For Old Times

 

She’d see it on her way to school. A shell of itself.

A bit like her it was, she felt. Unprotected. Exposed to the elements.

Years later she returned to do her duty by those who birthed her. She took a walk, eager to escape the cloying empathy of people who knew exactly why she’d left. She saw it. Still a shell. But now a possibility.

“I’ll build you up,” she said. And did.

The thick walls welcomed her, insulating. The roof salvaged old beams into current protection.

A home at last. For old times sake. For new beginnings.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Susan Rouchard

 

 

Gamma’s Note

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(Photo: Jonatan Balderas Cabañas on Unsplash)

 

They didn’t know what they’d find when they got there.

The note only said to, quote: “get your backsides to my place without a dally.”

One didn’t dally when it came to Gamma. Didn’t stop their speculating, though. The whole seven-hour drive.

They didn’t try to call. Gamma abhorred phones.

“The Devil’s in them things,” she said.

One didn’t argue. Now no one would.

She was in her chair. Waiting. Already cold.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Note in 72 words

 

Unmovable

 

“She’ll never,” Howey said.

“Still, she might,” Ron argued.

Howey shook his head. No use arguing. Ron couldn’t see what he chose to ignore.

Much like Mom, Ron was, if less pessimistic. Though Howey did worry that Ron, too, would ossify with hardship and time.

“If we did all the chores, perhaps?” Ron offered.

“She’d see that as us doing our duty,” Howey noted.

Ron’s face fell. He so yearned to see the fair!

“Maybe if we patch that roof she’ll thaw a little,” Howey added, seeing his brother’s disappointment.

“Thaw who?” Mom thundered. “Wash up. We go to town!”

 

 

For Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Jennifer Pendergast

 

Memory Lane

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(Photo: Juho S on Unsplash)

 

She had promised herself to never revisit those times. The best forgotten ones. And yet there she was, a small child in her lap, embers glowing in the hearth, the dog worrying a burnt crust, and her mind meandering down memory lane.

“I was where I am when the snow began,” she started.

The child shifted a knobby knee into a rib, and a cold replaced the sweet weight in her lap. Stolen coals, they were then. Collected under pain worse than whipping if she was discovered yet at the risk of frostbite and no dinner if she did not. She’d secreted an apron-full before the snow began, coating the path, incriminating every footprint.

For the payment, she bore scars.

“I was where I am,” she pushed an unneeded log into the fire. Just because. “Yet now the snow scares me none.”

 

 

 

For dVerse Prosery challenge

Prosery prompt: “I was where I am
When the snow began”

From “The Dead of Winter” by Samuel Menashe. Full poem here.

 

 

Granny Gray

 

It was the hood that did it.

Toppled time.

She stood and stared. The store around her ebbed into a surf of sounds that no longer carried any meaning. The colors drained. Rainbow into monochrome.

Like the hood.

Devoid of dye. Just like Granny Gray’s.

Someone bumped against her arm, then tugged. A voice called. There must have been words. But they were drowned.

Like Granny Gray. When they had come for her.

Way back when. And in Greta’s dreams ever since she had taken on knitting.

“Like Granny Gray,” they said. “The child has the fingers. And the eyes.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Ted Strutz

 

Oceana

 

They never understood, when they “put her into care,” that she already had all she needed: a trundle, a trunk, a life-vest, as many friends as any needed. Sure, she’d fallen overboard, but only in stormy weather, which meant all hands on deck to sound the “Lassie Overboard Alarm” and save her.

For years she pined. For the salt air. The open space. The freedom. Even for the callouses that Papa said were part of a sailor.

Now grown, and anchored by children of her own, the sea remained away.

But she could bring it home.

Create her Oceana.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Jennifer Pendergast

 

Emptied

 

“Remove these place settings.”

Michael felt his eyes widen, but he lowered his head in silent deference. Mister Cole was Boss. And what Boss said, went, kind or not, right or not.

There will be no seating of the couple who just walked in, dressed in their no-doubt-best, stars glowing in their eyes for each other.

Wrong skin.

“We are booked. Perhaps another place.” Mister Cole’s false-polite voice. Reserved for any he thought strayed out of their lane.

The woman stared pointedly at the empty table, at Michael’s dish-laden hands.

“Pity,” she said.

Shame burned Michael’s cheeks. The plates turned lead.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Sandra Crook

 

 

The New Man

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(Photo: azha-ashiq-kxX4k2El9WA-unsplash)

 

Nothing for it. It had to be done.

He’d get in trouble, but that was part of becoming a man.

He took notes, fussed, planned.

The time to mark the hall has come.

He hid the satchel by the bed. Set the alarm.

Woke to sunlight and calls over the Intercom:

“Lucas to the office, stat.”

Lucas the archenemy is the new Hall Mark.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Hallmark in 64 words

 

Their Perfect Mess

 

“Come see!” Charlie sprinted, pulling on Claudia’s hand so hard she almost fell.

“Slow down!” She may be older, but her short legs were no match to his flamingo limbs.

“Sorry…”, Charlie curbed his speed a smidge.

He led her around the back of Old Theresa’s abandoned house and through the broken fence. “See?!”

Claudia gawped. It was messy. It was overgrown with weeds and junk. It was perfect!

She hugged herself with excitement. She missed having a backyard. Nature. There was none in the orphanage.

“We’ll retie the net for shade. Bring stuff. Make it our secret breathing space!”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Fleur Lind

 

Energized

 

Twenty kilometers. His heart thumped in his ears. His muscles screamed for relief. He pushed through. Almost there. A bit more. One last hill.

Done.

All he needed to do now was get to his bike. Pedal home. Thankfully, mostly downhill.

He’d have a warm shower while the coffee brewed. Get some oatmeal going. Fry an egg. Make toast. His mouth watered.

A distant rumble sounded, and he looked up. The heavy bank of clouds that followed him, finally caught up.

Light flashed. Whoa! So close! A second wind propelled his legs as he sprinted, suddenly energized, to his bike.

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: @ Dale Rogerson