raging breaking receding
clinging dragging groaning
again and again and again
Like a mighty conqueror he rises and explodes, majestic, electrifying, wrecking havoc; and then recedes with calm dignity, undisputed master.
I yearn to drown in the throes of his brutal passion and unbridled life.
Instead I stand, alone in my knowledge – the sea is not my lover, for he does not hurt me.
“This is where you met daddy? That’s so romantic,” she gushed, and then softly added, “I miss him.”
“I do too, munchkin, but he’s always in our hearts, remember.”
Bending, I whispered, “That’s the tree under which he proposed to me. It’s my favourite tree.”
“But your tree has a big scary hollow, mama.”
“No baby, that’s it’s soft mushy heart where people in love leave letters for one another.”
“Really?” she squealed, “Did daddy leave letters for you?”
“Ofcourse. And someday some very handsome young man will be leaving letters for our princess too.”
In response to the Friday Fictioneers challenge of 20 October based on a photo by Sandra Crook
When he lost mum, his beloved wife of 52 years, I expected changes.
I expected depression, memory loss, crankiness, health issues. What I did not expect was for him to call me up and announce that we were going to Egypt.
My parents did not travel.
Theirs was not an extraordinary tale.
They were born in Puducheri, went to school here, and lived their life here. He as a boring Chemistry professor, and she a History teacher. Thanks to mum’s fear of flying, they never went anywhere further than where a car or a train could take them, and even that was rare.
So where did this sudden inspiration to travel come from?
It wasn’t like he was very excited to be in Egypt either. He glumly followed the tour guide where ever he led.
It was in the Valley of the Queens that he perked up. Looking all around, he finally picked a place, and proceeded to take a mysterious bag out of his fanny pack.
“Daddy, what are you planning to do?”
“Scatter her ashes.
Her greatest wish was to see the pyramids. I have finally brought her here.
Now my queen will rest amidst the other immortal queens.”
Written in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of October 8th 2017
Sensing my fear, Michelle slipped his hands into mine.
I liked that he didn’t question me or offer platitudes. It was more of a It’s ok, I got you kind of a gesture. He gave me the courage to look up, look around.
And I saw Adam.
I saw Adam coming down the travellator, his arms around a giggling brunette. Yes, Adam with his condescending jokes. Recalling his acrophobia japes reminded me that I was going uphill; UP A BLOODY MOUNTAIN. I froze.
“Shhh, almost there baby.” Michelle’s voice flowed through me like a soothing balm. Closing my eyes and mind, I leaned into him, until cool winds told me that we were already there.
I looked into Michelle’s warm eyes. Perhaps he was the one.
In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday challenge of Week 39
based on a photo by Bikurgurl
I am a man of the soil, a farmer.
Wide open fields of lush green or honey brown, paths of mud and stiles, trees, grass, the song of birds and the gurgle of the stream, this is my world. Waking up to greet the dawn, toiling all day until I earn my rest, and then finally relaxing to the music of the insects as they dance with the winds. This is my day.
Not for me are the constraints and confines of city housing.
Yet I sit here today, in a compact apartment, overlooking another apartment, my closest link to the earth being a few potted plants, with a content smile on my lips.
It is the way of nature…
A man feels great satisfaction the day he builds his own home, but he feels even greater pride the day he steps into his son’s home.
In response to the 132nd Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge.
She looked gorgeous in black. With her cascade of obsidian hair in sharp contrast to her alabaster skin, those high cheek bones and sharp nose, she may have been the grieving widow, but she was still the sexiest woman in the room, and she knew it.
From behind the veil, her kohl lined eyes scanned the room, finally coming to rest upon the young man in the fourth row, taking in his muscles, clean shaven square jaw, the fine lines of his bespoke suit, and the subtle glint of his Rolex. He was probably at least ten years younger than her, but that only made the chase more exciting. She decided right then that she wanted him, and what she wanted she always got. One way or another.
She stared at the pictures before her. This was not the first time that he was cheating on her. He was young, rich and handsome, women threw themselves at him, but he always came back to her. Normally she didn’t care. But this bitch was obviously pregnant. This time she was scared.
She had nothing. He had been slowly and systematically transferring all their assets into his name and she hadn’t even noticed. In her crazy whirlwind life of parties and holidays, she hadn’t realised when the ground had disappeared from under her feet.
Loading her husband’s old pistol she could not help but scoff at the irony of the picture hanging above the mantle…
Time is like a ravenous lion – he devours everything.
In response to the Photo-Fiction #102 challenge
I go with the boat-maker’s milk.
He’s a strange one. ‘I’m not a boat maker, I’m an artisan,’ he says, making me repeat the word until I say it right. The first time he sits me down making me feel how smooth they are, how she balances. ‘Love makes all the difference. I don’t make them, I create them, like Our Father created us, with love’ he goes on, and I look around glad that nobody else was around to hear his crazy.
People come by to look and admire, but not many buy. He don’t care.
Today he looks sad. ‘What happened?’ I asks.
‘One of my babies is out exploring the seas.’
Selling boat make him sad. He strange.
In response to Bikurgurl’s photo prompt for her 25th 100 Word Wednesday challenge
Congratulations gurl – you’ve touched silver ♥
Samuel put down his tools and looked around at the potting shed. His wife had been after him to fix it but he could never spare the time, or if truth be told, he had never made the time. When he had finally stepped into the dilapidated shed he well understood the reason for her consternation.
It took a while, but he had done it – woodwork fixed, table polished and everything cleaned. She would be pleased with her shed now.
Carefully he rested her urn on the table, exactly where the first rays of the sun could caress her. Somehow he knew she would be happier here than on any mantle place.
In response to Friday Fictioneers’ challenge of 9th June 2017 based ona photo by Sarah Potter
She could not say no to the pastor.
They had given her more affection than a blind orphan could have ever hoped for. Until the day the lumberjack came looking for a wife.
‘O dear, he’s a giant of a man,’ lamented her friends, ‘and ugly with deep scars all over his sun burnt face.’
‘He is an honest man with a good heart,’ the pastor assured. ‘He may be a lumberjack, but was not the earthly father of Our Lord a carpenter.’
Yet it was with much dread that she accepted the proposal.
‘I have a gift for you,’ a thick gruff voice approached, handing over a piece of wood with a subtle tremble of hands. It was a figurine of a maiden with flowers for hair and vines as skirt and a face smooth as marble.
‘Did you make this?’
‘Yes, I whittle in my free time.’
She smiled then, full of hope, joy and perhaps even love, at the man who had such beauty within.
In Response to: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, 113th Challenge
Photo Prompt by: Loretta Notto