When It Died

August 13, 2021August 13, 2021Na'ama Yehuda Anecdotes of Life, Life and love, Muse and Flow, Reflections, Writing Tags: 100WordChallenge, Allegory, cycle of life, End of life, Flash Fiction, Friday Fictioneers, Micro-fiction, Motor, Moving on, Personification, saying goodbye 28 Comments

It was a sad day when It died.

They gathered around the carcass. Inert now that the spark of life had left.

It looked abandoned. It looked suddenly old and unintelligent. Younglings who had tiptoed by its parking, suddenly sped by in wheeled exuberance, impervious to the loss.

It was the way it was, perhaps.

The way of time.

Still the closest friends held a sort of vigil. They hummed a monotone of song, in memory of speed’s potential and of what could no longer be ignited.

Then they left. To let It be. Disjointed. Parted. Never to move on.

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Ted Strutz

Whistling Into Wind

November 9, 2020November 9, 2020Na'ama Yehuda Anecdotes of Life, Life and love, Muse and Flow, Quotes, Reflections, Trauma and Development, Writing Tags: Childhood Adversity, Coming to terms, dVerse, Flash Fiction, Memory, Micro-fiction, Moving on, Prosery, Quote, Revisiting, Untold Stories 19 Comments

(Photo: Janko Ferlič on Unsplash)

She had vowed to not come back. Ever. Not to live. For sure not that.

It did not mean she would not try to visit. Or to glimpse. To set out in a morning’s determination only to curl around via rambling roads and pause at every bridge and barn until it got too late to see a thing or she lost nerve and drove home steeped in a tired mix of relief and disappointment.

“I’ll come with you,” Elmira finally said. She placed a warm hand on the base of Anastasia’s neck, hoping to soften the tension it held whenever memories threatened flood.

Anastasia shook her head. “There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.”

“And yet,” Elmira kneaded gently, “the Orphanage’s whistles still tell stories. Perhaps the likes of which your soul insists ought to be heard.”

Prosery prompt: “there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles” from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller

For the dVerse prosery challenge

Sentient Sorrow

September 5, 2020September 5, 2020Na'ama Yehuda Life and love, Muse and Flow, Reflections, Things Kids Say, Writing Tags: Ancestors, children, Flash Fiction, Grief, Micro-fiction, Moving on, Perceptions, Sentient, Things Kids See, Visitor, Weekend Writing Prompt 17 Comments

“She won’t come.”

The woman raised her head.

“Who?”

“Grandma,” the child repeated. “She won’t come.”

The woman sighed. “Grandma’s dead, Lottie. It means she can’t come anymore.”

Lottie shook her head, brown curls dancing with insistence. “She can, but she won’t. It’s time to move on. She said.”

The silver stripe in the woman’s hair blinked in the light as her head tilted. “When did she say that?” she asked carefully.

“Last night.”

The woman’s eyes filled. “In the den! I thought I was sleeping!”

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Sentient in 86 words

It’s a Wrap

September 20, 2019Na'ama Yehuda Anecdotes of Life, Life and love, Muse and Flow, Reflections, Writing Tags: Flash Fiction, Micro-fiction, Moving on, Rap, Relationships, Reputation, SoCS, Stream of Consciousness, Wrap, Writing prompt 33 Comments

Photo: Monica Silvestre on Pexels.com

“It’s a wrap,” she said, and rose, and massaged the small of her back, which after all those hours of sitting felt as if sharp clamps had been tightened through it. Her back was never quite the same since the car accident. Or was it since the Shingles? Or the bad fall? Or the earlier things that were best left unremembered?

It wasn’t only her spine that bowed under the spasm. Her muscles were responding to a lot more than just the time spent in the chair.

He looked up, annoyed and uncomprehending. “Wrap, how?”

“In all the ways that matter,” she responded. It felt like ions since a soft hand on her back would melt the stress away and deepen her breath and make sleep nestle in so close she could smell it.

Decades? Years? Months? Too long.

“Living up to your rap of being cryptic, I see,” he muttered.

It was meant as a jab, but instead made a small peal of laughter form like a pearl inside her belly.

“I guess I am,” she noted, one hand still kneading the tightness in her lumbar area, the other held close against the urge to pat his head and make it better.

She’s moving on. He’ll have to find someone else to do all that for him now.

For Linda Hill’s SoCS prompt: Wrap/Rap