Happy Friday, my dear, patient Readers! It’s a hot one here in Columbus.
I’m trying again to get back in the habit of Friday Fictioneers, the writing prompt hosted weekly by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. She challenges us to write a story in 100 words, and bloggers all over the world give it a shot. Here’s mine. Enjoy!
When I was six, there were monsters in Grandma’s cellar.
When I was ten, there was sweet strawberry jam. My sister and I ate a whole jar with a loaf of Grandma’s homemade bread, and Mama whipped us for it later.
When I was sixteen, I kissed Abe Wyatt in the cellar. It was my first kiss. Two weeks later, I cried in the cellar when he ended it.
Grandma’s cellar was special, a place for memories. Now I sit here silently remembering, because Grandma is gone and it feels like this cellar is all I’ve got left of her.
Happy Friday, Readers! And Happy May! I thought now was as good a time as any to resume some Friday Fictioneers. Many thanks (as always) to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our FF host, and to Karen Rawson, who submitted this week’s photo. Enjoy! (Even if it is a sad story.)
When Winter Comes
“Do you remember the first summer we came here?”
He looked encouragingly at his wife, the wind curling escaped wisps of her gray hair around her face. Wrinkles lined her eyes from years of smiling and laughing. His own wrinkles crinkled as he smiled at the woods before them. His wife was silent.
“We walked barefoot all the way down the creek,” he said. He squeezed his wife’s hand. “Do you remember?”
She looked at him. Her smile was bright, but her eyes held no light of remembrance. “I like you,” she said.
Happy belated Friday, Readers! Another week, come and gone. Now it’s time for Friday Fictioneers! Thanks to Rochelle as always, for hosting, and this week to Marie Gail Stratford for our photo. Enjoy this 100 word story! Today’s title and story was inspired by this hymn (Bring Flowers of the Rarest).
Flowers of the Fairest
“Yes, Sweetheart?” her mother answered, not pausing in washing the dishes.
She dutifully turned, hands still in the soapy water. A grinning, curly-haired five-year old girl held up a fistful of fresh roses for her mother to see. “I even used the scissors like you do, Mommy!”
The mother turned back to peer out of the kitchen window. Sure enough, her diligently cared for roses were picked clean. She lifted her eyes to heaven, took a deep breath, then turned back around with a smile. She grabbed a towel. “They’re beautiful, honey. Let’s get a vase.”
Their bed was cold when he woke, blearily looking at the clock. 4:08 A.M.
His wife was sitting bundled in a blanket in front of the patio door, gazing out at the snow. A mug of tea sat on the floor beside her, still faintly steaming. He came up and sat behind her. She leaned back so she was nestled between his legs and against his chest.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he murmured.
“I just wanted to watch the snow,” she whispered. “It’s beautiful.”
She smiled softly and nestled further into him, and they stayed that way until dawn.
He helped her carefully onto the dock, holding her waist to steady her as she stepped out of the canoe. The look on her face was like a storm cloud, dark and ready to burst. The corners of his mouth twitched.
She took a few steps and deliberately wrung out her shirt and hair, not saying a word. He took that opportunity to appreciate the glimpse of her bare stomach and the way her clothes clung to all her curves.
“Well, you did say you would probably tip us over.”
She glared and stomped her foot. “You pushed me in!”
Happy Friday, Readers! I have returned with a brand new Friday Fictioneers. As per usual, thanks is given to Rochelle for hosting this weekly prompt, and to J Hardy Carroll for providing this week’s photo. Enjoy this short story!
Hot and Sweet
“I’m a mess,” she laughed, holding up her sticky cotton candy fingers for him to see.
“When aren’t you?” His eyes crinkled with his smile. She laughed again, shrugging.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Then her fingers were in his mouth. The tinkling carousel, the noisy crowds, the crackling country music blaring over the loudspeakers; all faded under the thunder of her heartbeat in her ears. Neither said a word until he finished. The hot July air around them thickened unbearably.
He spoke first. “Race to the fun slide?”
The tension broke. She grinned and took off running in answer.
Happy Friday, Readers! Sorry to leave you hanging with my last story (Emmeline is a spy? Who knew?) but we’re making a jump back in time this week with Friday Fictioneers. We’re visiting a scene from Emmeline’s past. But don’t worry, I’ll return to the present soon. Enjoy!