When Christmas Comes

Written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers  
Genre: Realism
Word count: 100 words
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson 
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When Christmas Comes

As a child, Christmas decorations made her sick with excitement. Now they made her sick for those gone missing since the lock-down. They showed up in little boxes the home projected onto a screen, but she knew they were impersonators. She watched, but refused to speak to those teary-eyed strangers. Her own family was naturally cheerful, even boisterous. “Lord, where are they?” Every day she recited their names, rolling them in her mouth like hard candy. Every day there was less of them to remember. But Christmas came. Her heart burned. There was a Light to investigate in the heavens.

Hollow Hauntings

Black Hole, 2016 by Ian Cumberland (b. 1983)

I am the hollow woman. I swallow holes. I can see the gaps in your cabinet of selves better than you can, selecting your latest reinvention or falling back on an old. As you reach, I look at you and your emptiness becomes mine. For a split second you pause, as if aware of me.

I hold my breath in case you hear me.

I hear you.

You say, “There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles.”

Then you glance in the mirror and see me, and are shocked. Why? We swallow being into nothingness. (Or are we swallowed?) We make perfect the meaninglessness of it all, call it life, and make it compost, a place for new beginnings and endings. A cycle. Endless. Bare. Signifying nothing.

I am the hollow woman. And I am not alone. Am I?


Written for dVerse’s “Prosery” which asks that we confine our prose to 144 words or less and use the following line from a Lisel Mueller poem: “there is nothing behind the wall/except a space where the wind whistles.” Click on Mr. Linky to join in!

Oracle: Henry I’s Daughter Speaks

Oracle: Henry I’s Daughter Speaks

A daughter born on the wrong side of the blanket
given to a Count in marriage
a political alliance for my father
who gave my daughters away as hostages
and another king’s son held as bond
in my hands: my hands! O servants of the air!
Promptly did I have his eyes put out.
As promptly did Henry allow my daughters’
eyes blinded, their noses cut off as revenge –
Do you wonder? So power-hungry progenitors
bequeath the sacrifice of the innocent
to this day.


Henry I was king of England from c. 1100– 1 December 1135. Historian Charles Spencer describes this brutally cruel event in his book The White Ship

City of Peace

Written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers 
Word count: 100 words or less
PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields 
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PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

City of Peace

     “What are you thinking?” Avram asks me gently as we walk in the shadows of the old city.
     “’O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem!’”1 I quote. “Why so much suffering, Avram, the blood that has flowed across the centuries into this day?”
     “Our hands bear that guilt.”
     “And sickness, earthquakes, floods?”
     “Do you wonder nature suffers as part of the judgment on us?”
     “The curse!” I snort.
     Avram speaks quietly. “The Maker of the Universe has not left us without blessings, of which He is the foremost, or redemption, because of His love.”
     “I only see hatred.”
     “Then that is all you will find.”


1Luke 13:34 — “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!

Psalm 69:32
When the humble see it they will be glad;
you who seek God, let your hearts revive.

Acts 17:26-27
And he made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place, that they should seek God, and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him. Yet he is actually not far from each one of us ….

Not While I’m Eating

Please no histrionics at the dinner table
Wait till we’re on a flight to Tahiti
Maybe the opera house in Sydney,
The Tower of London with Yeoman Warders,
On River Street in Savannah, Georgia,
Somewhere in Portland or Philadelphia,
Just wait till I finish my dinner in peace.

Sammi's Weekend Writing Prompt #181
word prompt: "histrionics"; word limit: 48

Discovery

Written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Genre: horror; word count: 100

Discovery

“Did you bring the mirror?” Eli asked.

Lena rummaged through her backpack behind him. “Do we have to do this?”

Eli snorted impatiently at his best friend. “Don’t you want to know why kids from this school have gone missing? Mr. Drobkoni’s gotta be a vampire. I’ll stay here. You keep a lookout. Whistle when you see him coming.”

“Right-oh,” Lena said. “Here.”

Eli held the mirror so he could see over his shoulder.

Lena had already left.

She’s fast, he thought.

“What’s that?” asked Lena behind him.

He turned around quickly. “The dead travel fast,” he said, suddenly pale.

A Pink Welcome

When I saw the “a vendre” sign, I had to have it! Carolyn would have understood. Her pink Cadillac had been a hand-me down from her sister who’d made a name for herself in Mary Kay sales. Carolyn drove the flashy pink Cadillac just to shock her preacher and her co-parishioners. To them, being too enthusiastic about God was just as vulgar as driving a pink car! But people like me who looked like they didn’t belong in a Manhattan church understood. Now as a missionary, I knew I had to spend my last dime on this welcoming pink boat!

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E.Ayr
Genre: Fiction 
Word count: 100 
written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers 
click on the pink frog for more tales of a hundred words or less 
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Sea Tale

Gifts from the sea, some called them. Once there washed up a shack, whole, an eye-catching man within, seal-brown his hair. The tunes he could sing, when the winds around the water took wing.

She spied him sometimes by moonlight at the water’s edge, secretive, saw him take out a seal skin, disappear within, into cold depths. Then one night, twin shapes followed after.

Alone, she managed, bled, bided her time, calling out across the water, “Selkie!” People wondered.

When two children washed ashore, one seal-brown, the other raven-haired, we knew. Far inland, she kept their pelts hidden. Selkies nevermore.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
Genre: Folklore 
Word count: 100 
written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields's Friday Fictioneers 
click on the frog for more tales of a hundred words or less. 
And join the fun!