Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo. Click on the frog to join in!
Roses he gave her, she took them in her hand The petals silk warm, still harboring his touch She knew not where to look, his face was a beacon A desire of yearning, too bright to stare upon, So she stared at the roses, their rosy tinge her own.
The years they raced by full of home, hearth, and heaven Their love knew no bounds and their eyes saw no other Until the day came when a lone grave boasted roses One standing alone to see light like a beacon, eclipsed, And roses ice crusted by death’s wintry dew.
It was the first meeting of the Dadaist Society of New York’s Upper Downside. Mistrel McGarte chewed her lower lip mechanically. Rrrose IV had yet to show with the coveted clue to the Mona Lisa’s jilted lover’s true descendant: none other than Danette Brown, capitalist author of the DaDa Vinci Code. Mistrel sighed. There was a time for absurdity but not now. The capitalist clock was ticking alongside the urinal in the art gallery. A postman handed her an envelope. Mistrel tore it open. Fine particles of detritus, paint, bone floated free. A note inside read, “DNA here final clue.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields invites us weekly to join the Friday Fictioneers in their creative quests of a hundred words or less, prompted by a photo; likewise, dVerse’s Sarah prompts us towards “Poetics,” the watchword this time being fungi.
No longer there the Edenic tree though long I linger near its breathing traces like a dreamer awakening after a song-vision, aware only of her pounding heart as witness to the night’s transactions when what once was a maiden day eternal or a thousand years, where golden bridges lighted woods aflame with love so deep betrayal seemed impossible until a serpent came with clever tongue sowing seeds of deception, sly in its jealous conceptions, and I, plunging into deadly deceits, unstrung the heart-cords that made us whole, left instead with the decaying remnants, and vernal roots now dotted with fungus.
Fiction; word count: 100
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POETIC JUSTICE
“Hold on,” said Ben who had just gotten dumped by the barmaid, “I feel a limerick coming on.” “Is it painful?” asked cheeky Dotty McDonald. “Just five lines in anapestic.” “Painful, then. Let’s have it.”
There once was a barmaid who never Spared a kind word for this feller While she binged on the prunes He bought her from Koon’s He absconded with her toilet paper.
“A revenge poem. I like that,” Dotty hooted. “Is it true?” “Clever devil. It took some planning,” his buddy John remarked. “There’s no going back after that,” Ben admitted. “Another romance down the toilet.”
Pastor Peter was all a’flutter. There was the baby. There were the parents. There was the baptismal font. And there was Mick Mooney, to whom he had given bottled water for the font, boasting a malicious grin. The unopened bottle stood, tragically, on the chancel rail. Peter prayed, opened the font. It was filled to the brim. Afterwards, he confessed his surprise to the happy couple. “Oh, that was me,” the new mother said. “I just wanted to say a prayer over the font before the service began when I saw it was empty. I didn’t do wrong, did I?”
100 words; fiction
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Holding tightly to her mother’s hand, the little girl looked upon the figure in the casket. “Did Appappan* really die preaching?” she whispered. Her mother nodded. “He always said he would.” Behind them hundreds had gathered to pay their respects. Later, the girl sat in her granddad’s study, thumbing through his notes, tracing the leather cracks on his Bible. A favorite hymn bubbled up from within her. She started to sing, feeling as if a choir of angels were joining her. That night she announced, “I want to die singing, Mummy, like Appappan died preaching!” Many years later, she did.
What can I say? The creative juices, they were a’flowin! So depending on whether you like verse or story or naught, read either or neither, with many thanks to our Friday Fictioneer hostess, Rochelle, who has kept us as a band of brothers and sisters in service to the muse the outgoing year through. Happy New Year and blessings to all! ❤️
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.
