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

 

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

When The Weather Allows

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“When will they come home?” Lizbeth’s voice penetrated Mauve’s daydream. It was rare to find rest in the middle of her day, and Mauve couldn’t help a touch of resentment at the interference. Guilt smothered it. The wee bairn could not help wondering. She missed her brothers as much as Mauve did her sons.

“When the weather allows it,” Mauve gazed at the sea. The maker and breaker of everything. She loved it. She loathed it. She couldn’t see a life without it.

“Tonight?” Lizbeth pressed against the rail.

“More possible tomorrow,” Mauve swallowed a sigh. “So we shall hope.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Bradley Harris

 

Farewell

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(Photo: Amitai Asif)

 

They said farewell.

They said goodnight.

They walked into dark

From light.

Their hearts were sad.

Their eyes were bright

With tears that grief will soon ignite.

Her passing’s new

Her suffering done.

They walked with her as

One cycle ended and a new began.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Goodnight in 45 words

Dedicated with love to my aunt, whose funeral is across an ocean and a sea tonight. May her memory be a blessing.

 

 

Robin’s robin

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“Tell me again, Grandma,” the child burrowed into the bedclothes.

“You heard it a million times,” she ruffled the girl’s curls.

“But it’s my favorite story, Grandma!”

The woman smiled. Begging was part of the ritual. Their dance of love. She made herself comfortable and felt the small torso snuggle closer.

“Remind me again how it starts?…” she teased.

“Grandma!”

“Silly me. Of course I remember… So, there you were, born early and a little wrinkled.”

“A lot wrinkled!”

“Yes, a lot. And with a howling mouth ajar like a hatchling calling for a juicy worm …”

“Eeew …”

“And we didn’t know what to call you …”

“Till you saw my hair …”

“Which was as rusty as a robin’s bib.”

“And …” the child wriggled with anticipation.

“And it is clearly the right name, because a robin has been nesting in the tree outside your window ever since!”

 

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

No Reflection

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(Photo: Pixabay)

 

The full-length glass was bedecked in heavy gilded glory. A forest of paintings crowded around it, their layered oils glistening in the candlelight.

She stopped and stared back at the faces. Unsmiling figures in stiff postures clad in roiling silk and velvet cloths.

Perhaps they ought to have felt familiar. The line of jaw, the slant of brow, the coil of hair above a hooded eye. She had seen all those before. She could again. If she just let her eyes glide toward the mirror.

She would not.

Know them.

Her ancestors.

Her captors.

Both.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Mirror in 95 words

 

The Bet

 

“Stop the car!”

Milly hit the breaks and hid her smile. They’d wondered how long it would take Pappy to notice what they’d done.

Only two days … Which meant she won the bet and Ben will be raking leaves all autumn.

When Pappy climbed back into the vehicle, there was wetness on his cheeks.

“Your doing?” he whispered.

“And Ben’s.”

It had taken considerable begging and a promise to maintain the church’s lawn, for the pastor to agree to put Granny’s beloved weather vane atop the bell tower.

Pappy chuckled. “She always put on a good spin, didn’t she?”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo by: Dale Rogerson

 

The Creek Don’t Rise

 

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“Tomorrow, God willing and the creek don’t rise!” Mama smacked the rug one last time, stepped back to admire her handiwork, nodded to herself, and shouldered the beater.

“But Mama,” Marlee whined, “everyone else is going!”

I watched the exchange from the safety of a leafy fork on the big tree. If Mama didn’t see me, she could not call on me for chores.

Mama stopped. “Everyone?”

Marlee straightened. Hopeful and suspicious.

“Every. Single. Person?”

Marlee’s shoulders dropped.

“Thought so.” Mama’s dress swirled prettily as she turned toward the cabin, and for a moment I could see the lass she’d been before Bobby and I and Marlee came and brought with us gray hairs and wrinkles.

“But …”

“But nothing. The creek is swelled with rain and more may be coming. No swimming. And,” she added, “You come down from that tree. I need help with the washing.”

 

 

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

 

Not Having A Ball

 

“I found it!”

Minerva sighed. She never did do well on conveyances. “Found what?” she mouthed, careful to not move her head.

“The perfect place!”

Minerva attempted to open her eyes, but the world whizzing by, combined with her daughter’s bouncing on the seat while turned in the opposite direction to the train’s travel, was too much. She clamped her eyes shut and groaned.

“Mom! Just look! We’ll pass it!”

One eye. A blur. Space under an overhang. Speeding rails.

“For what?”

“For the ball!” Swinging arms. “Can’t you just see us waltzing?!”

The bag! Where was the barf bag?!!!

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © J Hardy Carroll