I spend a great deal of my time rooted in imaginings of past present moments. When I decide to put my work up on WordPress, I search the web for images that say something – I think anyway 😛 – about the poem/sometimes story.
Sometimes, I do flash fiction here on WordPress. Look at a photograph and write something about it in 100 words or less. I don’t do very well with those. I actually have a love/hate relationship with those. Like doing a book report.
Then sometimes, like today, I walk by our kitchen table and see these tulips y,ou gave me yesterday, so beautifully wilted. The present moment. I take this picture thinking I could and will write a million words about these tulips one day. But they won’t be about tulips.
I’m making a healthy version of smothered round steak with onions and some kind of fancy frozen West Coast mushrooms that are way cheap frozen, and all the lettuce we didn’t use last week – yum. What can I say? I’m a transplanted Southerner living in Silicon Valley. It’s Easter Sunday. Lent is OVER. Pig out marginally.
I should have been a country song writer. Those are really wonderful stories.
Time again forFlash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thank you, PJ, for sponsoring this and for all of your hard work on our behalf. Please follow lil froggy for more stories.
This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yinglan. Thank you Yinglan!
Morning Dew Long Ago
That day, on the way to school, my brothers and I walked into some police fencing. I told them it was just a simple fence, but they insisted it was some sort of police fencing. So, I climbed the chain linked fence. Just beyond where I landed were streamers of what looked like toilet paper. They were wet and heavy from the morning dew.
“Someone finally wrapped ole man Johnson’s yard!” I called out. It did look like that to me.
My voice giggled and caught on the wind and landed in my brother, Evan’s, ear. “You come back here right now, Heather,” Evan yelled.
“You come back here right now, Heather. Do ya hear me tellin’ you?” Evan shouted again.
I did hear him but someone had taped my mouth shut and I couldn’t reply.
Each day, after school, I walked to my father’s shoe store and sat in the storage room and did my homework. I dreamed about my future.
The day Father received the red shoes, she appeared. My brothers rushed to serve her and compliment her. All the colors in the room were muted. Even her lovely silk dress and the noise of time passing were muted.
“I will take these red shoes,” the lady said. She kicked up her heel and smiled down at my younger brother.
He offered to box and bag them for her.
“Thank you, but no,” she said. “I want to wear them now. You can send these old shoes to me later.”
I think her lips were red, too. Her skin was like ivory. Her voice soft and sweet – just as I imagined mine would be one day.
Here is the photograph and my part fiction/part memoir story:
The Eccentricities Of Romance
Nobody in my family ever really knew Ivy. One day out of no where Dad, a widower for seven years, announced he was going to marry some woman he’d met on the internet. That just didn’t sit well with us. The internet part. The sudden part.
Nobody in my family ever really knew Ivy. And then one day, decades later, Dad had died and Ivy had reached a critical point in her ability to care for herself. We moved her into a care facility.
“I’ve always wondered what attracted you to Dad,” I said during one of our last visits.
“Those model airplanes he had hanging from the ceiling of his library. Remember those?” Ivy squeezed my hand. “I just thought that was the most romantic thing I’d ever seen.”
I shook my head and smiled. They had always been such an odd pair. The engineer and the poet. “You two.”
“I know,” she agreed. Her smile lit the space between us.
Nobody in my family ever really knew Ivy, and that was the shame of it all.