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
Madam Toole
Greenhorn
“A pile of junk,” she had called it.
“My pile of junk,” Tim had responded, knowing then that if it came to choice, it would not be her he’d choose. And not because he cared for wheels and metal more than for flesh and blood. If Daria could not see why Poppa’s beloved Greenhorn was worth saving, she could not see worth where it sat.
Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. Memories and family.
His only. Family.
Daria found a man with a Jaguar.
Tim renovated Poppa’s car.
Found Miranda.
“A classic!” she exclaimed.
Flesh and heart. Worthy of Poppa’s car.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Brenda Cox
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Singled Out
He didn’t mind.
Not really.
She tossed him out, she did. A punishment. For being “self-absorbed” and “unmotivated.”
Fair blame, it was. If needing quiet time was selfish, and if not finding it important to climb the never-ending escalator of social comparison, spelled lacking motivation.
Emily liked that stuff.
He did not.
A mismatch more than an actual problem.
For him.
He’d have to find better insulated housing before winter. But in the interim, the camper offered everything he needed.
Shelter. Nature. Quiet. Calm.
Perhaps he’d send Emily a thank you card. Next time he was in town.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Bill Reynolds
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Unlocked
(Photo: Deann DaSilva on Unsplash)
She knew she never should have let it run
Amok.
Should have kept it
Always
Locked.
But she wobbled
At the sight of keys under the
Rock.
It ran,
Before she could even feign
Shock.
For Sammi’s weekend writing prompt of Amok in 35 words
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The Waiting Game
“So I sit here…”
“…and wait,” Misha confirmed.
Clara sighed. When she agreed to babysit her nephew, she thought playgrounds and picnics. Not nonstop rain and hours in a gloomy cafe while her car was being repaired.
She looked around for the boy. Yep. There. His red top. He’s crouched behind the same table. Every. Single. Time.
“I give up!” she announced.
“Ta-da!” Misha popped out like a cork from a bottle.
The four-year-old ran to her and wrapped his arms around her torso. “Best play-date ever, Auntie Clawa! I love this Waiting Game!”
Clara smiled. “Wanna hide again?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © David Stewart
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Hanging In
(Photo: Ray Fragapane on Unsplash)
They didn’t know then
Or still
What track life will
Bring.
Yet they hold on,
By bootstraps
Hoping
For just enough breath with which to
Sing,
To the sun
That would rise,
To the hope
That would
Cling.
Till dawn will
Another story
String.
For dVerse Quadrille Poetry challenge
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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
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Almost Viable
(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.
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Might As Well
“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
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Road Ready Monologue
(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
Na'ama Yehuda 
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