Love’s Ballad

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!
 

 

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Love’s Ballad

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.

The DaDa Vinci Code

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!
PHOTO PROMPT © Ted Strutz

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.”

Fallen

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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

Fallen

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.

Poetic Justice

 

Fiction; word count: 100
For Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
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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.”

Continue reading “Poetic Justice”

Miraculum ad Fontes

PHOTO PROMPT © Marie Gail Stratford

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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The Mitchell and May (Pre-)Show

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

“You’re looking at the wrong camera.”

“No, you are, May. I’m looking at camera B.”

“Camera A’s on first. Get a grip, Mitchell!”

“Camera B, May. Why are you wearing brown? I told you I was wearing brown today.”

“This? It’s more maroon than brown! Do I have to get you a color wheel? And go easy on the makeup. Good grief! Is that blush, Mitchell?”

So? What’s wrong with a little color?”

“Just feels like you’re auditioning for the Moulin Rouge, that’s all.”

The producer sighed. “More like the Punch and Judy show,” he mumbled in the control booth.

100 words; Fiction
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When Dreams Come True

Genre: Fiction/ Word Count: 100

When Dreams Come True

     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.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

*”Appappan” is southern Indian for grandfather

Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
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The Student and the Teacher: A Dialogue

My teacher, what have you left me?
A marker, a pen, and an eraser
An old desk to place all the clutter
Of highlighters, clippings, and notes.

My teacher, what have you left me?
A love for the details of things
To get at the heart of a matter
Regardless how tedious the chore.

My student, what have you left me?
Time passes but I can’t forget
Eager minds straining to gather
Knowledge as pebbles from a brook.

My student, what have you left me?
Your joy in finding your passion
Excitement overcoming discouragement
So honoring me as your guide.

Written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers   
Genre: Poetry
Word count: 100 words 
PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields 
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End-of-the Year Two-fer

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! ❤️

Written for Rochelle's Friday Fictioneers   
Genre: Dystopic Fiction and Poetry
Word count: 100 words 
PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda  
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The Dais of Gadolfo

When Ella awoke, she found herself lying full-length staring upwards at a fleecy caravan of clouds.

How had she gotten here?

“You have offended the Great Ones,” a voice intoned from the tower above her.

“Great Ones?”

“Citibank. Chase. Goldman Sachs. Amazon. Facebook. Twitter. Google. Netflix. Must I go on?”

“No. Please. I’ll reopen my accounts!”

She attempted to rise but found herself tied to stakes on a stone table.

The Dais of Gadolfo!

The Great Ones were making an example of her like the others for the world to see.

Above her, Gadolfo, a surgically-armed camera drone, slowly descended.


PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda

Out of the Curse, a Promise

The old year’s streaking past us
Her tattered skirts raised high
There’s a trail of desolation
She’s in a hurry to get by.

Shops closed never to reopen
Livelihoods destroyed
Hosts of unsavory creatures
Circle over what’s bespoiled.

You can’t blame it all on Covid
But the contagion in human hearts
Stirring greed, cowardice, hatred
Like a cesspool of primeval rot.

This year’s humbling lesson
Shows how little we’ve progressed
The world still needs a Savior
And the heart his cleansing blood.

Looking up at clouds unfettered
High above Babel’s towers
A glimpse of lovingkindness
A promise of healing showers.

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.