(Photo by Elijah Hiett on Unsplash)
The world was full of golden fuzz.
The sun shone on the meadow.
She let herself soar, up and up.
Her voice free to glide on from high to mellow.
“What is that god-awful noise?”
Aunt Edna woke, her voice a sonorous bellow.
“A yodel,” the child said.
“A bird in my throat sings the dandelions yellow.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Yodel in 57 words
“You’re pouting.”
He hated crowds. “I’m not having fun, Ma.”
“Then why come? You could’ve stayed behind, along with the long face.”
Mani sighed. “I tried.”
“So now I tied you up and carted you along?”
Pretty much, emotionally. He shook his head. “Sorry, Ma. I’m in a mood.”
“A mood? What’s a mood? If you bled like a woman, you’d know about having a mood. You just have a case of spoiled rotten.”
“Yes, Ma.” It was easier to agree.
Ma craned her head. “Ah, now, lets see if these Jewish Greeks can cook anything worth eating.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Roger Bultot
(Photo: Anna Hecker on Unsplash)
She was, always, in the wrong.
The wrong path. The wrong friends.
The wrong choices. The wrong dress.
The wrong dreams. The wrong job.
Wrong husband.
Wrong … no … not the wrong children.
Just the sometimes-very-difficult ones.
No wonder,
When her every action was judged
Widdershins.
So she chose to listen
To no one,
But the small call
Of her soul,
And the small arms that wrapped
Around her legs
When she reached
Down.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: widdershins in 75 words
“So, you’re averse to having daylight in the basement,” Sandra noted.
Doug raised an eyebrow.
“Or fresh air.”
“What’s air gotta do with it?” Doug blurted, annoyed at himself for taking the bait. “I made sure the window opens.”
It was Sandra’s turn to raise a brow. He hated when she did that. It left him wondering whether his face had looked as condescending.
“You mean, can open to invite all the creepy-crawlies in?”
He glanced at the woodpile. An enterprising spider was already spinning a thread over the window’s frame.
“Know what?” Doug huffed. “Next time you do the stacking.”
~~~~
Photo by D. Tong on Pexels.com
It was his job to be the critic.
He’d taken it on when he was but a child and there was naught by chaos all around him.
Criticizing was a way to put some order into madness, to have at least the illusion of control.
Not that he’d criticize them openly and risk the switch or belt or backhand or the things that were … well … worse.
But criticize he did.
Mostly himself.
At first as practice.
Then as habit.
Then as something he would do without even a pause to think.
Offer a knifing critic.
Of his actions. Of his wishes. Of his hopes. His thoughts. His dreams.
What had began as coping, turned a prison.
And the jailer was inside him.
The sentencing, his own.
For the SoCS Saturday Challenge: Critic(al)
She doesn’t want the blue dress. She wants the red one, with the sparkles. Yes, from the laundry. Even dirty. Not wait for tomorrow. Today.
She doesn’t want socks. Her feet won’t be cold. Not even if its snowing. No socks. She doesn’t even like socks. Ever. Never. Not even the Minnie Mouse ones from Granny … well … she likes those “a little” … “sometimes” … but not today. She doesn’t like any socks today.
She doesn’t want a ponytail. Or pigtails. Pigtails are “stupid.” She wants braids. Four of them. No, not this way! She wants one big one “like Elsa” and three “baby ones.” Because.
She doesn’t want milk in her cereal. She wants chocolate milk. In a cup. With a straw. Not the green straw. The pink one. And three strawberries. Not four. Three. “Not that one. These ones.”
Her momma sighs.
“You are being difficult today.”
The girl gives a shrug, then a side glance. A giggle escapes.
The mom raises an eyebrow. She is not amused.
The child smiles enigmatically, twirls her four braids (one big like Elsa’s and three baby ones).
“So what’s this all about?” Mom asks, eyes narrowed but curious.
“It’s Ben’s fault.”
“Ben!?” The mother shakes her head. The older brother is ten-going-on-fifteen and goodness knows these two don’t always get along, but Ben had left for school before Miss Au Contraire here as much as opened an eye. “How can it be Ben’s fault?”
“Remember yesterday?” little eyebrow mirrors the parent’s, challenging. “Ben said I ‘such a terrible critic.’ So I’m practicing. To get better.”
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