Love Stronger than Death

Join us at Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
and limit our words to 100 or less. 
Click on the frog to read more stories.Word count: 100

Everyone had left for home. Vikram remained standing by the freshly turned earth until high above the stars lit one by one.

He could no more make his legs stir than make the stars fall with his tears.

“A wedding for a first miracle. Ever wonder why?”

Aanya’s voice. Vikram closed his eyes. “No.”

“That day! That wine! Imagine! Rich, savory, fiery with a love stronger than death. You believe that?”

“I do.” His voice shook. “But ….”

“I’m not where you’re standing. The God that turns water into wine, turns mourning into dancing. Vikram, our dance has barely begun.”


Psalm 30: 11-12
You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
you have loosed my sackcloth
and clothed me with gladness,
that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you forever!

Song of Songs 8:6
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
as a seal upon your arm,
for love is strong as death,
jealousy is fierce as the grave.
Its flashes are flashes of fire,
the very flame of the LORD.

John 2:1-11
On the third day there was a wedding at Cana in Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there.
Jesus also was invited to the wedding with his disciples.
When the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said to him, “They have no wine.”
And Jesus said to her, “Woman, what does this have to do with me? My hour has not yet come.”
His mother said to the servants, “Do whatever he tells you.”
Now there were six stone water jars there for the Jewish rites of purification, each holding twenty or thirty gallons.
Jesus said to the servants, “Fill the jars with water.” And they filled them up to the brim.
And he said to them, “Now draw some out and take it to the master of the feast.” So they took it.
When the master of the feast tasted the water now become wine, and did not know where it came from (though the servants who had drawn the water knew), the master of the feast called the bridegroom and said to him, “Everyone serves the good wine first, and when people have drunk freely, then the poor wine. But you have kept the good wine until now.”
This, the first of his signs, Jesus did at Cana in Galilee, and manifested his glory. And his disciples believed in him.

The Smuggler of Rainbows

Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt © Claire Fuller
and limit our words to 100 or less. 
Click on the frog to read more stories.Word count: 100

The Smuggler of Rainbows

“It’s just a tire shop, Dad! This can’t be where we’re meeting the rainbow-smuggler!”
Inside, a cheerful woman in a colorful sari stood out of the rain, waiting.
“I’d like a rainbow,” Retnam said from her wheelchair. “Where are they?”
“They’re hiding in plain sight, my dear!” the rainbow-smuggler said, shrugging. “Just reach into a tire.”
Retnam did, pulling out a huge rainbow-colored taffy.
She laughed, then frowned.
“But it’s not REAL!” she cried.
“Look up, Retnam!” the woman said, pointing to the rain-cleared sky. “There will always be a rainbow over your head, even when you can’t see it.”


Continue reading “The Smuggler of Rainbows”

Deathbeds

Lisa is today’s host at dVerse’s Prosery, and says: "Your challenge, if you choose to accept it, is to incorporate the quote ["I dress in their stories patterned and purple as nigh" –from “When We Sing of Might,” by Kimberly Blaeser] into a piece of prose. This can be either flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose! Not prose poetry, and not a poem. And it must be no longer than 144 words, not including the title. (It does not have to be exactly 144 words, but it can’t exceed 144 words.)

Deathbeds

Their graves are trash bins, medical refuse after each organ is harvested, the doctor careful to preserve the parts but not the whole. There is money to be had. She knew all this. She had worked as one. But the children she had aborted were not real to her.

Until the day she lay dying.

Suddenly they appeared before her eyes, smiling their forgiveness, and she relaxed. They understood! There was a God in heaven after all. Why, she didn’t even have to forgive herself!

She stretched out her hands to them but they stood out of reach midst the children she herself had decided to keep.

Her children saw her eyes widen.

“I dress in their stories patterned and purple as night,” she whispered.

What stories, Mom?

“The ones I took from them. The ones I robbed them of. Oh God! They burn!”


Update: So far this year almost 40 million children have been killed by choice. The leading cause of death is by abortion, far surpassing all other causes. According to data compiled by the Worldometer, a reference website that monitors statistics on health, the global population, the use of resources and deaths in real-time, over 40 million abortions are performed worldwide annually.

Dante Bill and Mark Twain Take A Walk

Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt © LIsa Fox
and limit our words to 100 or less.
Click on the frog to read more stories.

Note on the players: Dante Bill is an allusion to his namesake from the Inferno; Mark Twain acts as Virgil, his writer-guide through hell. Neither has been consigned there.

Genre: Partial Epic
Word Count: 99

Dante Bill (colorful rapper): Dude, where’s the fire and brimstone? It’s freezing cold here.

Mark Twain (dead white male): Hell’s different from place to place.

What’s with the shrines there?

Shrines? Oh, toilets. That’s for . . . .

Yeah, why the big deal?

They’re the only ones in this area.

That stinks, man! Crowds of woke politicians and their virtue-signaling kool-aid drinkers jumping up and down like yo-yo’s. They could just go in the woods.

Problem is, it’s against the rules. Their punishment is that they have to follow the sign.

Where does it point?

To Satan’s toilet.

A Venn Diagram Play

Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (©Jennifer Pendergrast)
and limit our words to 100 or less. 
Click on the frog to read more stories.

Genre: Realism
Word Count: 100

A Venn Diagram Play

Mommy plays Lego with me
I’m four and she’s thirty-three
But I make up the games we play
And she does exactly what I say.

We share the firetruck and the fireman
He’s my Daddy and he’s her husband
I get Santa for a party favor on my birthday
She gets a candy for baking a cake so gay.

I get a funny-shaped red Lego piece
And save two for Daddy when he says, “Please.”
The red truck is outside my diagram
It’s for the children killed in Afghanistan
By an unmanned drone, they’re in no one’s Venn.

Don’t cry.


The Pentagon confirmed on November 3, 2021, that after the disastrously chaotic withdrawal of American troops which resulted in billions of dollars of military weaponry, hardware, and aircraft left behind as well as the suicide bombing of thirteen young American soldiers, three days later, it carried out a deadly drone strike that mistakenly killed ten innocent civilians on August 29: three Afghan adults and seven children.

The Adviser

Rochelle, Happy 9th Anniversary of hosting FFs!

Genre: Science Fiction 
Word count: 100
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (© Brenda Cox)
and limit our words to 100 or less. 
Click on the frog to read more stories.
Photo prompt © Douglas M. MacIlroy

The violent shuddering of masonry and the collapse of the great cathedral had left a thick cloud of dust like a shroud over the city. It settled like particles of mist coating every moving creature, turning everything a sinister gray. Here, the dead had numbered 750,000.

We eyed them from the Adviser, the multi-dimensional-intergalactic space lab, Commander Fauci. His otherwise pristine white lab coat was covered with beagle hair as he emerged from his I-CNN studio. He looked unconcerned. The interview had gone well.

Had we made the right choices? Only time would tell. Meanwhile, we needed to cover our tracks.

Wind Elf (A Compound Word Verse)

Image by zanagab from Pixabay

Along the rolling hills I hear
your mournful singing haunting clear
yet windblown.

Under the moon’s vapid eye
how can I, elf, to you deny
your windsongs?

I’ll keep you under lock and key
lest you flee and escape from me
as windstorm.

The elvish king shall have you back
when he returns the one I lack
now windbound.

On Hallow’s Eve we’ll make a swap
my child returned, you with your harp,
— home windward.

Grace at dVerse challenges us today to write a Compound Word Verse, an unfamiliar form to most ous I daresay. She writes: "The Compound Word Verse is a poetry form invented by Margaret R. Smith that consists of five 3-line stanzas, for a total of 15 lines. The last line of each stanza ends in a compound word and these compound words share a common stem word which is taken from the title. (In the first example below the stem word is “moon” from the title “Moonlighting”; the compound words related to the title are moondust, moonbeams, moonsongs, etc.)

The Compound Word Verse (3 lines) has a set rhyme scheme and meter as follows:

Rhyme Scheme: a,a,b
Syllable/Meter: 8, 8, 3

Click on Mr. Linky to read more and join in!

The Bus – Friday Fictioneers

Genre: Realism 
Word count: 99
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (© Brenda Cox)
and limit our words to 100 or less. 
Click on the frog to read more stories.

The Bus

Honey Humberg had waited for this day all her life.

She’d worked and saved to build the “Humberg Bus” from scratch, designing, commissioning and assembling it, part by part. She painted it in homage to the DIY hippies that were her inspiration, free thinkers and dreamers all. She would tour Europe showcasing her singing talent and the world would fall at her feet.

In the square, the crowd cheered when the Humberg Bus arrived.

They left when she began singing.

“How much you want for the bus?” a man asked.

“One billion pounds,” she said bitterly, turning away.

“Done.”

I Would Be A Leaf

I would be a leaf
in Thy kingdom, LORD,
to drink the glory of You.

In the portmanteau
compartments of life to carry
Your photons of life.

Replenished daily
by the fountains of Your love
sky-full, earth-replete.

Dancing in the wind
whose great power tender breathes
Your eternal joy.

Stormed by sorrow, strife
refuged by Your haven-wings;
exulting, there soar.

Maple in Spring
Haiku 5-7-5
Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt #228 – "Portmanteau" – exactly 59 words
Cee's Flower of the Day (FOTD) - September 26, 2021

The Load

Genre: Fiction; Word count: 100
Come along and join in with Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.
Rochelle asks that we use the photo prompt (© Sandra Crook) 
and limit our words to 100 or less.

I counted them too, you know: every turn, every curve, every meter. Every pothole, aggravation, near disaster.

For what it’s worth, the load was never the point.

It was where I was going.

My only regret is you were stuck with me for every millimeter of it, and you hated it.

Life was too slow for you.

It was too fast for me.

I had a load to carry: responsibility to those who depended on me.

You were looking for an escape.

I was looking at the journey’s end.

I wish you could know now it was worth it.