A Thicker Thread

cubed-nut CrispinaKemp

 

“They left it here for a reason.”

Barbra rolled her eyes. There was hardly a thing Robin would not make a story of. “Okay, I’ll play. Who did and what for?”

Robin approached the holed-out structure with something like reverence. The round openings were just large enough for small children to wriggle through and climb and sit on with legs dangling. She had, when young, though she hadn’t seen many playing on it recently. Perhaps it meant the time was nearing.

“The fuamhairean had,” she said. “The giants left it but they will come back.”

“And supposing they exist, what could possibly be their reason to deposit it here?”

Robin sighed. Barbra wasn’t a believer. She wasn’t expected to understand. Still, it was important to explain. “It is a bead for their necklace. Their string tore. They’re waiting for the elves to weave them a thicker thread. It takes years.”

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

* fuamhairean – “giants” in Scots Gaelic

 

 

Ice Cream Tim

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Photo: Brendan Church on Unsplash

 

Tim had a serious thing

For

Ice cream.

No matter the flavor

It was something

He’d favor.

His mama thought it

Extreme

To hold a lone food

Supreme,

So she came up with

A scheme

That worked wonders on

Tim:

Every new food she’d

Mix right into the

Ice cream.

So she fixed it with okra

And kale

And some beans,

And added an olive

And handfuls of

Greens,

And for his dessert

Even mashed in

Sardines.

And the boy ate the lot

Smiling full to the

Brim.

It was not until college

He caught on to the

Theme.

 

 

 

For RDP Sunday: Ice Cream

 

 

Window Washing

Photo prompt @ A. Noni Mouse

 

Her husband thought she loved to cook, which she did, but not exactly. He thought she liked the cleaning up after, which she did not, or not for the reasons he believed.

She didn’t correct him. It worked right fine for her that he would sigh contentedly after they had finished eating, and then transfer his happy belly to the den to read the paper or watch some TV.

Washing up gave her the perfect place.

Her neighbor, body glistening, exercising in the room he’d made into a gym, its window facing her sink.

She thought of it as dessert.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

 

Ruby Rudder

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Photo: Cosmin Serban on Unsplash

 

The boat was old and holey, but that did not matter. They never intended for it to be sea-worthy. Haruto didn’t like to get his feet wet, and Miyu had seen enough leave for the waves who did not return. Neither one of them had a hankering for sea-sickness or for gutting fish or for seaweed tangling the rudder and weighing down the nets.

They had a different goal instead.

The neighbors raised collective eyebrows when the couple hauled the vessel, hull protruding in the air, baring barnacles and showcasing slime.

Haruto and Miyu just nodded, plopped the boat against the workshop’s wall, and disappeared into it without a word of explanation.

They didn’t owe it to anyone and they didn’t know how well the end result would be. Better to keep mum until they saw for themselves how well the idea translated from a dream to action. And the neighbors’ bafflement was fun.

For days they sawed and sparked and banged and nailed. One morning the boat got swallowed by the workshop with only a small bit of the aft sticking out. The next day it was the other end. The smell of primer and varnish and paint permeated the air.

The neighbors mused and wondered. A few doors down the street, Mrs. Adachi placed bets with Mr. Chinen.

Holes were dug in the backyard. A mixture was poured. Poles wedged in.

Mrs. Adachi’s bet went up. Mr. Chinen raised his.

Then one early morning there was a new commotion. Ropes and pulleys, a few curses, far too many bangs.

The neighbors came out. Offered a hand.

By the time breakfast was ready, the boat was securely perched like an awning over a diamond of poles. A hammock strung below, shaded but for a dapple of golden strips of sun. The rudder, painted ruby, pointed to the stars.

And for the next year, Mrs. Adachi was going to have the benefit of Mr. Chinen washing her car. …

 

 

 

For RDP Tuesday: Ruby

 

 

 

City Witty

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

“You see those?”

“I sure do.”

“Well, that’s where they’d come through.”

“Don’t think I believe you.”

“Well then, just wait and see.”

“Until when would that be?”

“Sometimes ‘tween two and three.”

“What? Are you kidding me!?”

 

“It’s the city, my friend

And this is not West End …

Alligators won’t poke their head

Till the green light’s delayed.

Sure, they value the park,

The reservoir in the dark,

And the nice scratchy spark

From a bit of tree bark …

But you’d agree it is best

To let most traffic rest

‘Fore you poke scaly breasts

Onto Central Park West.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers  –  Thanks for picking my photo of my ‘hood’!

And for those who want more … about this snippet of lore about Alligators living in the tunnels underneath the city … click on the ‘gator below …

Explained

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Photo: Izabelle Acheson on Unsplash

 

She will not elucidate.

She won’t expound.

She won’t make plain.

There is, in her view, absolutely

Nothing she needs to

Explain.

 

There is the plate.

There are the cookies.

There was her mouth to entertain.

So, what does any of that

Have to do with dinner

Or with waiting for dessert

Again?

 

 

For RDP Tuesday: Explain

 

 

 

Small Fry

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Photo prompt: Todd Foltz

 

“Are you sure it will work?”

Tim’s chin bobbed up and down enthusiastically.

A bit too enthusiastically. It looked suspiciously like an I’m-clueless-but-want-to-pretend-I’m-not kind of nod.

Benny frowned. He had a bad feeling about the whole plan. “I still think we should have brought a proper pan.”

“Nah,” Tim waved his hand and pointed to the ball of molten orange glaring at them from the horizon. The light shimmered. “They said it was going to be hot enough to fry eggs.”

“In the carton? Don’t you need to crack them first?”

Tim shrugged. “We can always make hard boiled ones.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

 

 

Gallivanting Gary

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Photo: Noah Austin on Unsplash

 

Gallivanting Gary liked to roam about

In town.

He refused to let a passing hardship weigh

Him down.

He took his time to get things done.

He rambled on and on.

But once the dinner bell at home was rang

He’d lift his feet

And run.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Gallivant in 46 words

 

 

The Reporter

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Photo: Sven Brandsma on Unsplash

 

He reports first thing in the morning.

He reports again every night.

There’s little that could dissuade him

From being absolutely forthright.

 

He records every scene with a flourish.

His voice reflects every sight,

As with journalist’s flair

He spells data in ample delight.

 

He would not be distracted from telling,

The minutia has got to be tight.

After all, he is in potty training

And to him no discharging is trite.

 

 

 

For RDP Sunday: Journalist

 

 

Look Again

 

“Can you see her?” Emma rose on tiptoes and lifted her chin to add inches to her five-foot frame.

I smiled. What Emma lacked in stature, she made up for in sheer stubbornness. She felt tall.

We had parked on the far side of the marina and were approaching from behind the stage, facing the crowd. A sea of heads corralled by masts.

“She isn’t in the first row,” I noted, puzzled. Aunt Tilda was a front-row fixture in all local concerts.

“Look again,” Emma insisted. “If it’s free, you bet she’d staked her claim since the day before yesterday.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers