Make The Move

strutzFF

 

Rupert had always taken things too literally.

Now she would be stuck with the same leak around the toilet bowl when the boys flush a bit too long; with the same creaky closet door that slithers nightmares in her dreams when Mat-The-Cat decides to make a bed of laundered linen; and with the crooked shelf in the pantry that requires a perfected fold of cardboard to ensure the flour box does not slide off.

It never was the outside scenery she needed changing.

She watched one half roll by and realized she did not care to wait for the other.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Ted Strutz

 

Best Of All

 

It rained. It hailed. It stormed. It flooded.

It none of it mattered.

They laughed. They sang. They danced. They huddled.

They had a chance to reconnect.

In all the ways that mattered, and in some they hadn’t quite dared hope for, yet came true.

Oh, they were cold. And after a time, hungry.

But still the stories flowed. The tears, sometimes. The laughter. Oh, the laughter!

Best of all, the others who would otherwise pass by,

Who would pass judgment,

Did not.

Because the weather

Protective in its dreary wetness

Let them be.

Let them love.

Made it perfect.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Dale Rogerson

The Bobblins

 

The moon hid on the night they lit the Bobblins. Nature’s cold dark shoulder. Though Gary said it was Luna’s way of lending them the main stage free of luminescent interference.

Renee still felt a shudder run down her spine.

It was the depths of it.

The weight of memories that bobbed and swayed and listed ever so slightly over the mirrored pond.

Even the wind ceased. For the moment.

Was it, too, leaving the stage free of routine rustling, the air’s microphone open to the whispers of the babies, cocooned in color coded pastel uteri, waiting to be born?

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © David Stewart

 

 

A Rare Root

 

It took her sixty years, but she finally did manage to maneuver the tangled maze of history and silence.

“Why do they make it so difficult?” she had demanded one day, flooded with frustrations.

“Shame, I suppose,” the woman at the records office had shrugged.

And a shame it was.

One that too many women carried, and too many cultures reinforced.

Sealed hopes.

But shame could not, in the end, keep her story from being told.

She watched the ancient lady in the market. Half-bent. Wholly recognizable.

Her birth mother.

A rare root unfurled inside her heart. Sprouted. Took hold.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Brenda Cox

 

 

 

Dress Up

 

It had been extremely close quarters, but after the inferno they’d been through together, there was nothing they could not achieve.

Certainly after they’d had a bit of time to chill.

They were born for this.

Now it was their time to sparkle.

To show off their individuality.

In form.

In shape.

In size.

In decoration.

There they were:

Blue-eyed Ginger.

Two-tone-shoes Jerry.

Red-apron Ginny.

Necklaced Joey.

Snow-mustached Joe.

Green-turbaned Jinge.

Even Ginger-woof put on his finery.

(And, albeit grudgingly, Gin-Cat did so, too).

It was, after all, the grand finale.

The full bling dress-up for the big chomp.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Jennifer Pendergast   

 

 

His Lamppost

 

They didn’t quite expect him to show up as he had, but most of them who’d known him weren’t all that terribly surprised. Not really.

Not when he had made himself comfortable under that very lamppost, every evening and in every weather, for as long as anyone could remember.

It almost made sense, then, that he would.

Manifest.

From the beyond.

Some began to keep a distance from that corner after dark.

Others, though, just walked on by.

“Evening, Mr. Barns,” they’d tip their head in the direction of his halo.

Even when alive, he hadn’t been known to respond.

 

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

The Cathedral

 

They wove the curtained tapestry from centuries of hopes and dreams, and from billions of flower petals and puffy dandelion seeds blown into the wind.

They watered it with the misty breaths of “love me, love me not.”

Fed it with the light that emanated from eyes that had found the answer.

Knit it with the gentleness of fingers reaching out to hold.

Paced it with the heartbeats of the young and old.

All that was necessary.

The best of humans.

And it rose.

A cathedral of magnificence.

Delicate but strong.

Made with magic.

Laced with stories.

Wrought by fairies.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Liz Young

 

Steps Away

 

“We’ll carry you,” they said.

“It’s only steps away.”

The breeze blew memories of salt and sand and spray.

She raised her finger.

In her mind.

For the one that lay atop the sheets no longer knew

To move.

And yet

It was okay.

Because they understood quite perfectly

What she wanted

To say.

The gladness in her eyes.

The gift

Of yet another

Day.

“We’ll carry you,” they said.

Strong arms linked

As her heart thumped

In time to

The gentle sway.

It was only a few steps

To the water.

To the breathing

Gray surf

Of the bay.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © CEAyr

 

Up And Up

 

“Find the red door,” the note said. “Climb up, then up some more.”

Michael felt a smile spread inside his belly. Helen never could resist a rhyme. It’s how he knew it had to be her. Even after all this time. Even when the printed letters could have been typed by anyone.

He knew.

And it warmed a place in him that he had forgotten could be thawed.

The basement’s entrance was not much to look at. The stairs and walls had all seen better days.

So had they.

And yet, there they were.

Climbing up, then up some more.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot

 

 

Wrinkled Thorns

 

She always left one rosebush alone. Let the flowers bloom as they wanted, curl and unfurl as they wanted, dry and droop as they wanted.

“It is an eyesore,” her mother-in-law criticized, ever eager to point out imperfections to the daughter she did not birth and that her son had chosen to love more than he ever did the one who’d labored to bring him into the world.

“Perhaps,” she smiled, but did not yield.

Thorns and wrinkled petals seemed fitting. Frosty resentment prevented closeness, but the old woman had given life to the man she loved. It was enough.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: Dale Rogerson