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 Dorothy. Thank you Dorothy! Please follow little froggy for more stories.
Here is the photo and my story:
Before I even begin this story, I want people to know that I knew about it all already. I knew it was unlikely that my dream job would fall into my lap at the Jobs Fair that afternoon.
It was even set up like a fair. White tents formed a semi-circle in front of City Hall. There was some sort of magical something in the air that day.
“Okay now.” I kissed my lover’s lips full mouthed. We’d parked about a block from the fair. “Wish me luck!” And I literally flew out of the car.
“I’ll be here,” he replied.
And there was something about the white tents and knowing that he’d be there regardless that formed a cocoon around that afternoon.
I didn’t get a job offer. On my way back, I stopped off to have my tarot cards read. Then I walked on to our car and got in.
“It just wasn’t meant to be ,” I said.
“How about an ice cream?” he asked.
We were young.
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 Grant-Sud. Thank you Grant-Sud! Please follow little froggy for more stories.
Here is the photograph and my story:
Pink At The Beach
Each evening, during summers at the beach house, several generations of my family gather in the fireside room. Sometimes we play dominoes. Maybe we feel up to the challenge of a jigsaw puzzle. Or, we pretend. Or we get carried away with a word. I like those evenings best of all.
“Quick now,” boomed Cousin Roddy one night. “What do you think of when you think of the color pink?”
And all round the table we went until it was my turn. I looked at my husband.
“I’m pregnant,” I beamed. “And I think it’s gonna be a girl.”
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 BarbCT/Gallimaufry. Please follow little froggie for more stories.
Here is the photograph and a memory:
The Reality of Pirates
When I first saw this photograph, I thought about living 50 years in New Orleans – right on the Mississippi River. I thought of what an honorable profession it is to be a tug boat pilot. I thought of all sorts of stories I could write but…
Nothing held a candle to reality. Being a Girl Scout during the turbulent 1960’s. Pitching our pup tents and sitting around the campfire singing:
This is a great rendition of that song, and thanks PJ and BarbCT for bringing back this memory.
Stuff like this, ya know?….lead me to me.
Here’s the photograph and my story. Please follow lil froggy for more stories.
A Two-Step For My Baby
So many attended me, but I didn’t speak for days. People all around the room were speaking. Speaking to me. Touching me. Smiling sadly at me. Sometimes they spoke to each other. It didn’t matter though. Words seemed meaningless. An echo never-ending.
I’d drawn the shades against the light until one bright dawn seared its way into my life. That morning, in the chapel, there were whispered prayers for love and forgiveness. Vigil candles flickered beneath the statue of St. Agnes.
I knew my baby had been like a little lamb that night. Kicking up a two-step. Perhaps she was a sacrifice, but to what?
My mother has passed. She was 89 years old. I believe that the most important thing she ever did for me was to introduce me, before my teen years, to the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay. I spent a few years imitating Millay – writing poems of death and betrayal and self-judgement. My mother is also the character Sissy in my Sissy and Buck/Buck and Sissy flash fiction.
Since I’m unable to travel, I’ve asked my youngest sister to read this for me at my mother’s funeral.
The Courage That My Mother Had (by Edna St Vincent Millay)
The courage that my mother had
Went with her, and is with her still:
Rock from New England quarried;
Now granite in a granite hill.
The golden brooch my mother wore
She left behind for me to wear;
I have no thing I treasure more:
Yet, it is something I could spare.
Oh, if instead she’d left to me
The thing she took into the grave!-
That courage like a rock, which she
Has no more need of, and I have.
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I am not here much. Several medical setbacks, upon the road to recovering from my 2/7 fall, have wormed their vicious way into my life and then…I come online to read the news and am confronted with:
The Myth of Frida Sofia
When all is crumbled
bombed by reality