As a child she remembered climbing on the rubble of what was once terraced houses. Sometimes discovering staircases standing alone, still intact but minus the bannister
A treasure trove of others belongings could still be found in the heap of bricks. Books, sometimes photos with singed edges, a toy, or a tin of buttons.
Looking back, understanding a child’s innocence of the horrors that had barely preceded her, she wondered “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish?”. A debris of once loved abodes full of life becoming a playground wonderland.
Then rising from the ashes to become concrete and glass, a new way of living for many in incomprehensible heights above a broken city bombed from recognition.
She stared up at a tower block born from that wreckage now decaying from neglect. What goes around, comes around.
Time had passed since Abigail heard the voices so maybe the coast was clear.
They had been muffled at first until the footsteps got closer, and then she could clearly hear the familiar, distinct southern drawl. Two men conversing, unaware of her presence as she lay silent and motionless in the undergrowth, not daring to breathe. She recognized the plantation foreman, Ned, immediately.
“As I said Caleb it ain’t gonna make an ounce of diff’rence. You can lock ‘em up at nightfall but if they want it bad enough, they’ll as sure as hell try and make a run for it”
“So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm?” Responded the younger man.
“Exactly” said Ned, “They just need direction” his voice trailing off as they moved away.
Abigail shuddered, remembering the whipping she had received the last time she escaped.
Her early morning beach walk cleared the lingering fog in her head. Remnants of heady passion from the night before were hard to shake off.
Surprised to see him when she had opened her eyes. Sunlight shining on his bronzed body. She’d half expected him to have left without a word. She panicked slightly, and pulled on her shirt slipping silently out the door.
She sat studying the clouds.
“There you are” she heard a voice say
She turned. He was walking along the damp sand towards her.
“Why did you leave?” he asked. His voice slightly accented.
“Just looking for familiar objects in these clouds.” she answered without thinking.
“But these clouds are clearly foreign, such an exotic clutter against the blue cloth of the sky”, he said.
“Clouds speak in the universal language”, her voice a little husky. “Don’t you know that?”
Meal is hosting D’Verse Poets Prosery Monday and has prompted us with writing a piece of Flash Fiction of no kore than 144 words, excluding the title, using the line “Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end” taken from Jo Harjo’s “A Map to the Next World.”
Sanaa is hosted Prosery Monday at D'Verse Poets tonight. She
has promted us to write a piece of Flash Fiction with no
more than 144 words using this line “Only mouths are we.
Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the
center of all things? – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”
She sat quietly in the small space she’d discovered on the top floor of her uncle’s house. A box room, probably meant for storage, but there was a chair, some old boxes of books and small window overlooking the lake.
She was reflecting on recent events that had brought her here. The hectic comings and goings of visitors had given her an excuse to disappear for a while.
Grateful for the solace of the tiny room, she let her mind wander wherever it chose to go. A sudden knock on the door made her jump.
“Ella. Are you in there?”, said her cousin Joel.
She wondered how long before someone came looking.
“What are you doing?” He demanded. “We need to talk”
She replied reluctantly, “Joel, if you are a dreamer, come on in. If not, then you can just let me be. OK?”
Lillian is hosting Prosery Monday at D'Verse Poets tonight and has
prompted us with the line "If you are a dreamer, come on in".
The line is from Shel Silverstein’s poem, Invitation, as published
in his wonderful book, Where the Sidewalk Ends.
We are to write a piece of Flash Fiction no more that 144 words long,
excluding the title, and MUST use the prompt line as stated.
Image by Gaby Stein from Pixabay
Opening my eyes I saw sunlight streaking through the blinds. My heart fell instantly with a thud as I realized I was in the guest room. Again.
The previous day had been fairly uneventful and we had chugged along with the rhythm of two married people who knew each other very well. My husband, needy and bad-tempered due to some physical demands, and me, the enabler. Most of the time it worked, but on some occasions, particularly when I was tired from giving all the extra attention, that’s when the fireworks fly.
He’d snapped an order at me. I appeased him and chose to be quiet while I tried to cope with the feelings welling up inside of me. What am I doing here? I am miserable but “I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.”
“Just let me go”, I said angrily as I pushed his arm away and headed down the hallway.
“Why do you always have to be in control?” I yelled at him slamming the door on his enraged voice.
I need air and space, I thought. Much space between us. I can never think straight when he gets so argumentative and demanding. My back is always against the wall and I struggle to justify my actions when he is firing questions at me.
I went out to the hazel wood because a fire was in my head and it felt like my stack would blow. A gentle breeze through the trees was calming and eventually the flames died down. I could think clearly once again.
Kim, from Writing in North Norfolk is hosting Prosery
at D'Verse Poets tonight. She has prompted us to write
a story of no more than 144 words to include these lines
from "The Song of the Wandering Aengus" by William Butler
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
You can read the whole poem here
Image by Valiphotos from Pixabay
Weary from walking she looked at her watch noting the time was 10:25 PM. She remembered leaving a little after 9 o’clock. Exhausted and aching she murmured to herself ‘sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy’. She began to cry.
It had been a pleasant day. She had accomplished a lot, feeling a ‘good tired’, as she liked to say. Dinner was prepared, the table was set as usual. She waited for her husband to come home.
He wasn’t usually late without calling. By 8:00 dinner was beginning to look sad.
He worked nearby so she slipped out the house and started walking to his business.
She entered the building making her way to his office. Opening the door she found him at his desk with his assistant on her knees in front of him. She was not picking up paperclips.