I never like to fill my posts
with tales of woe. We all have those,
and most are worse than mine. It feels
like telling all of you to marvel
that weeds have sprouted in my garden
when your house, maybe, just burned down.
And yet, sometimes, some times like these,
I start to think I ought to say what’s kept
me silent more days than I speak.
So, here’s the problem: two weeks in
the hospital – no, no, not me,
my husband’s father’s sick. Today,
a gift: he hasn’t gotten worse.
And so, today, I write.
(Poetry 201: Write a poem containing a simile and the word “gift”; make an acrostic with the first letters of the lines, which I haven’t done.
But Dad really is hospitalized, and it’s difficult for everyone.)
Shielded from the world –
so strangely squiggly – we’re safe,
screened by solid glass.
(This is – at last – Day 5 of Five Photos, Five Stories. And at the same time, it’s Day 1 of Poetry 201; an alliterative haiku. Also, as asked, it has the word “screen” shoehorned within the syllables.
And, oh yes, about the title for the post: this photo was taken through the wavy old glass of a window that looks out over the site of the Battle of Antietam. On one bad day a bit over a century and a half ago, this wasn’t a screened, shielded, safe place at all.)
Summer. Gone so fast.
We wear long sleeves; we don’t swim.
No beach, no peaches.
We cursed your heat, but don’t feel
Hurt, summer; soon we’ll hate cold.
Just a touch of horror here – maybe zombies, or maybe fantasies running wild. It’s your decision…
Anyway, please let me know what you think of my story. It’s just 100 words long, and inspired by the photo below. Want more? Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site and you’ll find all sorts of tiny stories, all starting from this picture –
Nowadays people believe in good solid walls, solid enough to hold the monsters – the infected ones who used to be people – outside where they belong. Safety first, especially when you have kids.
But walls wear out. Sometimes you have to work extra for money to fix them. Megan hurried downstairs, finished at last, and found little Hannah peeking through one of the rusted-out holes. She grabbed the child. Hannah struggled to get back to her peephole.
“Want to see!” Were the eyes and the tiny voice changing already? Megan’s heart broke. She knew she could never trust her daughter again.
Another Friday Fictioneers short-short story. Believe me, 100 words is short; I always start out over the limit. This time, though, I trimmed it down to less than a hundred words, and I think it’s a better story as a result.
Don’t forget to go over to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site, read the stories other people wrote based on this week’s picture, and – if you want to – post one of your own. The more the merrier.
But first, please read my version and let me know what you think of it!
Didja ever wonder what’s behind windows – you know, inside? I walk down this street pretty near every day, and I wonder. That one up there’s extra hard to figure out, what with the curtains and the reflections.
And it’s probably different now. No telling what’s in there. Not me. And for sure not my clothes, not since she threw them all outa that window. She always was trouble to get along with. Course, she said I was the one who was trouble.
Wait, she did the same thing to you?
And I always thought I was special.
Another short-short Friday Fictioneers story! Don’t forget to see what other people did with this week’s prompt picture. And please let me know what you think of this one –
“This is such a great city, and nobody appreciates it but me. Does anybody even notice – sculpture, architecture, and all our murals? So many styles – abstractionism, symbolism, trompe l’oeil – why, there’s a garden you could try to walk into by mistake. And does anybody care?”
“Wasn’t there a book about-”
“Nobody cares. Let me show you! Come on, down this way. How could anybody tear this down?” He swept an arm dramatically toward the missing wall.
“I tried to tell you. Just like your painted garden. It really looks like you’re seeing the inside of the building, doesn’t it?”
This is my first Friday Fictioneers story in – how many months? Oh yeah, eight. Nothing since January. I’ve been too busy and too tired to write.
How about you? Do you have stories to tell? Take a look at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ prompt picture, and share your hundred words with the world.
And while you’re at it, see what the other Fictioneers came up with.
They’re searching, but they can’t see me in this gulley under the bushes. No more locks, no more guards, no more shouting. I can go anywhere.
I could go anywhere if I could stand up.
This is a good hideout – shelter and water. I wonder if this little stream’s clean? It’s cold, anyhow.
Cold’s good. Makes my ankle throb less. I wonder if I broke any bushes falling in here? They could see that.
There goes another one with a flashlight. So bright. Looks like the sun. They’ll never see me. I could stay down here forever.
Friday, and the Fictioneers; about 100 words inspired by the photo below. (I know, I know. But this story started out at almost two hundred words; 130 is a lot of trimming.)
Of course, every person who looks at this week’s picture will take something different from it. You don’t want to settle for just my version when you can find links to all the other stories at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site. Check out what all the other Fictioneers came up with – but first, please tell me what you think of my story.
The wall of gray blocks; the grayish tan blocks of the neighboring building. Charcoal gray flagstones paving the courtyard, stripes of pale sand marking their junctions. But the light would go soon.
Quickly, neatly, he stacked the dishes, carried them out of harm’s way, set up the easel. Time blurred like the paint sweeping over the canvas. Noise, a doorbell, brought time back.
At the door? Ella, her husband, a strange girl. Pretty. He grinned at the girl, studying the colors of her face, her hair. Ella pushed past him. “Some host you are,” she said. She turned to the stranger. “I warned you how my brother is. He can paint, though. And he can pay to take us to a restaurant. Once he finds a shirt that he hasn’t wiped brushes on.”
You shouldn’t notice
Where your bones run. Muscles ache,
Shoulders, elbows, wrists.
Fingers, not to be trusted.
And yet more work still to do.
Friday Fictioneers on Sunday! Check out other stories about this picture over at our fearless leader Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ site.
But first, please tell me what you think of my attempt. Thank you!
I enjoy being a tour guide here. Such a beautiful house, and such good stories.
There’s one yarn I’ve never believed. They say years ago, old Mr. Vanzelder – the one that left the place to the Foundation – was crazy in love with the chauffeur’s daughter. They were both teenagers then, and their parents pried them apart. The last time they saw each other, he swore he’d grow her the perfect rose, and she swore she’d come back when he did.
He went from rich to richer selling roses, but she never came back. Now the greenhouse is a wreck, and the gardens – excuse me.
Ma’am, what’s wrong? There, there, don’t cry like that. You’re her granddaughter? Can you take care of her?