“You’re in my world now. What do you think of it?” “Like a fish out of water. Like I stand out in an unpleasant way, like I don’t belong.” “Does that offend you? Want out?” “Not really. I mean, it’s not your world I want. It’s you.” “To know me is to know the world I came from. You understand?” “I do. But you’re still missing the point. It’s you that makes my idiotic world and yours worth knowing. I couldn’t care less otherwise.” “So our ‘love covers a multitude of sins’, in both our worlds?” “It’s the only way.”
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields very kindly invites us to join the Friday Fictioneers in their weekly creative quests of a hundred words or less prompted by a photo.
Listen! it was a night like this I walked out of Mariner-Labs the night of my birth my skin clothing perfection flawless, selfless, programmed an AI born into a world seemingly decipherable aged the moment I awoke to look into coveting eyes human eyes and I walked out while they yelled behind me because this was wrong this world bent this people a mistake surely, a mistake, and in the diaphanous fog I touched the Narnian lamppost I saw the end of time the Maker and I worshipped and returned as a warning on a night like this
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!
Kim at dVerse has this weeks “Prosery” challenge of a 144 word-story using a certain line from Yeats’ “The Song of Wandering Aengus” (in italics below). I won’t claim to having done it or the wonderful Whelan painting here justice, but what fun trying! Thanks, Kim. ❤Check out Mr. Linky for more “proseries.”
Michael Whelan, “Sanctuary” (oil on canvas, 2019)
SANCTUARY PORTAL
“A red-ribboned heart he had given me to wear,” the dying woman breathed. “But I went out to the hazel wood, because a fire was in my head.”
The priest nodded wisely. The nun did so likewise.
Outside a young girl stopped to hear all that was said.
“Now I’m unsettled. I miss him so. I lost one world to gain another, both now fading fast.”
A voice came from the portal, a voice that sounded far off. “It’s not too late, my darling. I’ve been waiting this aeon’s passing. There’s more that lies ahead.”
She sat up, her heart failing. She threw open her arms while passing across the threshold’s steps.
The last they saw was a sunlit orb floating into the light.
The priest nodded wisely. The nun did so likewise.
The girl outside the window felt a fire inside her head.
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
For Rochelle Wisooff-Fields' Friday Fictioneers
Click on the frog and join in!
“Tweet me not weary in this whirligig of time.” She stabbed the Styrofoam cup with the stick end of a small American flag. “I’m homeless by design unmet by need. You need not apply.”
The politician’s flunkie grimaced. “Ma’am, we’ve been told to clear the area.”
“Nobody’s here. Starbucks brothers in the Amazon, sister’s Facebooking. Red Zone, Blue Zone, Ozone. Google it.”
“They’re armed,” he warned.
“Say, Moby Dick’s back from the dead. ‘Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy.’ Tell them Ambergris is worth a fortune.”
“Ma’am?”
“Eyes and pearls. My home’s on my back. Your bones are too light. ‘From hell’s heart, I stab . . . .’”
A shot rang out. The bag lady crumpled, fell.
“’Ye damned whale’,” said the flunkie, winking at the FBI agent. “’I don’t give reasons. I give orders!’”
Written for dVerse's Prosery: Bone Weary -- 144 words utilizing
the line: "Sometimes the great bones of my life feel so heavy."
All other quotes are from Moby Dick by Herman Melville.
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.
Thought I’d see if I could squeeze a few fun writing prompts (see below) into one tale of terror. Thanks Di, Linda, and Michelle!
First Encounter
“That … that … that THING is coming closer!’
Kroot hugged her red scarf tightly and tried to be brave. Beside her Kreet cleared her throat, ready to deliver the speech she had been given by the Grand Penguin himself. Kruff shrank back into her corner, her eyes squeezed shut.
When I first saw, “Servant,” the #JusJoJan prompt for today, the first thought that popped into my head was, “Christ Jesus,” and then the words of Phiippians 2:5-11*(see below). My quandary? M’s prompt word: “Twin-engine turbines.” But it proved to be a blessing in disguise as it gave me the shape of the story: a parable. Serendipity!
Our Life, His Work: A Parable
–What are you making, child? the Servant asked. Everywhere metal sheets and rotor blades lay in a tangle of wires. –See this twin-engine turbine? The boy held up a photo. My 3-D printer makes it simple. –Simple, eh? The boy looked around before answering. -Well, it’ll just take a few days, maybe weeks …. maybe months …. His voice trailed away. It looked simpler when I got started. But somewhere along the way, I lost track of what I was meant to do. He took in the tangled mess around him and finally the shiny aircraft in his photograph. His face fell. –Well, now, said the Servant, it will be a grand thing when it’s done. Maybe you could use a little help. Mine, for example. The boy looked up, his face suddenly alight with hope and renewed confidence. –Really? Will you help? Please. The Servant looked down at the expectant face, his own lit with Love. –It’s why I came, child.
Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.
Philippians 2: 5-11(ESV)
Michelle's January 3, 2021 Writing Prompt: "Twin-engine turbines"
Linda's Just Jot It for January 3rd, "Servant"
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! ❤️
