Time again for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. So grateful to PJ for hosting this weekly challenge. This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yinglan.
Please follow little froggy for more stories.
Here is the photograph and my story:
A Wagon for Marion’s Garden
Marion waved her hands neither this way nor that and looked at Bradley as though his question had not baffled her at all.
“What do you mean ‘what will we ever do with that’?” She seemed stunned. “You act like it’s a piece of rubbish I’ve brought home. I can’t believe how lucky I was at the Estate Sale this afternoon.”
They were standing on a heap of dirt behind their new suburban home. They hadn’t finished unpacking. The grass lawn had not yet been planted.
“Can’t you see how wonderful that wagon will look in the garden of our new home?” Marion asked.
“Let me try to phrase this another way,” said Bradley. “Where will we store this until we are ready to use it?”
“Right here next to the Burford’s solar panels,” Marion replied matter-of-factly.
I’m still stumbling through life … I guess I’m semi-incompacitated. And time will tell if I spelled that right or not. Not a word I often use…incompacitated. Oops it’s incapacitated. Oh well, at least I looked it up and didn’t wait for spellchecker. I must have been thinking of paying income taxes!
For those of you following this saga of ‘recovery from a very simple fall leads to possibly 9 months of…(I’d say ‘shit’, but you can choose your own word for chaos.)’, this is the third and a half day without my having 24 hour care since Feb 7th. . As a matter of fact, I’ve had no outside care at all since Thursday evening.
My sweeter half, and I mean that literally, has been my total caretaker these three days. I have tried to help him, as much as possible, but…and yet, we discuss our progress as a couple. That we are a team. That we have won the exhausting battle of these last three days.
It has been a great strain for us to have someone – totally unknown to us – in our home 24 hours a day. It would be bad enough if we knew them. I will attempt, in future flash fiction and micro poetry pieces, to expand upon this feeling of strain and exhaustion and the different characters and moods involved.
I’m thankful to my caretakers. Even I haven’t wanted to take care of myself sometimes, lately.
I’m not here – on wordpress – much. I’m reading lots of books. I’m tired and uncomfortable and cranky 😦
I’ll leave the poem to speak for itself about my day and my present state of moody mind. I probably have a case of cabin fever. I’ve worked with everyone concerned with my 24 hour care and decided that I only need 8 hours of care a day. This will depend on how the next four days go.
Here is a report on the first day 😛
Butter Pecan Ice Cream
everyone but the most loved
has been dragged through the gutter
of personal offenses and
kicked out of the Royal Chambers
I would suggest a crying fit
a spell cast round the place
a bottle of chilled
German chocolate cake
butter pecan ice cream
and a kiss to the one remaining.
Time again for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. So grateful to PJ for hosting this weekly challenge. Please follow little froggy for more stories. Thanks to Maria @ Doodle and Scribbles for our photo.
Here is the photograph and my story:
That Day At Red Waters Creek
The rocks were a worn sienna brown that afternoon. Smooth, like one would imagine a fully lived life would feel to the touch. Smoothed like that. With knowing. Red Waters Creek was rushing by. Delicate sounds of water flowing intimately down, and a few feet from the path we were taking. Holding hands. Laughing brightly into echoes.
“Is that the very last you can remember, Cassie?” asked Detective Lafleur. He ran his fingers through his salt and pepper beard. “The very last?”
“And the feeling of his hand slipping from mine. Yes,” Cassie replied. “And how fast the creek was rushing by. And how slippery the rocks were, near the edges, when I reached to pull him close again.” Cassie laid her hands in her lap and clasped them together. “And then I lost him,” she said. “That is the very last I remember.”
My life sloshes by these days. I try to cheer those around me up. Not because I’ve been raised to it, but because you, my sweetness, have exceeded sweet in the ways you are caring for me.
I have a new laptop. Because of my vision and broken arm, this will make posting and reading/seeing the print much easier.
Today I saw a photograph of Jupiter. It was all embryo looking like this: (but not this photo)
And made me think of this:
All the starry
Oh my good God! for those of you who don,t know, I fell and broke the entire right side of my body on Feb 7. spent a month in a rehab and am home still recovering and trying to use a tablet. so there for that.
Here is my submission for Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers and the photo. Thanks to Yarnspinner for the photo and to PJ for the challenge!
When You Just Don’t Want To
I would suppose, of it all, that most of the ‘breathing in, breathing out’ parts don’t matter. Only thing is, though, all the crap matters.
What do you mean?
Other than breathing, not much.
Can you tell me where you are right now?
It’s all rotted. I can’t catch a hold.
I don’t want to…
But it’s snapping in my mind…
My arms are aching. It all seems so rotted now.
Here is my entry for Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers. Please forgive this messy intro. Link below does work to other stories
Most summers, while I was growing up, Mother and Father would go on some island cruise or other and ship me off to Aunt Lottie’s and Uncle Herman’s for a month or so. The highlight of my visit was always the weekend of the town’s fair. That’s when the oldest house around would be open to the public. Members of The Daughter’s of The American Revolution, and their families, would dress up in circa Revolutionary and/or Victorian Era style and mainly do nothing but hang around posing in an elegant manner. Admission was free.
I loved those summers, and Aunt Lottie’s voice promising a sweet treat later, and Uncle Herman sneaking me sips of his Mint Julep right under the watchful eye of old Aunt Prisclla’s portrait.
“Always turn the music’s pages with a sense of authority,” Uncle Herman would say as he sat at the player piano