Fatefully Furrowed

muddy tracks chagit moriahgibor

Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor

 

“What did this?”

Calvin gulped.

“What?!” Eric insisted. “A jeep?”

“Not a car.”

“What then?”

“We better turn back.”

Eric squinted at the muddy furrows.

“Nothing you want to meet in the dark,” Calvin shuddered and revved the motorcycle’s engine.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Furrowed in 40 words

 

The Gift

 

They didn’t mean to.

They had to think fast.

“What in God’s married name is that?!”

Gary glanced at Gloria. Mom only used the expression when the you-know-what was about to hit the fan.

“I told you this was stupid,” Gloria hissed as they ran to the door. “It only made it look worse!”

Gary shot her a “shut-up-and-let-me-handle-it” look.

“Hi Mom,” he announced and swung the door open so that (hopefully) only the taped side was visible. “Do you like it? It’s a Christmas tree duct tape art. To remind you of the holidays!”

 

 

For Rochelle’s FridayFictioneers

 

Blue thoughts on Yellow

mirrored karenforte

Photo: Karen Forte

 

In middle school the uniforms

Were yellow tops and blue skirts

For the girls,

Yellow tops and blue slacks

For the boys.

 

The hue of yellow

In the official

Button downs,

Was a pale shade that made

Even the ruddy

Cheeks of children

Wash out

In the sun.

 

I used to think perhaps

This was the only color

Merchants had on overstock

When the school had first opened:

A fabric rescued

After years of fade brought on

By being forgotten

By everyone.

 

Oh, it was a decent enough school,

With friends I have kept

In touch with since the

Beginning of Sixth Grade.

It was the yellow hue

That had me blue.

 

Decades passed

And while

The beauty and the range

Of it in nature

Does indeed move me to tears,

I’m yet to own

A yellow garment

Even after

All these years.

 

 

 

For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Blue and Yellow

 

Mumbai Muscle

india-293_1920

Photo: Simon on Pixabay

 

“This is too much.” Prama frowned at the heaped cart. “I don’t know how he’ll manage.”

“He will,” Abhi responded. He did not like the meddling of women in his business. Never had. But now that one of his eyes rested in a trash heap, he knew that customers found the presence of his wife reassuring. Better they talk to her than stare into his eye-patch and worry about the evil crouched behind it.

“Gaju is no longer a young man,” Prama insisted.

“Do not try my patience, woman!” Abhi growled. “Gaju feeds his family by the kilo-carried. Let a man earn a wage.”

“You could pay him more per kilo,” she shook her head at him, unimpressed. “You know he is too old to be hired by someone else and cannot lose this job. You overload his cart. Take care you aren’t also overloading your Karma in the process.”

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Mumbai, India

Windowed

cuba11 inbarasif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

“They’re all old,” the guide gestured, “but some are worse off than others, for they are windowed.”

“Age does not make a building old,” he explained. “Even if sooner or later years form spider webs of fine cracks on every wall, those are just realities built by time. The product of life.”

“But these ones,” his hand rose in half-salute, half-point toward a row of especially dilapidated shutters, “they are windowed.”

When our faces must have told him we still hadn’t the story he’d wanted be told, he sighed and took pity on us. So privileged we had to be to not have lived what would have let us understand the depth of meaning in his words.

“Rooms empty of everything but ruined dreams. Windows widowed of hope. Houses like these go beyond broken relics. Some had gone so long bereft of young ones to gaze through their portals in a waking dream, that short of a miracle to breathe life back into them, they are windowed: dried to the bone of sound, stripped of souls, ready to fall.”

 

 

For V.J.’s Weekly Challenge: Windows

 

Memory Jar

Photo prompt: © Priya Bajpal

 

“Can I take one now?”

“Breakfast first.”

Deena sighed. She ate her oatmeal and drank her milk, but her eyes kept returning to the seashell table Dad had gotten for Mom. Before. To the jar that usually stood on the mantel. Since.

Finally, Grandma rose and put her mug in the sink.

Now that it was time, Deena hung back. She remembered filling the jar, with Grandma, after the accident, when memories were fresh and both their hearts were broken.

Grandma took her hand. “Come. Reach in. Pick one, and you’ll see – the right moment with them will find you.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Peas in a Pod

phillipines dvorafreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman

 

Like peas in a pod

They await

The day’s show.

Friends in flowers

And costumes

They’re alike

Yet I know,

Their hearts sing

Unique songs

I would like

To hear so!

 

 

For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Pairs

 

Forgotten Foundations

deserted in the desert ofirasif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

“Will he come back?” Leah peered over the wall.

Rachel pulled her younger sibling back into the shade.

“Will he?” Leah pressed.

“I don’t know,” Rachel’s voice caught. She coughed to hide her fear. She’d break if her sister became frightened. It would make everything too real.

She didn’t know where they were. A car ride preceded a long hike into the desert and the nap in the ruins. “Best thing during the heat of the day,” Dad said.

He was gone by the time they woke, deserted like forgotten stones.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Foundations in 91 words

Out Of Shape?

practically speaking ChagitMoriahGibor (2)

Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor

 

If you are

Out of shape

Worry none

Worry naught,

For a log’s now

A bench

Where a rest can be

Sought.

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Geometric shape

 

The Fence

Photo: © Russell Gayer

 

“We don’t go There,” Mama always warned. “Ever.”

“There” was beyond the fence. Where the embankment locked in perpetual shadows and where the yellow cliffs rose shining in the sun and where the scary things lived and mortal danger was certain to find you.

As a child I never questioned the relative flimsiness of the wire fence and how it possibly prevented such pervasive awfulness from invading the compound.

It wasn’t until much later that it occurred to me to wonder whether both the fence and its electric bite were there to keep us in.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers