(Photo: Uwe Conrad on Unsplash)
She cried into the onions, peeled the taters, chopped the carrots, minced the garlic, seared the chicken bits.
Around her a cacophony of coughs.
A prodigious sneeze.
She wiped. She washed her hands. She stirred.
The panacea simmered.
There’s nothing chicken soup won’t fix.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Panacea in 44 words
They knew they’d need some help. They knew where to find it.
They weren’t very good at building anything, even less at securing it to withstand the snow, the winds, the cops.
Or so they hoped.
It was better to make use of what was already present.
What others, who had better skill and quite possibly better sense, had built.
Sure, some called it squatting. Some found them vagabonds.
But why not when the struts provided good foundations?
It was a pity, really, that so many did not understand.
The cops raided one night. Tossed the tents.
Kept the struts.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
“Just how long has this been parked?”
The youth’s shrug managed both disinterest and disdain.
Edith pressed her lips. Inhaled. Her students had called it her “Schoolmarm Face.” They didn’t know it was just as effective at getting her own body to comply.
She pointed at the wheels.
“Grassy stuff,” the youth noted. “It grew.”
Edith knew a hopeless case when she saw it.
“Well then,” she thrust her purse at him.
For the first time, he looked marginally awake. “Um…, Ma’am?”
“Hold it.” She rolled her sleeves. “And help these old knees down. Someone’s got to check the undercarriage.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Russell Gayer
(Photo Michal Balog on Unsplash)
She couldn’t have been clearer.
She couldn’t have been more firm.
Still he chose to disregard and
Pretend it wasn’t him.
She told him to pack his stuff.
She told him he must leave.
Still he chose to linger and
Refused to cleave.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Lucid in 43 words
What are we to do?
They asked,
When all seems to be
So broken-up?
How can we rectify
When the mess
We allowed
Exceeds nightmare
Proportions?
Perhaps,
The measured response was,
Begin with
Cleaning up.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Rectify in 35 words
He walked around the boat.
Excellent. Most people would not give it another look, which was exactly what he had intended.
They’d done a good job, aging the structure so it seems derelict, abandoned, old.
The bits of metal, old jerrycans and the ‘who-knows-what-plagues-hide-under-this-junk’ that were strewn about only augmented the effect. The well-placed rusty barbwire didn’t hurt, either.
Perfect.
Very few knew that once aboard and down the hatch, the innards were state-of-the-art creature comforts and the latest in surveillance.
There had been too many botched drops lately. Too many intercepted by an over-zealous coast guard. It was a shame that their contact inside had been exposed and that greasing of hands was no longer appreciated. Mateo had been taken care of, of course, to minimize risk of blathering. But supplies still needed to get through. Profits required solutions.
He nodded his approval.
Beside him, Boris exhaled. “Thanks, Boss.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Photo: Ibrahim Rifath on Unsplash
I put down glue to ick their feet –
They collected twigs
To cover it.
I placed a swivel-headed owl –
They watched,
Then perched right on it.
I hung CDs on a dental-floss line –
The pigeons shrugged,
And pulled it.
My peristeronic battle is at impasse.
I call it truce.
I know I’m beat.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: peristeronic in 53 words
Photo: Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash
The least of hardship was when
She broke her toe,
Age nine,
Her youngest brother
Then a mewling newborn
In her arms.
She’d been pacing
Through the night
To let Mother
Recover some.
Ever the intrepid
Elder child,
Rose missed but
A step,
Taped her toes,
And walked on
Till the morn.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Intrepid in 52 words
Photo: Amitai Asif
There is water
For the thirsty
Even
In the desert,
Where heart and hand
Were put to work
With foresight of what
Must be done,
To hold
What would otherwise
Be lost
To shifting sands
And blazing sun.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Manmade
“We must hire someone to remove this eyesore,” Carolina’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Never could understand hillbillies approach to disposal.”
“We could …” Stewart noted, “but …”
“But what?” Carolina hated it when he got cryptic. If there was something people ought to be, it was clear. Riddles were for children.
“… we’d have to get something else in its stead.”
Carolina’s chest rose to magnificent proportions, but Stewart knew better. He kept his eyes on her face.
“It is a shelter entry. See? Water proof. Air tight. Easily cleaned. Earlier doors kept getting flooded. You’ll want it here, dear, come stormy times.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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