

 

She let the hands rest.

Let the heart expand inside the fluttering confines of the

Chest.

She let the breeze

Set

The pace.

The leaves, believe.

The ground stretch long and wide beneath

The feet.

The skies expand across

The dawn.

To let

The space that had

Held on,

To finally

Allow itself to be

Redrawn.

 

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Bill’s Bull

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“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

 

Into The Void

fleur-1

 

“What are you staring at?”

Tallulah did not move.

“Earth to Tallulah!” Maritza hissed. This professor had antennae in the back of his head, and she did not wish to flunk. Again. Also, if Tallulah had the audacity to skip class, and for vacation, no less, the least she could do is entertain her bored-to-death friend.

“It’s endless,” Tallulah whispered. Her eyes appeared locked onto the cafe’s table.

Maritza shuddered. “What exactly did you order?” Tallulah was so maddeningly naive that who knows what ‘house special’ she might agree to try.

“The universe,” Tallulah breathed. “The lights in the deep.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Fleur Lind

 

Annum

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(Photo: Jill Sauve on Unsplash)

 

They named her Annum.

For being born just as the year turned time onto its head

To start anew.

Just as the numbers tumbled from the duos to the singles

To the very first

Of firsts.

A new beginning.

Just as she was,

Finally,

For them.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Year in 46 words

 

Tall Tell

dales-stop-sign

 

“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 

 

Bronzed

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“How will I know it’s over?” Marika fretted.

“You will,” Jurena assured. A month older, she was already Bronzed.

“But …”

“But nothing …” Jurena lowered the edge of the tent and stole away. She wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Marika. Especially not tonight.

Marika listened to the silence. She shivered and tried to not think of Undine, her neighbor, who had never reappeared. Not all did.

The darkness filled her, thick as molasses. Her limbs grew heavy. Her ears began to ring.

Perhaps it was the magic.

Perhaps it was that drink.

Shadows entered, and Marika’s mind filled with molten spears, lava on dried grass. Encroaching. Coming near.

The fire lit her from within. The biting ants. The heat. The pain.

She screamed.

Perhaps she dreamed.

By dawn the elders had removed the gloves. The bullet ants were still.

Marika’s hands were bronzed with stings.

An adult’s.

Her childhood scoured clear.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

Note: I don’t know why this photo brought up the image of a years-ago-seen video about Initiation With Ants video, filmed by National Geographic. But for some reason it did, and so I let it take me where it wanted to lead.