Don’t call me baby
Not in front of my friends
I’m all grown up
I’m almost ten
Knock on my door
Before you come in
Don’t treat me like a kid
I’m already a teen
I have an opinion
You can’t just make plans
In a year I’m off to college
You need to treat me like a man
I smile through the phases
I’ll try I say, maybe
No way to convince him
That I am not crazy
Boy or man
Eight or eighty
In my mommy eyes
He’s always my Baby
Sometimes I find myself telling my son…
“Yes, there was actually a time before internet and 24/7 television, children were happy then too and spent time on things called hobbies.”
“Yes, I had hobbies. I collected stamps and coins.”
“No, it wouldn’t have been smarter to spend that money!”
In response to Frank’s Tuesday Photo Challenge – Nostalgia, I humbly present a part of my precious coin collection.
There was a time when flash retailing implied illegal rip-offs or thrift sales, but not today.
There was a time when the very idea that a successful designer would meet her clients on a street corner would be considered preposterous, but not today.
Her generation was becoming obsolete, but ironically vintage clothes were so ‘in’.
A Three Line Tale inspired by a photo by Clem Onojehungo via Unsplash
The picture beckons me. A beautiful wooden cottage sequestered in a tranquil forest, lulled by the rhythm of a serene lake.
I imagine awaking to the chirping of birds, fresh breeze and sunlight. The perfectly stimulating ambience for a writer.
Then I start wondering how much bug spray I would have to carry, would I have cellular reception, and how long to get to the nearest emergency room.
Years of being a parent and caregiver have altered me irrevocably.
A chair screeches. It is my son helping his grandmother to her room, her aging stoop supported by his youthful arm.
I behold the beauty of life having come full circle within my very urban home.
Looking away from the cottage, I smile. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Written for 100 Word Wednesday’s photo prompt by Olivier Guillard.
Unfortunately I have overshot the word limit a bit 🙂
Chores are done and the kid off to school
I sit down with hot coffee my mind to cool
But the sip freezes at the unused plate
I wonder if perhaps it isn’t too late
Once again the familiar trepidation
I push open her door with anxious hesitation
Step in and softly whisper out, “mum?”
I keep on staring feeling a light pain in my chest
Watch for the rhythmic rise and fall of her breast
Wait for the murmuring cadence of her snore
My heart at ease I step out the door
The aroma of coffee does once more beckon
But first I send a quick thank up to heaven
Paralysing pain spreads through my body like icy, liquid metal, until my leaden legs barely move. Forcing one foot in front of the other, I fight the impulse to whirl around and sprint back, while a dagger twists deeper into my trembling heart. Leaving is killing me and if there was even an iota of hope that I could stay without bringing you harm, I would. I know that without your love I will cease to live. But it is for your safety that I must go.
My face smirks upward at the banner that mocks me. Laughter rises in my mouth like putrid bile. When that bus pulls away and this passenger goes, the economy may be happy, but my heart and my finances won’t only be broken, but shattered into fragments more numerous than the stars.
I draw my cap down lower and walk as inconspicuously as my unbalanced gait will permit, away from life, towards meaningless existence.
Witness protection might protect this witness’ body, but it cannot protect his soul.
Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers with photo prompt by Dawn Miller.
“Ted Ray, you are under arrest…”
The cops swarmed in through the door and before we realized what was happening, Teddy was cuffed and on the floor. Somewhere in the room Nina screamed and I rushed to find my baby. The cops were screaming, Teddy was screaming, Nina was screaming, and I just didn’t know what to do.
“Call Big J. You hear me, call Big J,” Teddy shouted as they led him away.
Six months, he had been underground for six whole months, and he just came home. It was Nina’s birthday. She was crying for her daddy. Barely 5 hours and the cops were here. How did they know he was home? How did they know?
Suddenly the door bursts open again and one of the cops is back. “Don’t be scared ma’am. I am not going to hurt you. I just need to collect the evidence.” Then he took away the stupid dragon puppet that had been hanging in the corner.
Now I’m confused. Why is the puppet evidence? It is just some silly toy that someone gave Nina a while back.
And then I remembered why it was hanging out here and not in her room. “His eyes glow in the dark,” Nina had said.
Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credited to A Mixed Bag.
They huddled together, stranded on rooftops due to the flash flood, the cold rain beating mercilessly down upon them, as hunger gnawed at their parched stomachs.
Suddenly a beam, the search light of the helicopters, and expectant arms reach up, seeking rescue, hoping at least for food.
Just the media, just vultures circling their prey!
In memory of the 500 plus people who lost their lives in the 2015 South Indian floods. A further 1.8 million plus were displaced. God be with them all.
Triggered by Sonya’s Three Line Tale challenge for a photo by Edwin Undrade via Unsplash
‘I never picked up anything weird about him. He always seemed really friendly, really nice. We used to play in his backyard.’
Ally could not believe that Mr. Haskell was a suspected child molester.
The police search had uncovered several mutilated dolls, boxes of children’s identity cards, animal bones, a single child’s mitten and a bunch of kid’s movies.
But he had been so gentle, bringing them lemonade and cookies, rushing over to pick them up when they fell, noticing when they wore new clothes, enquiring after them if they didn’t come out to play.
Everything that once felt endearing, now felt so dirty.
She really could not believe it.
Written for Friday Fictioneers with photo prompt by Liz Young
Based on the true story of Peter Haskell
A bang and a shriek woke me up. Hobbling out as fast as my old legs would permit, I stumbled upon the obviously interrupted party. O yes! Jane’s midnight surprise for Peter.
The candles were lit, the cake cut, but where were they…
I was startled once again by shrieks and laughter. Dear me, I suppose passions had flared and moved the party upstairs.
The question remained, what was I to do? Pretend that I had never heard them? Leave the mess on the table! Or clean up and make breakfast awkward?
Lord, the kids really needed to get a place of their own!
In response to the 100 Word Weekly Writing Challenge with image by Bikurgurl 2016