Haphazard Town

City Lights2 SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

One does not need a plan

To get lost

In this new town

She thought

Right before

She did.

 

 

For The Weekend Writing Prompt: Haphazard

Dedicated to my friend F.C. who at least had the wherewithal to call the local cavalry …

 

 

Green Machine

PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio

 

“Bah,” they taunted. “Your resolutions never last.”

She stewed.

When her twin brothers showed up for their monthly siblings’-dinner, muscles and righteous bravado rippling under too-tight shirts, she knew what they were expecting: Frozen pizza or boxed mac-and-cheese. The usual Candace-can’t-cook stuff.

They sprawled on her couch and let her putter in the kitchen.

“When’s the pizza ready, Sis?” Brian called. “We’re starving.”

She smirked. He and Bobby lectured her alright, but she knew they secretly looked forward to their junkfood fix.

“Oh, no pizza,” she brought out the shot glasses. “Wheatgrass!”

 

For Friday Fictioneers, August 10, 2018

 

Rawson Rise

Rawson Lake Photo by Jack Ng

Rawson Lake; photo: Jack Ng

 

It was their last day by the lake. The weather was perfect and the air was so crisp it squeaked. She inhaled deeply, savoring every moment. By that time tomorrow she’d be stuck in rush-hour traffic.

“See?” he pointed. “Even wood can’t keep its head above water at some point.”

She snuck a hand into his and squeezed. She wished she could give him sips of this place during what was to come. She wished she could tell him this round wouldn’t be as difficult as the ones before. That this one would work. She didn’t know if to hope or fear it being the last. It shattered her that she no longer knew what he hoped for.

She gathered the light around her, kissed his baldness, and rose to stand.

“For now, my love, let’s float.”

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Rawson Lake Canada

 

Not All Is Lost

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

 

They were always getting blown out of their homes. She couldn’t stand it. She knew how it felt to be homeless, especially for a youngling. And she’d seen the devastation of parents who’d returned to find some force had swept their babies off to unknown and worse places. She knew about being lost.

She was going to stop it.

At least for them.

Surely if she built it, they will come.

She kept checking and almost despaired, but one morning … there they were.

“Welcome home,” she whispered to the first eggs laid.

 

 

For Friday Fictioneers, August 3, 2018

 

Her Best Dress

three line tales week 131: take my hand

Photo by Prince Akachi via Unsplash

 

“Come.” She said. She pulled him up and dried his face with the edge of her best dress.

“Where?” He hiccupped, too spent for sobs. Everything hurt.

“Away.” Her voice was soft but hard. “We’ll be miles from here by the time he wakes up.”

 

For Three Line Tales, Week 131

 

Mendel’s Messengers


PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

 

She waited.

Three teens passed, faces glued to lit screens. One murmured “sorry” when he almost bumped into her. He didn’t look up.

A mother hurried in the direction of the car park, harried by a whining toddler.

Long minutes passed. She’d walked from the bus and her legs weren’t what they used to be. She leaned onto a lamppost and closed her eyes.

“Ma’am?”

A bearded face leaned toward her. Another man behind.

“Will you help me cross the street?”

“At your service!” Both men offered their hands.

She smiled. “Mendel sent you. It’s what he used to say.”

 

 

For the Friday Fictioneers Challenge

 

A Global Warning

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

 

They said it would get warm, but they didn’t say how quickly or how relentlessly. He thought it would take decades.

He was wrong.

Trees still foliaged but most other plants withered. Same for people.

It killed the young, old, weak, and callous. The talking heads had babbled about it before TV stopped. They couldn’t justify cooling the studios when the grid struggled to air-condition hospitals. Not that the latter did much good.

He sighed and retreated from the window. Ignored his daughter’s empty bed. They were warned. By the time they deigned to listen, it was already too late.

 

 

For the Friday Fictioneers Challenge

 

Cookie Crumble

four star shaped cookies

Photo by Cook Eat on Pexels.com

 

It is the cookie that she wants

No teddy bear, no owl, no bunny.

It is the cookie that she holds

In hand, not in her tummy.

She takes it with her to the park

She holds it all through bedtime story.

She’d bring it right into the bath

To her it’s mandatory.

Her mother sighs

Because she knows:

It is the cookie that will crumble

All over blanket, sheets, and pillow.

The cookie that she’ll have to pry the last remains of

From her child’s hand tomorrow.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt

Her Golden Child

three line tales, week 128: a golden person

photo by Sharon McCutcheon via Skillshare

 

He’d always been her golden child, born after years of sorrow.

He’d always been her precious jewel, the promise of tomorrow.

He’s gone to take the saffron robes, been hers only to borrow.

 

For Three Line Tales–week 128

 

Doctored

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

 

“I am not dressing up as a doctor!”

Twins or no twins, he’d had it with his sister deciding their costumes. He’d been Prince Charming, Prince Un-Charming (consort to Princess Uglyanna). He’d been Mr. Smee. He’d been a screw (guess who was the screwdriver), a nail (yep, Maya was the hammer), a flower (to her bee). And those were the less embarrassing ones.

“You could be an evil doctor imprisoned by an eviler scientist,” she enticed.

“In your dreams,” he replied.

She grinned. “Or in yours. As in, literally. Tonight.”

 

 

For The Friday Fictioneers Challenge