(Photo: Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash)
It was going to be the thing
To make all things
Everything that they were meant
To be.
A remedy
For all the wants
And dreams.
“Ah, but you will surely bungle it,”
His mother said.
And crushed his dream
Instead.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Bungle in 41 words
Photo: Artem Beliaikin on Unsplash
It has become
A flag
To wave.
An identity to wrap oneself with
As permission to denounce
The Other.
Casting off compassion for some
As if it would occupy the space needed for
Zero sum care.
History versions, auctioned
To the highest bidder.
Adulterated variations for a fee
In ratings, rage, and righteousness.
The molested Truth
Auctioned off.
Her hands bound
Her essence starved
Of air
And light
Or hope.
Her very humanity
Splayed
Vulnerable,
On the block.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Auction in 78 words
“They will not come.”
Mara stilled her neck from shaking. Gabrielle did not need confirmation as much as she needed hope. “Oh, but they will,” she soothed.
Gabrielle shifted and sighed in half voice, half moan.
“Are they coming more frequently now?” Mara inquired then laughed at the teen’s raised eyebrow. “The contractions, I mean. Not the others.”
“They can all come once and done,” Gabrielle sputtered between clenched teeth.
Mara chuckled but her eyes searched the darkness. Gabrielle’s stamina would not last long.
A light wavered in the distance. Became three points. Mara exhaled. Finally, the sign of hope.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Lisa Fox
“This will not do!”
Rosie dipped her chin in acquiescence, but her hands twitched atop the rolling pin. Master Chef, as they were told to call him, was no ‘Master’ of hers, not to mention a mediocre chef and worse instructor.
You need to pass this course, she breathed compliance into her arms. “P&D” (“Pastries & Desserts” in the syllabus, “Posh & Dumb” among students) was mandatory. As was the instructor, whose Pops padded the Culinary College’s coffers.
“You will keep to the circles,” he decreed before moving to the next student.
Not to any circles you’re in, Rosie vowed.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
“It will only last till fall.”
“In all probability,” Tad smiled, “so would I.”
Seth craned his neck toward the canopy, so tears stream into his hair and not onto his cheeks, where Tad may see them.
Gone was the sturdy tarp of their childhood gazebo. Stripped away by time, and the remains plucked off by winter’s hurricane.
“The trees protect it still,” Tad offered gently. “The roof we have no longer hides the sky.”
Until the rain, Seth thought, but nodded. The light was soft. Perhaps the inevitable will be, too.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Lisa Fox
(Photo: Daniela Paola Alchapar on Unsplash)
They took the temperature
Of the crowd,
And realized they could
Twist skeins of truth into
Great blobs of knotted lies,
Then sell
As remedy
To now a fevered mob,
A distorted gospel
Bloated with melodramatic
Sighs.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Temperature in 37 words
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
(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
She’d see it on her way to school. A shell of itself.
A bit like her it was, she felt. Unprotected. Exposed to the elements.
Years later she returned to do her duty by those who birthed her. She took a walk, eager to escape the cloying empathy of people who knew exactly why she’d left. She saw it. Still a shell. But now a possibility.
“I’ll build you up,” she said. And did.
The thick walls welcomed her, insulating. The roof salvaged old beams into current protection.
A home at last. For old times sake. For new beginnings.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Susan Rouchard
(Photo: Jonatan Balderas Cabañas on Unsplash)
They didn’t know what they’d find when they got there.
The note only said to, quote: “get your backsides to my place without a dally.”
One didn’t dally when it came to Gamma. Didn’t stop their speculating, though. The whole seven-hour drive.
They didn’t try to call. Gamma abhorred phones.
“The Devil’s in them things,” she said.
One didn’t argue. Now no one would.
She was in her chair. Waiting. Already cold.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Note in 72 words
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