This morning, I woke to a pink sky. For the first time in weeks the wind and rain had stopped battering us, leaves stopped swirling in never ending circles on the lawn. Squirrels could collect and bury their nuts without their tails slapping their faces as they did so.
The sun streams through the windows to remind me of the things I need to do, or didn’t do as well as I thought. I refer to this type of light, the sort that comes in low and shows up every speck of dust and glass streak it can find. ‘The Dirty Sun.’
Grunts and rumbles can be heard from overhead, a tap runs a cistern noisily empties.The Husband wanders down stairs fresh from sleep, scratching his head and looking about the room with a bemused squinting smile on his face.
I get it in first. ‘Can you see what this dirty sun has done to the table and windows?’ Without stopping for breath. ‘How very dare it leave such a mess.’ ‘Let us just close the curtains then we don’t have to look, … what do you say?’ He smiled and replied. ‘It makes perfect sense to me.’ Such a considerate man. > I sigh < I go back to writing while the cups clink in the kitchen and his voice heavy with laughter said, ‘Tea.’
I would love to hear your comments, at least to read some. I follow other commenters blogs and would love to get to know you. “How’s your morning?”
Press the three words in blue to join in Esmeslabs.com #prompt5 📢 Come and see 📍
It is not a question I ponder often. Winning prizes is rarely achieved by me. I have won three ‘competitions’ in my 64 years, at least, that weren’t for writing. I enter things like flash fiction, poetry and writing competitions, but that is work and as it should be. This time, the answer was a no brainer, a Fait Accompli as it were.
For when I win, (one has to think positive) I will scream and shout, wave my knickers in the air and whoop, as I simultaneously danced around the floor.
Of course, it goes without saying, … the knickers would be unworn, probably new ones, my special occasion knickers. I would never remove mine, mainly because the jumping and twirling may show the parts that nobody’s eyes should meet.
I would call my daughter. She and some wonderful friends give up their own Christmas morning. As they prepare, and cook from scratch fresh food, providing all manner of traditional fare, including a sumptuous dessert. They give serviettes, baubles and a few sweets as well as cheese and biscuits. They deliver them hot to their homes. They wrap colouring books and pencils, crackers, baubles and a few treats. It is a piece of Christmas that they otherwise would not have. They feed families facing hardship from the three Schools (about 60 people at last count get fed) to give them each a memorable Christmas. One that many have never had.
The money is gathered from fundraisers at the three schools and people who try to give a little. They sell things, make things, and care. But it always depends on how much they raise as to how many they can feed. Also, she pursuades the director for use of a school kitchen and some monies towards it all.
Mostly it is her and her team of people with big hearts that pull this off. They plan, shop and gather the information long before the day. I am proud of my daughter’s ingenuity, haggling skills and sheer determination that she has for feeding them all. She is a constantly busy lady, as the director of school improvement, overseeing three schools and head of a large school herself. I don’t know how she pulls it together. Her time is precious and rarely spare. This cause is where I would gift the prize, if or when I win. One hundred dollars will feed a few more. I would like to wipe the shadow from my daughters eyes, that would be something. The shaddow that comes when she has no more to give. After all, neither mouths nor tummies should be empty any day, but especially not at Christmas.
What would you do if you won? Answers in the comments please. … Or press the red link at the top to join in or write ✍ a post.
Stella had stopped on the corner of a crossroads, her phone pressed into her cheek. “I can find my own way, no, I don’t need help, I just wanted someone else to know where I was, you know, precautions and all. Honest, just covering my back, being responsible, a cautious daughter. I will, I will, yes, I’ll send a text once I get back. Yeah, love you too, bye Mum.”
She felt her mascara run as the light rain made her eyes water. > It’s good that it’s too dark for anyone to see me. What a state I must look, < She thought as she rubbed at her eyes with a screwed up piece of used tissue found in the pocket of her pale pink faux fur jacket. A half-laugh left her as she stuffed her phone in her silver clutch bag and click-clacked her way to a bus shelter she could see illuminated by one flickering bulb in the distance. At least she would be dry. Even she knew, standing on a street corner dressed in pink fluff and sequins at way past midnight was not the most sensible thing to be doing.
Sella had a smashing night, dancing at the club. It was great just her and her bestie, gyrating and giggling like when they were kids at the school disco. Until her fellah came. Jenny twitched and became shy, almost childlike. “Stell, this is my Gavin.” Stella frowned, stuttered, then had to shout to be heard over the music. “Jen, I thought it was just us. I am crashing with you in your bedsit. At least that was the plan?” Stella loved planning and needed to know what she would be doing next. When and how was the minimum, the basic stuff. “Gav missed me.” She said, lifting her arms as if doing some sun salutation or worshipping a sky-bound deity. Jen was promptly gathered up for a session of face sucking, right there on the dance floor. Stella was mad. A studio pad was not a place she wanted to be. Not if the demonstration in front of her was a prelude to the main event. So Stella left the club. That was how she ended up on a wet night in town, in the early hours of the morning, alone. … Dressed like a Christmas tree.
Stella tried to read the timetable, it was not helped by the flickering light. It seemed there was a bus. The night bus, but it gave no destination or times. She shivered as she tugged off her jacket and shook some of the rain from the fur, then pulled it back on. Fastening it firmly around her against the wind. A taxi passed with its light off > probably finished for the night she thought < All she could do is sit and wait for the night bus and take it from there.
A rowdy bunch, of mostly blokes, poured out of a building. They were staggering, jeering, pushing and shoving each other. Some stumbled into the road and were getting closer. “Ello darling on yer lonesome then.” A wolf whistle and shouts got louder the closer they came. “cor, I could, yeah, c’mon shows us what you’re selling.” shouted another. Stella pretended to call the police and spoke loudly down the mouthpiece. “Yes, a bunch of louts officer come right away!” A bloke at the back of the group shoved them along. He nervously checked behind as they passed. Soon they were out of sight, but she could still hear them in the distance. Usually, Stella was confident and strong. That night, she was decidedly uncomfortable and felt vulnerable. Tugging her skirt down, Stella pressed her bum into the rickety wooden bench. She twitched at each sound. The passing street cat startled her everything felt like a threat. The hiss of air from the buses brakes made her jump only then did she realise the night bus had arrived.
Stella hadn’t heard or seen it coming. Cautiously she approached the doors they unfolded with a whoosh. “Hello, can you tell me where you’re going, where you stop, please?” She put one sparkly foot inside the bus. looked up and down the aisle. “This is my last stop tonight, but as you can see, she’s empty. Where are you wanting to go?” Tom, was written on his name badge, had friendly eyes and a soft voice. “I um, … Stapleton, about six miles from here.” She flinched as her teeth nipped the inside of her lip. “No problem, I know it well, Stapleton it is. Make yourself comfortable I will have you home in no time.” She fumbled in her bag for her season ticket, swiped it on the pad and took a seat.
Now, if you were to meet Stella today, she would tell you, there seemed all but a minute between the whooshing of air as the doors closed to leave that bus stop and the hissing of brakes as he stopped and called, ” last stop, please disembark.” His bus pulled up right outside her door. Though she never told him where she lived. Stella would say that when she inquired, the council told her, the night bus was a pilot project supposedly run by volunteers in the 1970s. After only a month, it folded. The scheme was never funded and didn’t catch on. She would tell you that in the library archives, after investigating, she found that the bus shelter had long been taken down and replaced with a bus stop sign more than a decade past.
“The above vignette is in response to Esme’s monthly picture prompt #3, the link to join in or read other responses is in the link under the picture of the bus. I hope you enjoy reading them. Have you ever travelled alone and been scared or uncomfortable please let me know, leave a comment in the box I love to chat?”
On the anniversary, she hung her dress at the window. From her mattress, she watched the morning sun catch the turquoise fabric making it shimmer. She studied it through a haze of thick Cigarette Smoke.
The dress was the cleanest thing in there. The dress still bore the stain of his urine. Time had turned the intricate chiffon bodice a dirty shade of chartreuse.
Such a glorious name ruined as she had been ruined. It wasn’t only the prom he spoiled, but herself, her innocence and the only connection to family that she had left, her Grandmother’s beautiful dress.
September 2, 2021, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story to the theme, “not everyone fits a prom dress.” You can take inspiration from Ellis Delaney’s song, the photo, or any spark of imagination. Who doesn’t fit and why? What is the tone? You can set the genre. Go where the prompt leads!
Led more by the picture I hope it sufficed to fit the requirements. Leave a comment please I just love to talk. x
Tom grabbed his Mothers hand his eyes as big as saucers. Over his shoulder was a keep net and his three legged seat was planted close to Dad’s big rod where he concentrated on baiting a hook with wriggling maggots. “Mummy,” Tom whispered, “if we catch this one can I just have one fish finger for tea please.”
This is the last photo on my roll, taken at the #RedRoosterfestival and in response to Esme’s prompt #2 To take the last pic on the camera roll and write a short story or rhyme go where the prompt takes you. PressThis to join in or read.
Did you have a funny Story when you were small, leave me something in the comments and I will get right back
He knots his fingers and flexes his hands jerkily, scrapes clean stripes on his arm and neck. My lip twitches with sadness at his grimy hands trembling. Eyes down, glued to his boots, they’re good boots. He startles onlookers with his strange muttering. I’m only a step away or at least a short distance from him. My gaze wanders across his prematurely lined features and the weathered cloth of his twine tied coat. I catch the eye of my passing waitress, who nods knowingly. I wave my fingers, more chewed than she would have seen even yesterday. I quickly fist them away, out of sight. She returns with a bag of pre ordered takeout. I keep watch as I settle the bill. Coffee spilt due to its weight on the wobbly-legged table. Her eyes soften as she apologises and without looking down she wipes it up. I hear the tear of card, from her note pad, watch as she expertly folds and pushes it under the leg. I think, ‘If only it could be that easy to fix everything’. Her smile is kind she blinks away the telltale tears undercover of the table. Nods once looking back towards the road and my brother. Her shoulders slump, and with a sigh, she continues to clear tables. My explanation spilt out six months ago when I first found him. Now it sits like secrets between spies. ‘A nod is as good as a tapped nose.’ Dad used to say when we were kids. We loved telling him it was wrong. “No, it’s a nod is as good as a wink Martin would sing,” We would taunt. Dad, doesn’t joke much anymore; not one of us does.
I push a paper napkin into my cheek, twist it thoughtlessly in my fist, suck in my breath and watch. Martin takes too much time manoeuvring around unseen enemies and mined traps. His lips move; counting each step. Distracted for a moment by a shoulder shove a mumbled word (Crackpot) from an ignorant man. He squats shaking, stares around himself. Again my eyes cloud with yet to spill tears. Four minutes it took for him to walk six feet of the busy pavement. The lunchbreak office staff, bankers, business people and shoppers moan and gripe as he blocks their path. He swallows a precious moment of their hour. A pensioner’s rheumy eyes spot him. He nods knowingly, pats his arm and dodders on.
Martin is close now, with only one road to cross. But I am hopeful, I whisper > today he will be successful <. He stoops, scans the tarmac, takes a breath and runs as if his life depends on it. He is weaving towards me bulging eyes locked with mine. I stand, my face pulls the biggest of grins I feel my arms start to lift. Then a horn blasts, I see him freeze, a voice shouts obscenities. And just like that, … he is gone. There is no point in chasing him. I learned the hard way how that goes. No, I will try again tomorrow and all the other tomorrows that no doubt there will be. With sisterly love and a heavy heart, I tip the server, straighten my back, fasten my coat. I cross the street to give a raggedy bundle in a shop doorway the bag of food that Martin didn’t get. For we never know their story, we only see the remnants of what was.
Too many of our ex military, police, medics Firemen and others are left broken by the trauma they see and clear up every day. This flash fiction is a glimpse at that, a speck of what we know is on our streets, in our towns and villages. Broken discarded people #MentalHealth. Please comment leave me your thoughts below.
In a small market town in Somerset where most buildings are made from Jurassic Hamstone. The public library being one such building sits solid in the ground. Drawn as I was to it, not just because I am to anywhere that books live, the building looked as old as a gnarly tree (Ancient buildings often do) it caught my attention. I was welcomed by a sign outside saying ‘libraries love readers, step inside and read.’ So I did.
This sign I took literally, so with a huge smile, for such a miserable day … I marched right in. Reading stories and making them up has always been my thing. I have been spilling tales from my mouth uncontrollably since I could speak . I have been known (since this day) to fold myself into the children’s corner like a master of yoga and read aloud. Like a character from a Grimm’s fairy-tale or a strong magnet, people would be drawn to me … mostly small ones.
This specific day I did just that. Once I crossed my legs, I pushed my sit bones in to a cushion and began. Parents and children sat and stood around me, eyes wide, mouths open, as they sat in silence. This silence made the voices I gave the characters more pronounced and my face more animated as I read. I elaborated, asked for their input, both big and little people joined in, calling out questions and might have beens. I warmed to the twinkles in their eyes and dimpled smiles, they were the best moments. At the end I was clapped, which pinked my cheeks. I recall a moment of surprise washed over me; chased by a hot shade of embarrassment.
At that very moment a bespectacled gentleman of the Library; the custodian I believe he called himself, shushed me forcibly. So forcibly in fact I would swear his teeth rattled as If they would be blown clean from his mouth. A kind librarian stopped to ask If I would like a regular spot. We all I suspect had a lovely interlude, to an otherwise ordinary day.
What tale do you find your mind wanders to if a child asks you to tell them a story? Do you fabricate one, or prefer to read from a book? Do let me know in the comments.
Welcome to Writing Through the Soul. Every writer writes through their soul and I understand. Here you can read about anything having to do with writing. I share my writing tips and prompts. Enjoy reading my poetry, short stories and what's on my mind in the Writing Through the Soul section. I have something for every reader and writer out there.