(Photo: Jon Tyson on Unsplash)
“We believe in freedom,” they proclaimed,
“So of course you’re free to choose!”
Then they added
As her lips began to show
Relief,
“Just as long as what you choose
Is what we say you must
Believe.”
“For after all,” they stressed
When she blinked at
The paradox,
“We cannot have you
Infringing on our freedom,
When it is
Your body for us to be free
To make the choices
For.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Paradox in 71 words
“Once you’re out the other side you’ll be one of us.”
Marco hiked his chin to try and eye the larger boy through the slits of light underneath the tight blindfold. He wanted to take the stupid thing off. It was scratchy and smelly and made him feel sad.
But to do so would be to give up and be left out. He didn’t want to be left out. Again.
“What if I crash?” he tried but didn’t quite manage to keep the quiver out of his voice. He was afraid of the dark. And of falling. The others knew it. That’s why this test. To weave a skateboard, blind, through the concrete blocks in the underpass.
“Then,” Roberto replied haughtily, “you will have only yourself to blame for not being good enough.”
Marco blinked. It sounded wrong.
Before he could pull the blindfold off, someone gave him a push.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
They will not be coming home.
She paced the few steps from her door to the deck’s edge and back again. She gazed up at the washed out sky. Watched as the shadows encroached on the small lawn to blanket the rocks in the graying garden. Her breath was heavy in her chest.
They will not be coming home.
With every blink, the hues were fading. Taking with them memories of laughter, of pitter-patter, of wet wool and hot cocoa steaming by the fire.
The telegram emblazoned in her mind.
The boys will not be coming home.
All color gone.
Note: Dedicated to all those who knew and know such loss.
Photo prompt: © Sarah Potter
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Photo by Steven Weeks on Unsplash)
He believed all fair
In fight
Or wrangle,
Even if it left his life
A constant
Tangle.
For the mere thought of loss
Any would
Dangle,
Had him target max
Potential
To mangle.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Wrangle in 33 words
(Photo: Janko Ferlič on Unsplash)
She had vowed to not come back. Ever. Not to live. For sure not that.
It did not mean she would not try to visit. Or to glimpse. To set out in a morning’s determination only to curl around via rambling roads and pause at every bridge and barn until it got too late to see a thing or she lost nerve and drove home steeped in a tired mix of relief and disappointment.
“I’ll come with you,” Elmira finally said. She placed a warm hand on the base of Anastasia’s neck, hoping to soften the tension it held whenever memories threatened flood.
Anastasia shook her head. “There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.”
“And yet,” Elmira kneaded gently, “the Orphanage’s whistles still tell stories. Perhaps the likes of which your soul insists ought to be heard.”
Prosery prompt: “there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles” from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller
For the dVerse prosery challenge
He is known for his insatiable
Need
For drama.
Histrionics
Are his drug.
He requires frequent dosing
Of idolizing
Chants by crowds.
He does not believe in
Science
Or in reason
Or in truth,
Which to him detract from
The ardent fervor
He craves as complete
Fealty
Proof.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Histrionics in 48 words
It was going to be better once she got there. Not like last time.
She held her purse on her lap with both hands, knees together, spine away from the cushion and her body swaying lightly with the movement of the vehicle, as she watched the world roll ahead of the front window, indistinct in the liquid grayish light.
It’s been raining for hours. A persistent misty drizzle that had dampened so many of her earlier years. She shuddered even though the bus was overheated. Perhaps because she sat in her coat.
The driver leaned on the horn and she released one hand to steady herself against a possible braking. Her seat in the center of the last row had no armrest, but it was the only one with a clear path out.
She always needed to have an unobstructed way out.
And yet, there she was, going back.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
She was never going to be ready. There was never going to be the ‘right time.’ He tried. He really tried. But he couldn’t stand it anymore.
When she left to visit her mother, he took it downstairs. The recycling truck should pass before her return, and by then it will be done. It was for the best. She’ll come to understand.
The key in the door in the morning. “I took an earlier flight. And, can you believe it? Someone tossed a highchair just like Tommy’s! I know it is a sign from him to hold on to ours!”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
“He gets the room behind the bush,” Mama ordered.
“But Mama,” Samantha tried, “we’re in the country now.”
Mama shook her head.
Samantha swallowed a sigh. This was the middle of nowhere. No neighbors. No roads. Old growth all around. Barely a dirt path to the cottage from behind the barn.
There will be no arguing with Mama.
She caught Daniel’s eye. He did his little special wink at her and she wanted to cry. He was comforting her even though it would be he who will be stuck in a room with barely light and zero view.
His eyes flicked toward the barn, and she understood — at least in the house he’d be warm, where she could keep an eye. At least Mama wasn’t hiding him in the barn.
Mama could not stand his disfigurement. Reminder of the fire she did not tend. The baby she let burn.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
“See the lamppost?”
Nick nodded.
“See that reflection?”
Another nod.
“You walk into that store and you’ll be in another world.”
The younger boy shook his head, hair so severely cut it almost looked shaven. Ruben fed him, but everything had a price. True in the orphanage. True on the streets.
“Your loss,” Ruben shrugged. “If you prefer life as it is now …” he drew the last word out.
Nick tried to see through the window. It was like a mirror. He didn’t like what he saw.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“Hat on. Bring out something good. Don’t get caught.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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