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If art is about expression what does graffiti have to say? Sometimes it is territorial marking, gangs claiming streets. And sometimes the artists of a community take to the streets with paint on buildings to tell the stories of heritage. Graffiti can be an outcry, art at its most basic level, one person with something to say.
Writers took to the medium of graffiti in this week’s collection of stories.
The following are based on the December 6, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about graffiti.
PART I (10-minute read)
Paint by Numbers by Bill Engleson
“So, you start with a title?”
“And this time the flash is about…graffiti?”
“Know much about the subject?”
“Can’t say that I do?”
“So, what follows the title? I mean, how does your brain work?”
“Well, I’ve got an arty sounding title. It suggests…that paints involved.”
“Good. What comes next?”
“Fine-tuned google research. Learn the language. Like…tagger.”
“Artist. Then…a twist. Picture this, a tag team of jungle artists. A Tiger tagger and a Giraffe graffiti artist…a Girafffiti Tiger, so to speak. Political animals, eh! Exposing trophy hunters…”
“Sounds good. You better start writing.”
Graffiti by Floridaborne
“So much graffiti!” My mother complained.
As we drove toward the thrift shop, our old car sputtered. She fought to guide it next to the curb.
I asked, incensed, “Why don’t you buy a new car?”
“For the same reason I go to thrift shops,” she grumbled. “Your dad said he fixed this thing!”
I opened the car door, wanting to get a closer look at a good portrait, but mom’s hand grabbed my arm. I pulled away, and said, “This car is graffiti! That’s art!”
What would she think if she knew my graffiti was better?
Pure Art by Ritu Bhathal
Stepping back, he looked up to admire his work.
He inhaled the spray paint, fresh on the wall.
A huge mural filled with colour.
It had taken him the best part of six hours, what with dodging
His tag proudly displayed at the bottom.
Sure, the wall wasn’t his property, and there was a slight chance that
if he got caught, he’d end up at the police station again…
He pulled his hat down firmly and wrapped his scarf over his mouth,
rendering himself unrecognisable.
Some might call it graffiti, but to him, it was pure art.
Exterior Decorator by Di @ pensitivity 101
It was an eyesore, and Harold didn’t know what he could do about it.
He was too old and unsteady on his legs to sort something out himself but his neighbour George came up with an idea and agreed to split the cost as it affected him too.
Jim and Chris were identical twins and had a gift with paint and colour. The two boys were happy to help, and at the end of the day, with £50 in their pocket, Harold had a piece of modern art at the bottom of his garden instead of a dirty concrete wall.
Writing on the Wall by H.R.R. Gorman
I washed the filthy language from the overpass. I swear, the internet is ruining today’s youth and ruining hearts and minds.
A driver crossing the overpass rolled down his window. A man pointed at my pressure washer then asked, “Ain’t leaning over the side there dangerous?”
“State don’t like swastikas on the overpass. Obvious reasons.”
“Looks mighty dangerous to me. Wouldn’t want to fall, would you?”
I caught the threat in his voice, and turned down the pressure washer. As he drove off, I took down his tag number.
Adults these days … rotting the minds of the youth.
The Masterpiece by Anurag Bakhshi
“Dave, stop painting graffiti on the hotel wall. Mom will be furious when she sees it,” Brad cautioned his brother.
“No, she won’t,” replied Dave insouciantly, as his paintbrush destroyed everything in its path.
Brad tried once again, “Mom hates it when you do such things.”
Dave confidently responded, “Not any more.”
Savouring Brad’s confusion, Dave continued, “Don’t you remember her expression when she saw that graffiti on that ceiling yesterday? In that church? Sister…No…. Sistine Chapel. If that Michael guy can paint on the walls of a church, I can certainly do it on these hotel walls!”
Not in Tablets of Stone by Anne Goodwin
He had all the signs of seasonal affective disorder. “But I should be above all that.”
Gabriel was sympathetic. “God Almighty, no-one’s immune.”
“Avarice, gluttony, debauchery. That was never in my plan.”
“Then tell them!”
“How? No-one listens to me anymore.”
“You need to forge a stronger connection.”
“Christ, I can’t send my boy again. He still suffers flashbacks two millennia on.”
“Remember Moses, and the ten commandments?”
“Stone tablets? Everything’s electronic now.”
“Not entirely.” Gabriel handed Him a can of spray paint. “Jesus’ll love this.”
And so we awoke to graffiti on Christmas morning: NOT IN MY NAME!
Looking For a Sign by Tracey Robinson
3:00 a.m. She knew she was done sleeping for the night. It was barely snowing; she decided to walk to the river. She thought about how she was so not having a wonderful life. She got to the bridge and whispered, “Where are you Clarence?” She looked at the frothing water below and then glanced at the bridge trusses. There was new graffiti and she walked closer to read it. In white and blue script were the words “ U R Not Alone”. Next to that in green was “Philippians 4:13”. And off to the left in red: “Clarence.”
Clued by Reena Saxena
He looks at the graffiti on the ground carefully.
The nose and lips are slightly deformed with coins thrown on it. It is perhaps an appreciation of the art by pedestrians. He bends down to remove the outer layer of thick coloured chalk used to draw the picture.
His companion is amazed to see that a different picture emerges in white, and the face is familiar. They now know who is the culprit, and that he has gone this way.
Someone has been kind enough to leave this clue. He wonders what could be the motive of helping them.
Engaging Students by kate @ aroused
Barney was really struggling at school, homework seldom done, wagging class, coming late, fighting in the playground. His teachers despaired of how to engage him.
When walking home one night Mr Burnett spied another kid spraying the walls. These graffiti artists were costing council a lot of money to blank out their undecipherable scrawls.
But as this one finished and turned to leave his face was surely Barney. Then Burnett saw the artwork that Barney had left … This was no scrawl this kid had talent!
Next day Burnett convinced the Head to supply Barney’s cans and work began.
Graphic Artists by Nancy Brady
Angela was going to the museum to see the new collection of graphic artists. That is, until she got stopped by the train. It was a good thing she wasn’t in a hurry because the train was barely moving.
As Angela sat there, she noticed all of the graffiti-covered boxcars and car carriers. Someone certainly had talent with spray paint; how did anyone find the time to paint them, she wondered. Intricate and detailed designs graced the sides of nearly every car. Although they may have been gang symbols, Angela realized she was enjoying an art collection on wheels.
The Petroglyphs at Three Rivers by TN Kerr
Istaqa was a sentry. The night threatened to be as cold as it would be long. He was not vigilant. He spent the night carving pictures of goats on the rocks surrounding his post. Come morning he would show the goats to Chosovi’s father. Chosovi would be his wife if Istaqa could present her father with sufficient goats, and a rifle.
The goats were a symbolic transference of wealth. The rifle was a true symbol of peace between their families. No warrior would arm his enemies.
Istaqa already had the rifle and by morning he would have enough goats.
The Cultural World of a Forgotten People by Irene Waters
“Look Pops. Someone’s painted on the wall. Mum sure would be mad.”
“It’s graffiti Donald.”
“Writing or drawing on a wall. We all want to leave a mark. You know. The oldest graffiti, a hand, is in Indonesia. Thousands of years old.”
“Do’ya reckon this’ll be here in thousands of years.”
“Not a hope and if it was done by Banksey he’s probably organised for it to self-destruct. You know though Donald, stuff going back even a few years gives a snapshot of ordinary people’s lives and what they care about.”
“So Pops, graffiti is pop culture.”
Body Graffiti by Susan Sleggs
The ballet dancer lay motionless on the stage allowing the music to draw me in. After a few bars he raised into a standing position with undulations I couldn’t imagine a body being able to accomplish. The music quickened and he leaped along with the beat then twisted and rolled across the stage as it slowed. His torso and legs were waxed bare, and his leggings matched the color of his skin. His perfected physique was a delight to view in so many different positions. Alas, he cheated himself because the dark blue body graffiti distracted my mind’s eye.
Out with the Class by Papershots
“This is obviously not art.” “Because they changed Best of Luck with Best of F…?” “Please!” He was making another point. The giggles died down, outside the station, writings everywhere; they thought those fonts were not available in Microsoft Word. It was also the, well, artistic process: at night, on the sly, “how can they see the colors if it’s dark?”, “it’s not legal, you know.” Surely writing that This City is Anti-fascist & Always Will Be was a cliché, but the unassuming flower next to it, thin black stem, red petals starting to wither, welled up an inexplicable tear.
Finding Liberty? by JulesPaige
Over water to the separated land, visitors came to see the expressed art in the form of graffiti, which stood for about twenty eight years. Only when the wall was finally taken down could families connect again to some normalcy.
Some artwork of the west side of the Berlin wall has been preserved. Most of it was by anonymous artists. If given the opportunity to express hope to a divided people what could be expressed. One piece of wall projected a series of an American viewpoint. Lady Liberty who once welcomed strangers seeking freedom. Many hope She still does.
The Rat Ass Nutcracker by Sascha Darlington
Look at that graffiti, adding whimsy, art even, to this otherwise festering blight of a urine-soaked street dotted with discarded used syringes, shattered malt liquor bottles, and hamburger wrappers.
One of the sanitation workers shouted “rat-ass” upon viewing my latest creation, but it’s not like they’re going to remove it, or me—they’d have to catch me first and no one ever suspects a blonde teenaged girl in this area.
One remarked, “You be careful. Lousy neighborhood.”
I begin my next creation for Christmas, I decide; a rat pirouetting in a pink tutu to be named: The Rat-Ass Nutcracker.
Scribbling About by Neel Anil Panicker
“Son, what’s it you want to become?”
“A what, son? I mean I’ve heard of photographer, videographer, even choreographer. Pray, what’s a graffer?”
‘Relax, dad. He’s a graffiti artist__one who writes, scribbles, scratches, or sprays on a wall or other surface in a public place for a living.’
“What? Who in his right mind pays for such mindless vandalism? Plus, isn’t all this illegal?
“Dear Dad, world over everyone’s in a hurry. We graffer force them to stop, albeit temporarily, and drive home some homely truths. As for legality, when it comes to art, who requires permission.”
Classic Graffiti by Ann Edall-Robson
“99 words,” she says. “Graffiti,” she says. My mind goes to rail cars painted with obscure words and hieroglyphics. Nothing surfaces to write about. But wait, there is graffiti with an old school twist! Sidetracked for a few hours, the memories prevailed throughout one of the best movies of all time. A classic to be watched over and over – American Graffiti. Drive-in theatres were still the rage. It’s where I saw it for the first time. A must-have addition to the VCR collection with Wolfman Jack spinning the vinyls for an amazing soundtrack. Now this is graffiti!
PART II (10-minute read)
Starship Mira by Saifun Hassam
A fine red Martian dust drifted over the derelict Starship Mira. In the Martian sunlight, one wing was aglow with neon pink and green and blue graffiti, sketches of stargates, starships and constellations deep in space, and of the Solar System.
A fragment from the “journal”
“One line I write every day
on this starship
the last of the crew
how many days before I die
travelers deep into space
to countless Sols beyond our own
return to Sol
to mystery, a vast emptiness
no trace of the past
no voices from home
tired perhaps last day
Noteworthy Collaboration by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Stepping back, Nora tipped her head, listening to the bright voices within the subterranean waterfall. They wove in and out, considering the words and images she’d already painted on the cave’s rock wall, and stopped on a questioning note, awaiting further input.
Corwin lowered his head and lightly brushed the bow across his fiddle, nodding as the voices rose again. Entranced, Nora smiled and lifted her brush and palette, painting what she heard in both fiddler and faerie notes.
Human effort had begun the healing after the brutal Republic Purge, but a thriving world required Nora’s magical collaborative vision.
Flash Fiction: Discovery by The Dark Netizen
This is a discovery that could get us featured on big networks.
Are you recording this, Ryan? Okay good. So here we are, having completed our journey into the caves. We see some clear indications that human life once existed here. These paintings on the wall, seem to depict some kind of script. These are some well drawn lines and some good colour choice. I think we may have discovered a stone-age Picasso. Let’s back up a bit and illuminate the whole wall. There you see folks, a cave painting that seems to read P-S-Y-C-H-E!
Fuck!! Stop recording, Ryan!!!
Graffiti by Joanne Fisher
“If you want to be included in things maybe you shouldn’t be so obviously lesbian!” taunted Bill.
Teri tried to pay him no attention as she spray painted the wall in front of her. She felt angry and hurt and disappointed. She was always left out of things. Maybe it was because she was gay, but she wasn’t going to change so she could fit in. If she had do face things alone then so be it. She would continue to be herself.
She surveyed her finished graffiti: a big red hand flipping off the rest of the world.
Graffiti by Bladud Fleas
I remember one assembly, the headmaster kept us back for admonishment over the proliferation of graffiti. We knew why. It was ZP.
Around the school, singularly or amongst others, the initials “ZP” could be found. Originally, the perpetrator must have fashioned them with a blade into the soft brickwork. Latterly, he had employed more expedient methods.
Who was ZP? I spied a boy once in the act, but was it he? By then, years had passed. I heard the originator had gone to study archaeology. I hoped so: in time, he may be required to account for his folly.
Livelihood by Chelsea Owens
No passersby knew why he sat, in the sun, staring at nothing. A few threw coins or insults. One threw lunch, which he ate, staring as he chewed.
Night fell to all but the wall before him; the whiteness of antique, virgin brick burned into his mind. He paused to start a silent soundtrack. Nodding along to *beat-beat-beat* he opened equally invisible paints.
Pain sprayed black in a wild arc, then red for beating love, then blue for days without the red; then green, grey, purple, orange –
Till, breathless, he stood staring at his soul upon the wall; satisfied.
The Meliorist by Norah Colvin
He opened his bag and glanced about — nobody in sight. A faint glow emanated from single street light further down. A cat meowed somewhere close but the hum of traffic was too far away to deter. The can warmed in his hand as he shook it. He hesitated, then removed the cap. Pressing his lips together, he began spraying, high first, then low. Only when a car horn sounded did he pause. When his cans were spent, he melded into the night and slipped away. In daylight, commuters paused to admire his work and contemplate its message of peace.
The Artist (Part I) by D. Avery
“Ms. Higginbottom, you do recall that I’m the principal?”
“Bob, I’m not calling.”
“Graffiti can’t be tolerated. And you know this boy has problems.”
“And suspension’s a solution, Bob?”
“What can be done, Ms. Higginbottom?”
“Pull him from Health and Geography. Put him in Art, Theatre Workshop.”
“Health and Geography are required courses!”
“I see more of him than those teachers do they send him to the office so often. He’s going to have to repeat them anyway, so let him learn to like school first. Channel his artistic ability.”
“You’ve already made the schedule changes, haven’t you?”
The Artist (Part II) by D. Avery
“Administrative Assistants should not be making these sorts of decisions. I’ll remind you again that you work for me.”
“When you hired me you said everyone here worked for the students. Everyone. I figured I’d assist you in assisting this kid to stay in school where he belongs.”
“Ms. Higginbottom… You are neither an educator nor a guidance counselor.”
“You said that everyone in your school is a teacher and a learner.”
“We can put a brush in his hand and a canvas in front of him or send him away with his spray can.”
Voice of the Streets by Kay Kingsley
Under cover of darkness they run along rooftops, scaling walls and dangling from ropes to scrawl messages of political plight and advocate for change.
They are urban activists and urban artists and the city’s streets and walls are their canvases.
The size of the message doesn’t indicate importance, it’s all equal social commentary except perhaps the occasional professions of love which are grand on their own scale.
Graffiti has always been the voice of rebellion, forbidden by law yet still the artists and poets speak and if you listen well enough you can hear the voices of the streets.
Gingerbread Art by Kate Spencer
“Ger, you’re the best artist I know,” said Janet dropping the gingerbread showcase pamphlet on the kitchen table. She picked up a photo of the graffiti-laden Kelburn Castle in Scotland and handed it to her brother. “You can do this.”
“Sis, I only paint with oils, not icing.”
“And I don’t see the difference; both are messy. Look, all you need to do is duplicate their Picasso-like mural onto my gingerbread.”
“Not interested,” he said opening the fridge door.
“I’m baking the castle and Julie’s helping create the garden paths, yurts and–”
“Okay. Count me in.”
Painted Faces by Jo Hawk The Writer
I work at night, heading home as office workers rise. Later it reverses. They sleep as I gather my tools and lock my door.
Deep into the night, I tread, cans clanking in my bag. The world is silence. A cat slinks through the alley and the wind whispers secrets.
Arriving at my chosen wall, I don my respirator and shake my aerosol can. The can’s clinking echoing the sound of the approaching freight train. Ever vigilant, I spray the wall according to plan.
The morning light reveals my newest creation, and they smile at yesterday’s plain brick wall.
The Cultural World of Forgotten People by Irene Waters
“Look Pops. Someone’s painted on the wall. Mum sure would be mad.”
“It’s graffiti Donald.”
“Writing or drawing on a wall. We all want to leave a mark. You know. The oldest graffiti, a hand, is in Indonesia. Thousands of years old.”
“Do’ya reckon this’ll be here in thousands of years.”
“Not a hope and if it was done by Banksey he’s probably organised for it to self-destruct. You know though Donald, stuff going back even a few years gives a snapshot of ordinary people’s lives and what they care about.”
“So Pops, graffiti is pop culture.”
The Graffiti Artists by Robie Cheadle
“Someone has covered the props for our Christmas play with chocolate graffiti,” Miss Christmas Cracker sobbed.
“What are we going to do?”
“The people of Chocolate Land will be so disappointed if there is no play,” said Mr Christmas Pudding.
“Calm down,” Said Sir Chocolate, “I am sure that if all the folk of the town work together we can clean this mess up quickly. The play must go on. It is a tradition.”
Mr Christmas Pudding smiled.
“You are right. I will give Constable Licorice a call and see if he can find any clues to our artists.”
Unintended Art by Kerry E.B. Black
Paint splashed the walls, speckled the carpet, and dripped on the windows.
Shock froze Benjamin’s features.
He’d tripped over an errant toy Mom had repeatedly asked him to put away. He still grasped his plastic palette, but its contents splattered the room.
Panic rose as he toweled the mess. Instead of cleaning, the paint’s presence grew in smeared rainbows.
A strangled sound escaped Mom as she rushed toward the graffitti. She tripped over the toy. The tray of cookies she’d brought arced through the air and rained upon Benjamin and his unintended art.
It added texture to the design.
A Sign (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Danni traced graffiti on the grain-car. What did it mean? A message? A name? Traffic stalled on both sides of the tracks where it crossed the highway. She didn’t want to think about Ike who had been ahead of them. Better to study the graffiti and let Ronnie find out what happened. She wasn’t in a hurry to know.
She stiffened and asked, “Who got hit?”
Danni blew out the air she’d been holding in. “Ah, damn elk.” Ike had made it across then. Maybe the graffiti was a symbol of gratitude to live another day.
Scratches – One Man’s Art Is Another Man’s Crime by Geoff Le Pard
‘It’s street art.’
‘Give me a break, Logan. These yobbos don’t care about art.’
‘Some of it’s really clever and they’re not breaking anything…’
‘So it’s ok to cover someone’s house in paint?’
‘Often the owner wants it…’
‘What if they don’t?’
‘Ok, that’s wrong. But if the building’s grotty and they bring a smile…’
‘Who gets to judge? What if they upset everyone else? They’re just thoughtless.’
‘So when you go out and get absolutely blotto and ruin everyone else’s night, that’s ok, is it?’
‘Why? You always call it “painting the town red”…’
Paint the Town Spaghetti Western by D. Avery
“Shorty’s repeatin’ herself.”
“We was prompted with pasta a while back, found out they’s at least 39 dif’rent kinds.”
“What are ya talkin’ about, Kid?”
“Graffiti, ain’t that some kinda pasta?”
“Here’s a dictionary Kid. Read it.”
“Graffiti: ‘writing or drawings scribbled, scratched, or sprayed illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place’. Illicitly? Shorty wants folks ta write dirty?”
“Read some more Kid.”
“Illicit: ‘Forbidden by law, rules, or custom’. Oh. Shorty jist wants folks ta break the law.”
“Kid, Shorty jist wants folks ta write-wildly, freely, openly. “
“Put it out there?”
We find the dark unsettling because it’s unknown. We don’t like to be “kept in the dark;” we want to know. We want to see where are, where we are going. Darnkess snuffs the light and we quiver, afraid. And yet we face the darkness and the unexpected.
That’s where writers took their stories this week, into the dark. Like a ship coursing across the Great Lakes in the black of night, writers plowed onward.
The following are based on the November 29, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using the phrase “into the dark.”
PART I (10-minute read)
Into the Dark by Michael
The old man struggled with every breath. In the past week the darkness he sensed was coming closer. He’d been a man in charge of his destiny throughout his life and now he was approaching what for him was uncertainty.
He realised he was no longer in control, “I don’t think I can get out of this,” he told his son as he gripped his hand tighter. Dependence was foreign to them both, but together they resolved to be together until the end.
Eventually, the old man’s breathing slowed and the son gave his father up to the dark.
His Final Descent by Anne Goodwin
When wood meets soil, only Barry’s left holding the rope. Even the undertaker scowls, throws him that look reserved for outsiders and lily-livered pansies with clean hands.
As a boy, Barry feared the cage that delivered working men into the dark. When they arose, skin stained with sweat and coal dust, it seemed a temporary reprieve.
Of course he’s glad his mother pushed him away, to a safer job on the surface of things. But it severed the tie to his dad, to the community that raised him. Now, his father crated forever in his coffin, it’s too late.
Darkest Destiny by Di @ pensitivity101
I cannot go into the dark alone,
Hold my hand, make me strong,
Help me face this cruel Unknown,
Stay with me, prove me wrong.
Emerge with me on the other side,
From darkness into the light,
Tell me that I haven’t died,
That everything will be alright.
You are the one that I embrace,
My rock, the one that I adore,
My heart and mind memorize your face,
Lead me through this unfamiliar door.
Into the dark, I am not afraid,
Knowing you are there beside me,
Senses enhance whilst others fade,
With you, I face my destiny.
Itinerary by Bill Engleson
Even my best-case scenario involved no light.
Oh, you bet your booties I gave it a lot of thought. Research, Man, that’s the ticket. Every trip I ever took, I planned to the minute, down to the second.
I wasn’t one of those guys, you’ve seen them, they can’t even plan far enough ahead to tie their shoelaces.
That was never me.
I hate surprises.
The not knowing.
Gives me the willies.
But this little adventure.
It had me going.
I started a blog.
Into the Dark.
I’ll pay well, I said.
Tell me, I begged.
What’s death like?
The Christmas Tree by Hugh W. Roberts
“Are you sure this is what you want to see?” sobbed Moriah.
Her daughter nodded her head.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it? You know how much I love Christmas,” Mummy.
Choked, Moriah could not answer her young daughter’s question. The tears in her eyes made the lights on the Christmas tree blur into each other.
As they stood together, holding hands, Moriah made a Christmas wish. A wish that would prove the doctor’s predicament of her daughter’s upcoming journey into the dark, because of blindness, untrue.
High up, in the skies above Trafalgar Square, a shooting star ferried the wish.
How Do You Choose to Look at It? by Reena Saxena
“There is an incredibly beautiful universe out there – the kind you have only dreamt about. And it will be yours soon enough …..”
“How much do we have to pay?” yelled an enthusiastic young lad from the back rows.
“It is free.”
“Then there is a catch somewhere. What is the hidden cost?” said another over-cautious person.
“Is it a game to be played?” a techie looked up from his device for a moment.
“It depends how you choose to look at it. One has to get into the dark tunnel first, to come out at the other end.”
Darkness Enfolds by kate @ aroused
The headaches are oppressive,
medication only dulls the pain.
Kids due home from school soon
and I haven’t moved from my room
Eight long years with this tumour
laser treatment stopped it growing
My wish to embrace death
gets stronger by the day
oh for relief from this constant pain
feels like my life is down the drain
The boys have their father
Mitch couldn’t cope
Government says I’m not disabled
I’m so tempted to give up hope
Have no training to get a job
car has died, I can’t cope!
Please give me strength to find the light
The Crate by H.R.R. Gorman
The smoke makes it difficult to breathe. Where is my human? Why is she screaming outside instead of helping me?
Blaring noises and blinking lights scare me. I crawl away into the dark, to my crate, to safety. I curl up on my pillow and whimper as the smoke in the air thickens.
A monster bursts through the door. I bite at its thick hide, but it doesn’t care – it just grabs me and drags me outside where I see her.
“Human!” I bark. “Human!”
I break free of the monster’s grasp and leap into my human’s protective arms.
Darkness Comes by Roberta Eaton
She gazed into the dark depths of the water.
Why had he done it?
Christmas could be a time of great loneliness for people living alone. The good cheer and smiles of families around them resulting in deep despair.
She had received a call from a friend informing her of the death the previous evening. The body had been in the water for a few days making identification difficult.
Water was destructive.
She signed, recalling the message she had received from him a short while before.
Was it a cry for help? Maybe, but it was too late now.
The Black Hole Beyond by Chelsea Owens
Ethereal stardust touched her; tickling, licking, tempting her forward. A thousand thousand glittering steps pulsed the way.
She stepped. And stepped.
One hesitant footfall at a time led her past an eternal tunnel of cosmic shimmering, but also to the edge of inevitable, gaping nothing. Here, there was no stardust, no glitter, no shimmer. Not even a chill, poetic wind whipped against her hesitant spirit, paused on the edge of infinity.
With no eyes to close, no throat to swallow, no resolve to strengthen; she stepped over the edge…
Looking back only once, at the discarded Earth-body far behind.
At This Hour of Eve by Papershots
The world doesn’t have time for this street dancer, his white undershirt and black pants, his slowed-down watery Black Swan, his crystal ball rolling over arms, shoulders, hands, fingers – it never falls! There’s so much else, after all. Like people who turn into fashionable streets or buildings as if they lived there, striving to give that casual impression to those looking. And there are many. Being surprised, deceived possibly, but always to be kept in the dark about the person they glimpsed at rushing by being or not somebody important. Or, some day, a star. Étoiles, they call them.
Another One Through Ellis Island by JulesPaige
Into that dark of Adam’s ale, to hold onto
The waxed brass ships rail, and just look.
T’was a gentle rain that night when
She’d gone above, to walk the deck.
Feel the ocean rocking, breath clean air.
Into that dark of transformation
From old to brand new.
Every fiber of her being was
Excited to see and explore those
Gold paved streets.
Into that dark of all unknown things
To be enlightened, to see Lady Liberty.
The story was told that she had won
A writing contest… her trip to freedom?
No one could confirm her Grandmother’s story.
One Good Turn by D. Avery
He leaned on the doorjamb looking in on his sleeping daughter. His wife slipped under his arm. “She is so beautiful,” she whispered.
“She’s my light.” They walked back to the living room.
“You’re nervous as a cat tonight. What’s wrong? You’ve missed those awful ‘meetings’ before.” She twisted her blonde bangs, showing her own anxiety. “I wish you never went. No job is worth it.”
“I took Angela and that girl Celia to the vet’s. Celia’s cat got hit… Her parents met us there. Buzz saw us.”
Pulling the curtain aside again, he peered into the dark night.
Dark and Light, Black and White by Geoff Le Pard
‘Amanda’s a dark one.’
‘Do you mean she’s mysterious, or you’re being politically incorrect about her racial characteristics or she’s the primordial, sapient, cosmic force of evil.’
‘Probably, though the last one’s a stretch; it’s more she can be a bit of a pain if I forget she likes her coffee black.’
‘You wouldn’t say that.’
‘Why not? If you want a room dark you get blackout curtains.’
‘Are thin curtains whiteout then?’
‘No, that’s a bad snow-storm.’
‘That’s because going inside your head is always like going into the dark, Morgan.’
Darkness by Pete Fanning
I sleep with fear and cuddle with failure. My restless bed-mates jostle me awake, thrashing in the dark—in my head—as I pore over my words. Oh the mistakes, the holes, the terrible grammar. My own personal monsters in the closet.
My bed is where doubt and desire dual. Ten paces into the dark. My quickening heartbeats produce sweat on my brow, dread in my chest, an avalanche of worry.
But morning arrives, and the sunlight finds my window, squeezing through the sliver of curtains. New words are knocking around.
And so I must meet them.
Into the Dark by @DaveMMAdden
Coach’s voice, as if falling into the dark, could still be heard, yet he was nowhere in sight.
“For all the practices coach berated me for being a little late, where was he for the biggest fight of my life?” The thought illuminated the hopeful champion’s mind, de the intersection where hopes and dreams are put on hold.
Coach’s voice was crystal clear now, but Travis couldn’t understand why he wasn’t coaching?
At that moment, Travis’ eyes popped open. There was coach kneeling next to him, haloed by the lights above.
“Ya got caught, champ.”
Lights by Anita Dawes
I watched as my soul sailed into the dark,
the thinking animated part of me disappearing.
A black cloud held me in a bubble,
my mind washed clean, my muse shut out.
There was no way for me to know
how long the darkness would last.
Would my muse be able to find her way back to me?
Would I pick a pen, touch my keyboard;
find those words to place inside a new cover?
It wasn’t too long before the scales dropped from my mind,
soon I could see beautiful lights
sailing across the blue black dark horizon…
PART II (10-minute read)
Voyage by The Dark Netizen
Into the darkness, I lead my ship.
It seemed like the best idea before it became reality: Escape the mundanities of regular life, and set sail on a voyage to explore the world. I wanted to experience the various adventures this world had to offer. A bunch of young ones who were influenced by my words, joined me on my escape from reality. This scares me now. What if I made a mistake? Will these young ones suffer because of me?
Not on my watch…
The darkness does not look so bad, with the moon and stars guiding me…
Trust by Jo Hawk The Writer
“Are you sure?” Lenore asked leaning over Artel’s shoulder to peer at the map.
“Damn it. Don’t you believe me?” Artel said shoving the map at her before stepping away.
“Of course, I do. But I didn’t expect this.” Lenore waved her hand indicating the opening in front of them. She wrinkled her nose at the dank smell.
“He said ‘expect the unexpected’. So, I guess the real question is…” Artel paused and looked hard at Lenore, “do you trust the oracle?”
Lenore glanced at the map, then nodded.
Together they lit their torches and stepped into the dark.
Stepping into the Unfamiliar by Norah Colvin
The car lights dimmed as she reached the door – timed perfectly. But, when the porch light didn’t activate, immersing her in total darkness, she cursed the storm. As she pushed the door of the still unfamiliar house, she rummaged for her phone. Dang! No charge. She inched along the wall, fingers seeking the corner and toes the step she knew was close. Stepping down, she dumped her bag and tossed her saturated scarf. She edged towards the sideboard and a battery-powered candelabra. As she fumbled for the switch, the room was flooded with light and cheers of ‘Happy housewarming!’
Snowy Vacation by Nancy Brady
On that first weekend in December, our family decided to spend a few days at our mountain cabin. We were excited to spend a last weekend away before winter.
Flakes fell, becoming a blizzard, and we were plunged into the dark, the power knocked out. Our old oil lamp became our only light, but we made the best of it.
The following morning, with impassible roads, we hunkered down, knowing we weren’t going anywhere soon. Still, we had plenty of food, but not much lamp oil. One night followed another, but our lamp continued to shine, lasting eight days.
Further Into The Dark by Kay Kingsley
We walked arms lengths apart scanning the forest floor, our heads sweeping back and forth methodically, praying to recognize anything out of place other than ourselves. It was getting cold as the night crept up behind us. Our hearts were racing as sticks and branches snapped below our feet from our weight. Flashlights turned on, we were nowhere near stopping. She’d already been missing for three days and was out here, somewhere. There was still a chance. The tension was broken as I yelled, “Cara, can you hear me?” Only silence responded as we walked further into the dark.
Gordian Knot by Kerry E.B. Black
Bonnie squeezed Michelle’s hand and begged, “Don’t go. It’s scary.”
Michelle’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, but whether formed of fear, sadness, or excitement, Bonnie couldn’t tell. She tugged on her sister’s arm. “Michelle, please. Don’t leave. Who’ll take care of me?”
Without a sideways look, Michelle tousled Bonnie’s curls. “You don’t need me,”
She pointed with her chin into the unknown, “but I need this.”
Bonnie clung to her sister, but Michelle loosened her fingers with ease, as though the Gordian Knot of reliance bore no challenge. She ignored Bonnie’s cries and stepped away and into the dark.
Into The Dark by Ritu Bhathal
Swaying slightly, she stumbled out into the dark.
It took Penny a few moments for her eyes to adjust to the dim light.
The door had slammed shut behind her.
Why had she decided to have that last drink?
She knew alcohol and her didn’t mix, yet all it took was the encouragement of a few mates, and she was knocking them back.
And with each drink, came confidence.
She danced, and smiled, and flirted.
But he took it too far.
The pushing to the toilets.
The clawing hands.
She shoved him and ran, fleeing via the fire exit.
The First Night by Juliet Nubel
The key turned stickily in the lock. She would get the knack of it soon, the twist and pull necessary to open the flimsy front door.
Reaching for the light switch she heard nothing. Silence was a bad sign. Where was the damn mains box to shed electricity on her new abode?
Her phone was so old that its unhelpful face was a small grey square and the one number she would have called in the past had been erased forever.
She stumbled blindly into the lumpy sofa and sat there, letting her tears fall quickly into the dark.
Into the Closet by Regina Davis-Sowers (The Humble Word Nerd)
Today, a new horror entered her life. Johnny Campbell had spitefully called her “Little Monster,” and the other kids had shouted the name at her in all of her classes. Caroline nearly tripped and fell as she raced for home, needing more than ever the solitude found only in the closet. It had been her refuge from her mother’s verbal abuse. Being in the closet was like moving in the dark of night, safely hidden from the light where people can see you to hurt you. She hated to return to school tomorrow, but the closet always awaited her.
Lost Compass by Sascha Darlington
The rainy days are the easiest. I turn over, pretend the sun hasn’t risen, the day hasn’t begun, except for the hum of traffic, mocking in its ocean-like rhythm.
At work, I cajole, pretend. At home, I sink, obsess over regrets that lure me into the dark, driving me to ask how did I get here?
When I was little, my granny would open a can of tuna. I’d eat the flakes from the can while she mentored. “You can be and do anything you want.”
Molten desire. Wrong road. Answered naïve prayer.
Gran, I let us both down.
Darkness by Frank Hubeny
We knew but didn’t know. Walking into the dark without a good flashlight on this road from our cabin wasn’t the smartest thing we did. Street lights at home were everywhere, but there were no lights here and then there were stars, bright and unbelievably everywhere, but not bright enough.
Our phones helped give some light and our feet felt for the edge of the road. We rushed back. We hoped it wasn’t too far. The Moon would rise soon. We saw it through the trees on the horizon. Would it help us see?
And then there it was.
Darkness by Floridaborne
“You can’t keep writing and rewriting,” my husband says. “You’re not learning anything and getting nowhere.”
“I’m searching in the darkness with my characters,” I explain. “As they learn, I learn.”
He continues to admonish me. “When you give an explanation, you must be concise!”
“What do you want me to explain?” I ask.
“Whether it’s right or wrong, you must present it well!”
“I know that during the holidays it’s best to steer clear of you,” I sigh. “Learn to take your own advice.”
He grunts and says, “Then you’ve learned nothing,” as he heads toward the door.
The Meaning of Life by TNKerr
Abelard Stiles turns his profile and strong jawline to the audience as he clasps both hands of Marissa Herring, his costar, playing Angelique. He looks longingly into her cerulean eyes, pellucid as gems of northwestern azure.
“Angelique, my love, I must go. I leave you now for the glory of Canada. My comrades await. ” He drops her hands and pivots melodramatically, walking out of the spotlight, into the dark at the back of the set.
Marissa pushes her hair back, clasps her breast, and collapses like a husk to the stage. “Oh, Neville; don’t go, come back, please.”
Upon reading Hawthorne’s “Rappaccini’s Daughter” by Saifun Hassam
Camilla sat on an oaken bench in the twilight of a fall evening. An owl hooted as the evening sky deepened into night. She rose quietly, drawn irresistibly into the dark of a crumbling arbor among whispering willow trees.
Once the mysterious and beautiful Esmeralda lived in a cottage there, among gardens of fragrant flowers. Exotic and poisonous flowers from her father’s botanical gardens. Esmeralda breathed in the wondrous and magical scents, and was drawn into the darkness and mysteries of the Dream.
The cottage was no longer there, the gardens had vanished. And yet a haunting fragrance lingered.
Into the Darkness by Irene Waters
“It’s good to have you here.” Her mother nodded agreement, squeezing Rebekkah’s arm.
“See you in the restaurant sixish for breakfast love.” The elderly couple turned and walked away, heading to the burré they had been allocated in their daughter’s hotel. The dim lights from the house disappeared plunging them into the dark.
“I didn’t know blackness like this existed.”
“No stars. No moon. No electricity.”
“Wish Beccy’d given us a torch.” They stumbled into trees, down ditches unable to find their way.
“We know the light always comes. Let’s just sit and wait. We’ll sing.”
“Two blind mice.”
The Night Before by Liz Husebye Hartmann
“What have you got there?”
“Special order for Daniel, in Minnesota!”
“Minnesota is too general, see? The original says Minnetrista.”
“Check the database. Where’s your tablet, Kringle?”
“Dammit, I’m a driver and a toymaker, Rudolph, not a techie,” He pulled his beard, frustrated.
Apologetic, Rudolph bumped his belly with an antler. “You’re also an innovator, Santa…the guy who saw promise in a young buck’s red nose.”
“I’m good with elves, but those consultants in the brown uniforms creep me out.”
“You’re fine. Just do your Ho-ho-ho routine, and go bravely into the dark.”
“Still guiding my sleigh, Rudolph…Thanks!”
Sunrise is Expected by Ann Edall-Robson
Sunrise is expected
Over the ridge
Of towering pines
Shades of melon and lemon
Touch blackened sky
Clear blue whiteness
Scattered by the wind
Lofty darkened clouds
Destined to where
Colour turns to flattened gray
Scurrying with speed
Driven by turbine winds
Time evolves in minutes
Welcoming day colours gone
Pushed from sight by gusts
Distant thunder rumbles
Mountain peaks push
Up into the dark
The subtle warning spoke
Of what is yet to come
Relentless prairie winds howl
On into the stormy night
Until their quiet song settles
The towering pines
On the ridge
Where sunrise is expected
Light in the Lode by D. Avery
“Is Shorty a spelunker, Pal?”
“More like a miner. Why?”
“Jist wunderin’. She’s often talkin’ ‘bout caves an’ dark places. What’s she do, dig in the ground, mine fer copper?”
“Nah, but she does gather rocks, right in the light a day at the shore.”
“Shorty selects stones in the sunshine by Superior’s shore?”
“Sure as shift, Kid.”
“Then what’s she a miner of, Pal?”
“Yer thicker an’ a Superior snow squall, Kid. Shorty works words. She mines stories. Heard she hit a mother lode that starts right here at the ranch an’ reaches all ‘roun the world.”
All Write in the End by D.Avery
“Course we’re ‘here’, Pal, we’re always where we’re at. Uh, where we at?”
“That spot I was tellin’ ya ‘bout.”
“This’s more ’n a spot. This’s a big ol’ hole in the hill.”
“Gateway ta Hell?”
“Why? It’s darker ‘n dark’s night.”
“Shorty says, that’s why. Anyway, what’s the worst thing could be in there?”
“Bats, bears, spiders, snakes, catamounts. Mebbe a pack a writers, think nuthin’ ‘bout killin’ off characters.”
“I’m thinkin’ on it. Let’s go. We’ll catch a story.”
“Ta bring back ta the campfire?”
“Yep. Write light.”
Often we think of scraps as what remains. Sometimes they can be what rebuilds. Fragments can be anything from torn photos to memories. Fabric and recall can fade, yet we piece together what we can and hang on to our stories.
Writers naturally grasp at scraps to build stories. This week they took to the prompt with surprisingly powerful responses.
The following are based on the November 15, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that uses scraps.
Part I (10-minute read)
Darkest Before Dawn by Sascha Darlington
Harrowing words split midnight, my parents dissolving.
The next morning, bleary-eyed, I arrived at the breakfast table to witness their ultimatum. Shredded pictures of not only them as a couple, but us as a family strewn across the oak table, on the vinyl, like crumbs of discarded bread.
I was sixteen. By then I’d witnessed relationship suicide for fourteen years, but I strived to separate it from my younger siblings.
Mom sauntered into the kitchen, smiling. “Pancakes, honey?”
My gaze moved from the fragments before me to her. She noticed my gaze, shrugged.
“No worries. We’re fine. Just fine.”
Seashore Days (from “Diamante”) by Saifun Hassam
Chattering and giggling, the village children trekked along with Diamante, Jenvieve, and Francine to the seashore. There was work to be done first. Along the sand dunes, they gathered scraps of broken wood, twine, and sea algae from the broken fence, for a low fence around the brown thistle and yellow coreopsis.
After devouring a picnic of fish and potato pancakes, they created sand castles and fantastic sea monsters. Their excited cries carried in the breeze when they found sea urchins and starfish in the tidal pools.
The tide flowed in, the children turned towards home, reluctant, tired, happy.
It’s the Dog’s Fault by Susan Sleggs
“Damn it! I knew your dog didn’t like my moving in. My clothes from vacation are now scraps on the laundry room floor.”
“I warned you to keep that door closed.”
“Well I forgot.”
He handed her the bills from his wallet. “Go shopping. I don’t want to lose you or the dog.”
She gave half the money back then kissed him. “Partly my fault.”
He stuffed the pieces into a garbage bag.
At Christmas he gave her a quilt his mother had made from the scraps. Its origin was told to family members with much adoration and laughter.
The Circle of Our Love by Colleen M. Chesebro
Sally watched Nana roll the scraps of dough into a ball on the floured cutting board. This was her first time baking, and she couldn’t wait to mimic every move her grandmother made.
“Why do you roll it into a circle?”
Nana smiled as she maneuvered the rolling pin. “Because it’s easier to fit inside the pan.”
“But you could use a square pan, right?”
“Yes. I could, but the circle reminds me of our family. I gave birth to your mommy, and she gave birth to you. If we all hold hands, it’s a circle of our love.”
Russian Eggs by TNKerr
When the new Pastor showed up at the parish potluck bearing Russian eggs; the Elders all objected.
“This is a church event,” they insisted, “deviled eggs are inappropriate.”
Pastor Huberd chuckled until Elder Belknap blocked his path and an argument ensued. The Elders all were adamant, they stood united. Soon chests puffed up. There was pushing and shoving.
No one knows, for sure, who threw the first punch; I believe it might have been the Widow Montes.
In the course of the ensuing scrap, the fancy plate broke and the eggs were trampled underfoot. It was a total loss.
Untitled by Dave Madden
From the moment baby Drew could swing his tiny arms and legs of his own volition, he’d connect hands or feet to anything moving with an uncanny level of precision.
Everyone would coo in unison, “How cute!”
As Drew aged, his aggression intensified and its adorable nature quickly vanished.
Before shipping Drew off to military school, his parents tried enrolling him in martial arts. One martial art snowballed into others, which caged his rage and directed him on a path toward MMA.
Undefeated and well on track to becoming a champion prizefighter, his career was pieced together from scraps.
The Sibling E – A Fighting Vowel by Geoff Le Pard
‘What now, Morgan?’
‘My brother. He said we used to scrap all the time while all I remember is being told we got into scrapes.’
‘It’s possible you did both.’
‘You’re sitting on the fence again.’
‘No, look. You scrap with each other but together you get into scrape.’
‘I suppose. We did both sometimes.’
‘When mum made a cake she’d let us fight for the bit of cake-mix in the bottom of the bowl.’
‘Ah, you’d scrape the scraps.’
‘Yep and then we’d scrap for the scrapes.’
‘I preferred cake-mix to cake.’
‘Me too. Weird huh?’
Memory Quilt by Norah Colvin
She was old but definitely not out. Because they were the sons, they had responsibility for her affairs. But they knew her not and cared little for her comfort or her dignity. They signed her away without consultation, denied their sisters access to her home, sold what they could and disposed of what was left. Their one compensation for their sisters was her sewing box. What they considered worthless, the sisters stitched together. With tears of joy as well as pain, mother and daughters shared the stories embedded in each tiny piece of fabric and woven into their hearts.
Puss by Kerry E.B. Black
Oma taught me everything has value, even discards.
That’s good, because I’m a cast-off. My parents left me in a basket on Oma’s doorstep one winter night after Oma had gone to bed. Two of her cats curled their warmth about me. That’s how she found me, with cats guarding my makeshift crib.
That’s why she calls me Puss.
Oma saves bits of fabric and sews colorful quilts.
With her lessons I weave a tapestry of experiences. I talk to outcasts, befriend the friendless, and gravitate toward the lonely. I hope to thereby create something beautiful of this life.
Fight by the Dark Netizen
I ducked and rolled, dodging the roundhouse kick thrown at me.
The crowd cheered on as my opponent backed up and assumed his ready stance. I got back to my feet and brushed the dust off my body. This was one tough bugger. He was still standing after three of my punches had made acquaintance with his face. Underground fighting is a dirty, tough world. I have been bruised and battered in the many scraps I have been a part of. But none were as tough or as important as this one.
This one is to save my family…
Scraps From the Past by Liz Husebye Hartmann
She picks up a marble, rolling and squeezing it in her palm at a searing memory of betrayal.
She lifts another object to her nose, breathes deep the unidentifiable organic aroma. This tiny scrap, nap nearly bald with love, is all that remains of her early childhood.
That other, wedged into the corner of the wooden box she’d pulled from the top closet shelf, is handled with care. Its barbs, rusted with neglect, are still dangerous. She remembers the doctor, his kind blue eyes as he snipped and extracted. She touches her cheek.
All alive, only in her memories.
Scrapbooking by kate @ aroused
Andrea loved to scrapbook, so much that her house was overcrowded with all the paraphernalia. Fancy borders, stick ons, clothe pieces, anything that would make her scrapbooks more beautiful, more exceptional.
Each Saturday she met with two like-minded friends and they’d create and chat, a habit of many years. Sad part was nobody really wanted to view their exotic creations … so full of meaning to them but lost on others.
Andrea knew her ‘collecting’ had got out of hand, no room for visitors. Barely a path to get to bed, her scraps had accumulated to become a hazard.
Time to Let Go by Kay Kingsley
Sifting through boxes stacked to the ceiling, I relived my old life one memory at a time.
Boxes I packed to one day take with me, instead I sifted through and weaned, taking only the memories I couldn’t part with.
Flashes of childhood, high school, memories of first crushes, of family before the divide.
I discarded some items with ease wondering why I kept such silly things so long, other items required time to mourn.
Life has changed.
I realized these scraps make up me and yet none of these are who I am.
It’s time to let go.
Memories by tracey robinson
The cemetery was gray this February morning. I sat on my mother’s grave and looked at the flat marker.
I remembered her sitting on the kitchen floor playing jacks with me. Bounce, scoop. The smell of sugar cookies cooling on the counter. The radio playing “Summer Nights” and her pretending to be Olivia Newton-John. I heard her voice: “You’ve got this, you are strong”.
Scraps of memories were all I had left of her. A gust of wind blew crunchy brown leaves and brittle pages of yellowed newspaper past me. I hoped my memories didn’t blow away as easily.
C.E. by D. Avery
They approached warily. The car had been gutted, no longer habitable. She spied a scrap of paper stuck to the floor. The glove box yielded another and a stub of pencil.
“That’ll make good tinder.”
“No. It’s mine.”
He shrugged. They trudged on until dusk.
He coaxed a fire from his bow drill while she sharpened the pencil against a rock. The scrap of paper was a fragile promise in her shaking hands.
She wanted to. It’d been so long. She’d start with the date.
It felt like fall. Was it November? The year she knew- 2023.
Neglect by Anita Dawes
The great castle on Forest Hill
Long deserted, the dining hall left in a hurry
The plates mouldy with the remains of a feast
The church in the private grounds
Broken by long years of neglect
Stained glass windows smashed by time
Lay like tiny shards of coloured lights
Stolen from a kaleidoscope
Would that I could put it all back together again
Make it whole, no more scraps of things
That once were made with love and care
Tourists come and go, visiting the great sites
Never knowing the people who lived there
When time was whole, loved…
When Old Is Made New by JulesPaige
The old building was being torn down to make new class rooms. The artist wanted to use some of the clay from the bricks of the building to make a Mezuzah that resembled the structure. A Mezuzah holds a Hebrew prayer of blessing. Some of the script could be seen through the windows of the sculpted clay piece.
On the door frame of the new building is a reminder of the old. A simplistic copy that older generations could see and say; ‘Ah, ha.’ And newer members entering part of the new social hall could also see what was.
Life Scraps by Ritu Bhathal
Brenda hobbled backwards and admired her handiwork.
It had taken a long time. A lifetime.
Gazing at the large quilt, pieced together lovingly, she wiped a tear that had settled on her cheek.
Each and every scrap of material used showed another step taken in their life.
She gently fingered the white satin patch at the top, sewn next to a rough, black patch.
Their wedding outfits.
Scraps from old curtains, sheets, special clothes, even a tartan square from Reg the dog’s old blanket.
Wrapping it around her, she knew he was still close by, always in her heart.
The Bone and Rag Man’s Goose Dinner by H.R.R. Gorman
The rag and bone man picked through the pile of refuse with his hooked walking stick. A bit of metal glinted, so he bent to pick it up. He grunted and bent his arthritic knees, then sifted through the greasy pile of scraps. Fingers that jutted out of hole-ridden gloves chilled in the frozen goose fat.
He turned the goose carcass over and brushed some of the blackened grease off the shimmering metal inside, only to find a golden egg.
His good mood turned foul: who was rich enough to kill and eat a goose that laid golden eggs?
Part II (10-minute read)
SCRAPS by Papershots
Cher is in Vegas and you can fly out to see her. And talk to her backstage. The revolving billboard slides in some nasal spray, get rid of congestion and back to your day; no day seems worth it unless you fly out and see her – Cher, again – light-blue, young, divine. She slides back. Then there are other events in this town and those preferred flyers or paper of cheaper quality, too light not to swirl around in the chilly wind. It’ll be daybreak before Personnel will clean up the crumpled mass of fantastic evenings not to be missed.
Same for Me by Juliet Nubel
“And I’ll have scraps with mine, please”.
My definition of the word obviously wasn’t hers. What was this big strapping Yorkshire lass, queuing in front of me, actually asking for?
I watched as the young man behind the counter drove the huge serving spoon to the bottom of the bubbling oil. What he brought back to the surface looked other-wordly. Burnt, brown, greasy little pieces of batter, piled high in a mound of calories. He poured the lot on top of her fish and chips.
“Same for me, please.”
He smiled at my out-of-place accent.
“Comin’ right up, love”.
No Longer Alone by Di @ Pensitivity101
He was there again, sitting quietly, waiting.
The old man took his seat outside and placed his usual order.
The bacon, sausage and eggs arrived, the smell making his nose twitch, but he stayed where he was.
‘Come here Boy,’ the old man said, and the dog wandered over to sit at his feet.
No collar, no lead, but obviously not starving as he was not the only one feeding him scraps.
The plate now clean, the dog looked directly at him, head tilted.
‘Want to come home with me Boy?’ he asked.
The tail wagged.
‘Come on then.’
Scraps to Treasured Heirlooms by JulesPaige
Yarn leftovers. Some from Grandmother’s blanket that was knitted. And more from a two headed sweater that Ma was gifted as a joke. But most were from yard sales or charity shops. Crocheted two or three ply into squares. The blankets have our initials in them. Carefully crafted into those stitches that hold a single square together.
They weigh a ton! Staying overnight at the firehouse in winter, Ma wanted us to be warm. We can only guess at the places where some of the skeins came from. But we do know that love is bound in every stitch.
A Patchwork of Love by Teresa Grabs
The kids laughed and pointed, but I never cared. When we were supposed to be playing Red Rover, Red Rover, they’d call Patchy, Patchy whenever it was my turn to come over. I would smile and run over as if Patchy was my name. I loved it.
Mama made my clothes from scraps that friends and family gave her. My shirt was part Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt Lucy, and even Baby Joseph. My pants were part Dad, a little Grace, and a whole lot of Uncle Hal.
The more they called me Patchy, the more I felt my family’s love.
Untitled by Frank Hubeny
Words are like scraps found in a drawer of former times. We saved them, whoever we were back then, some stranger we would not want to talk to today.
Now we re-read those words and remember what we didn’t think existed to remember. Were there any truth in those words, ever?
That’s how Peter read a letter from Janice explaining that she didn’t mean to hurt him arguing how one and one meant two and did not involve three and because of that, and because Phil had someone else as well, he should take her back.
Peter never did.
Scraps of Memory by Bill Engleson
I press my fingers tightly against my temple. That helps sometimes. The pressing in. Perhaps it touches some point of recall, some lobe of a button.
Sometimes I know my entire life is stored inside me.
I know that like I know my…
She will call me a name from time to time. Hold my face with her weathered hand, smile, whisper…words…”I miss you. You’re here…but I miss you.”
I knew so many.
Do I really remember that?
I release my fingers from the brow of my history.
The fog rolls in.
It rarely lifts.
Scraps of Imagination (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli Mills
Cleaning out Ramona’s dresser felt wrong, but Danni could no longer sulk over coffee at the kitchen table. She heard Ike tell his Uncle Logan, “At least she wasn’t a hoarder.”
True, Danni thought. Ramona was frugal but wrapped in her sock-drawer were rolls of dollar bills. She thought about showing the men and making a Grandma-was-a-stripper joke. Ramona would have chuckled. Danni spied a scrapbook beneath. Curious, she opened up pages to fairy drawings and cursive writing. Scraps of dried flowers mingled with Ramona’s fertile imagination before dementia robbed them all of who she was.
Crafting Scraps by Nancy Brady
Scraps of paper with just the right word; a snippet of a line; a phrase or two…she crafted poems like she crafted collages.
She chooses her words like she chooses the bits and pieces of paper and string to make up her vision for her art piece. Rearranging the lines to fit the rhythm, to fit the idea of the poem is as complex as arranging and rearranging the papers into the completed collage.
Does the poem express her inner thoughts? Has she put the words together to craft the poem that she originally envisioned? Does the poem succeed?
Scraps by Quiall
“It sits on a counter, waiting . . .”
“Can it be alive?”
“He knows he is about to die when . . .”
The scraps of an idea swirl around her head. Is it a poem? A short story? Should she tell the truth or concoct a believable lie from the scraps he left behind. But these are his words in her head, his lies. The only way to escape the torment he inflicted for so many years, through so many stories, is to act now.
She did. She placed the knife on the countertop and smiled.
Scraps of Ideas by Susan Sleggs
A writing class after retirement seemed like a good idea, but the first assignment, write a short story about anything, left me paralyzed. I went to my husband for help and he reminded me of the scraps of paper in my bedside table that I had written bits of dreams down on. We read them aloud and found a few that I could combine into one story. I had my outline. My first assignment garnered an A and whenever I needed another subject I went back to my scraps for inspiration. They turned out to be unexpected treasure trove.
Snippets of Treasure by Patrick O’Connor
For years I would write notes on napkins and scraps of paper.They would be folded and stuck into my pocket.
Oftentimes, I would throw them in a drawer and promptly forget about them.
Recently, I went to a garage sale and bought an old trunk.
There were no keys so, at home, I broke the lock open.
Inside were 50 scraps of paper.
Each had short snippets of stories written long ago.
Transcribing the notes and scanning the originals has now set me up for an exciting time of trying the write a story using all these thoughts.
Too Glossy for Him by Anne Goodwin
“We’ll make a memory book. A scrapbook of his life.”
I imagined rough grey pages, flour-and-water paste. But the occupational therapist grew up in the digital age.
She pointed out his name on the cover. He turned away. She turned to me: “Let’s discuss care homes.”
Not yet, surely? I wiped dribble from his chin. Of course he didn’t recognise the fellow in the photographs. He never thought he’d find himself in a glossy hardback book.
Old newspapers, a tattered notepad, a stick of glue.
Like the gentleman I married, he took my hand. Raised it to his lips.
Scraps by Floridaborne
A sign said, “Welcome to the 1969 Dance of Elegance.”
An orchestra began to play “The Blue Danube” Waltz.
My date asked, “Care to dance?”
He loved my irreverence, my sense of adventure. I loved how he made me feel so accepted.
Dresses of the finest satin swirled around while we spoke of universal concepts. But it was my tight empire dress, with velvet top and satin brocade, my favorite, turning heads!
“Such a lovely dress,” my date said.
“My mom created this dress with 25 cents worth of remnants.”
“And that is why I love you,” he chuckled.
Interactive Themes by Reena Saxena
It is an excellent workshop. We choose fabric scraps we like from the heap, and fashion it into outfit ideas. Then, we move to the circular rack with hanging garments, and make our choices a second time. Some of us make different choices the second time.
The facilitator helps us interpret our choices to show our personality types. If the choices vary the second time around, it is due to the cut, structure or style of the garment, and our self-image.
It is the interaction of human stories that makes us connect, or disconnect from each other. Presentation matters.
Untitled by Michael
When I met Mary she was scrounging throwing items into an old shopping trolley.
The trolley contained everything that was important to her. When I asked her about her life she pulled an old photo album from the bottom of the trolley and laid it out on the ground. “My life,” she said pointing to photos of a young girl, a woman in uniform and finally a woman with child.
“I’m not a scrap of good anymore,” she said shutting it up and burying it again. She shuffled off, the scraps of her life moving in front of her.
Patchwork by Chelsea Owens
They called it trash, and it was. Humanity’s selfishness was strewn about the world; molding, stinking, soaking in.
“Don’t bother,” they said.
Amongst the walls of yelling filth she closed her ears, strained her eyes.
There! A flutter of love beneath that greed.
There! Some tattered trust nearly blown away.
And there! Hardly a scrap of deepest hope, wedged between bigotry and vice.
Tiptoeing past an open pit of malice and an oozing patch of some sort of thoughtlessness, she made it home. Inside the stained and leaning walls, against the howling narcissistic winds-
Swept Up by D. Avery
“What’re ya doin’, Pal?”
“Ever week they was writin’ fer the Rodeo, now ever week they’s celebratin’ ever’one’s accomplishment, an’ here I am, sweepin’. Ya’d think the dang Beatles had been through.”
“Well, it was the Fab Five, but Pal, ya might wanna update yer pop culture references.”
“Sir Paul’s got a new album out though.”
“Do they still call ‘em albums?”
“I dunno. I’ll help ya sweep up, Pal. Is this confetti? Or scrap paper from the draftin’?”
“Is there any other way ta write?”
“I feel ir-elephant, Kid.”
“More like a woolly mammoth, Pal.”
Who knew mashed potatoes possessed such superpowers? Sure, the buttery mashed tubers sway our senses, paired with bangers or served alongside turkey and gravy. But they can do much more, unexpected feats.
This week, writers played dangerously, pairing mashed potatoes with superpowers. The imaginative responses are out of the ordinary kitchen and into realms you never thought potatoes would take you.
The following stories are based on the November 8, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that pairs mashed potatoes with a superpower.
PART I (10-minute read)
Gravy Witch by H.R.R. Gorman
I put my plate on the table pulled the napkin from atop my crystal ball centerpiece. A tap of my spoon on the orb’s surface initiated my process to scry for criminals.
A man shoveling jewels into a bag appeared in the cloud at the center of my ball. I curled my finger toward myself, pulling his spirit from the ball and dropping it on my plate. It settled in the mashed potatoes.
I tipped my gravy tureen over the potatoes and watched the orb with glee as his body suffered from a heart attack. His soul tasted delicious.
Super Mash by Ritu Bhathal
I sat at the table, awaiting my meal.
It was bangers and mash tonight. My absolute favourite.
I don’t know why, but somehow mum managed to make the best mashed potato ever.
Creamy, fluffy, light, with no lumps: something I had still not mastered, despite copying her technique.
And no matter how I was feeling, it made me feel better. If I was ill, the buttery mash would make me feel better. If I was upset, I’d leave the table smiling.
I don’t know why, but it was that mash. Maybe mum had some sort of mystical mash superpower…
Wielding Power (Part I) by D. Avery
It was Ilene’s idea to include Marge’s senile mother for Thanksgiving.
“Everyone just be whoever she thinks you are. It’ll be fine.”
Fortunately she thought Marge and Ernest were her parents. Marge would wield some power.
“Betty, I think you know everyone.”
“I see Ida brought George.”
Marge smirked. Lloyd was to be her mother’s best friend’s brother; Ilene would have to keep her hands off him.
“Look who’s here.”
Nard spilled his beer when Betty Small embraced him. “Billy! You got leave!”
Marge grinned. “Yes, your fiancé.”
She could have asked Betty to mash the potatoes but didn’t.
Wielding Power (Part II) by D. Avery
“Make room on the couch for Betty and Billy,” Marge commanded. “Let them get caught up.” She laughed at Nard’s desperation as he helped her mother to the couch.
“I’m your father?”
“No. Billy didn’t make it back.”
“She never loved my father as much.”
When everyone in the crowded singlewide had a full plate Nard spoke, holding Mrs. Small’s hand.
“Thanks Lord for these friends and all this food. Lord, I’m grateful for Betty, love of my life… I’ll come home,” he promised.
After a moment of astounded silence Ernest coughed ‘amen’ and everyone dug in.
Wielding Power (Part III) by D. Avery
“Marge, Ernest- epic. Good food.”
“Thank you Lloyd. I sure do miss my mother’s mashed potatoes though. These are just ok. She did something that made hers….”
“Yeah, Lloyd, epic. I wish I knew what it was.”
“Marge, these are fine. A little garlic and rosemary wouldn’t of hurt either.”
But Marge’s mom was already Betty again, mooning over Nard. Nard’s uniform was just his cleanest Dickies from the dealership, but he was soldiering on in his role.
Leaning against Ernest, Marge smiled gratefully. “My mother hasn’t called me by name in two years.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Marge.”
Mashed Potato Surprise by Rosemary Carlson
The family sat down for Thanksgiving dinner. She had cooked quite a dinner and he had helped. Everyone was at the table and they were both carrying the dishes of food to the table when she heard a crash. She turned around and he had dropped a large bowl of mashed potatoes on the floor, splattering them everywhere. They were everyone’s favorite dish.
He smiled, walked to the table, and pointed his finger. A lightning bolt appeared and at the end, a large bowl of mashed potatoes.
She said, “Hmm, so why have I bothered cooking all these years?”
The Eye of a Potato Superhero Hurricane by Bill Engleson
There we were, jawing over a cuppa Joe at Ernie’s Eats. Ernie was in a small businessman funk.
He gets that way.
“Spud, its always the little guy that gets the short end of the superhero stick.”
“I don’t getcha,” I said.
“Well,” said Ernie, stroking his chin like it was a cat, “Take dine and dashers. You don’t see guys like the Spy Smasher showing up, givin’ them what for, do ya? Nope. Too darn busy smashin’ spies. What I need is…well, you. Spud Smasher! Yeah! Spud Smasher! Mashin’ those dine and dashers.”
“Dream on, Ernie. Dream on.”
Captain Amazing vs Mashed Potatoes by Teresa Grabs
Captain Amazing was known throughout the universe as the one person you wanted in your corner. He had faced the mighty Balthazar and squashed the Fidget uprising in ’22. After a remarkable career as a galactic superhero, he retired. He had a soft spot for kids, so when Amy cried for help, he had to answer. He misjudged his landing and smashed through the window. Airborne mashed potatoes landed on his head.
“Not mashed potatoes! My only weakness!”
Amy’s mother looked at the puddle on the floor, then at the broken window, and shrugged. She had a turkey to prepare.
Educated Boars? by JulesPaige
As one of three brothers, finally living free from our adversary, I can be grateful to look out of our window and see rainbows after a rain. But we are not so foolish to be lax in our preparedness. Our larder is full of potatoes that we can broil, boil or mash. Our stash is secure.
Our superpower is knowledge. At any time our walls could crumble. We need to prepare for the slyest of villains, keep the hounds at bay and be wary of all wolfs. Especially those in overalls, driving tractors bent on destruction. We are prepared!
Untitled by Michael Grogan
Super Mashed Potato Boy looked out his kitchen window and saw the world was in trouble. There were weevils in the potato patch, and it needed his urgent attention.
There was one way to deal with such a world-wide crisis. A huge plate of mashed potato, eaten hurriedly and washed down with an icy ginger tea.
Having done so, he flew out his window and dealt a deadly blow to the weevils. Around him, grateful farmers sang his praises and the world was once again saved from potential disaster.
He went home and took up his trusty potato peeler.
Hannah by Saifun Hassam
With determination and extraordinary willpower, Hannah transformed the farmer’s cottage into a popular restaurant. Over her faded blue jeans and bright yellow T-shirt, her apron proclaimed “Spuds Forever!” Her magical touch turned mashed potatoes into super delicious meals.
Lunch or Dinner: beef and potato dumplings; mashed potato and leek soup; garlic fried chicken in mashed potatoes; golden fried mashed potato cakes; jalapeno veggie mashed potato quiche; and the intriguing “spiderweb” mashed potato salad bowl.
Cathy and Trish were caught in the early downpours of September rain as they drove through the farmlands. Hannah’s cottage was a warm welcoming shelter.
Mashed Potatoes by Anita Dawes
When I read these words this morning, I was taken back to my childhood, reading the Dandy comic. Desperate Dan with his huge plate of mashed potato with two large sausages sticking out, looking like a bull had landed there.
I have to tell you that no one does mash like Jaye does! The minute she begins peeling the spuds, I swear my kids pick up some strange signal. They come knocking from all over Hampshire, just popping in, big smiles on their faces. They know there’s mash on the go and they say it is just a coincidence…
The Apple Pie from the Same Tree by Chelsea Owens
Ann’s mother was special when it came to food. She could scan a printed page, retrieve a container from the cupboard, and *poof* add to the mixing bowl. Later, the family would eat freshly-baked casserole or chocolate-crusted cake.
And that is why Ann thought she might be magic, too. Surely, by the same means, Ann could create with a pinch of this or dash of that.
After Ann’s first attempt, only her father would taste it.
“Ah. Mashed potatoes?” he asked.
Ann nodded, trying not to feel sick as he stirred her mix of potato, milk, and runny eggs.
Super Foods by Di @ pensitivity101
‘It’s a special dinner, made to make you strong. That’s why it’s blue, just like Superman.’
Celia looked at her nine year old son as he ate. Mashed potatoes were the only thing he could manage just now, but it was a start.
Tomorrow she would add red dye as well as the blue, and it would be Spiderman to encourage him.
He snuggled down under the covers, exhausted, but he’d eaten most of what was on his plate.
‘Mom?’ he asked sleepily.
‘Batman hasn’t got any superpowers, so please don’t give me black potatoes.’
Super Carl by TNKerr
Carl knew he was different from his classmates. Yes, he had superpowers like all the other kids, but his gifts were more eccentric. He couldn’t see any practical applications for them.
Carl had the ability to manipulate plants. He could also transform himself into a gelatinous substance, like potatoes mashed with an electric mixer.
School was torture and constant teasing until he slathered up the opponent’s lanes at the track meet against Eastwood High. Their star runner, Flash, never left the starting blocks, he couldn’t gain any traction.
All the trees and shrubs in the schoolyard fell over laughing.
The Time-Traveler’s Thanksgiving by Haley Booker-Lauridson
Paul watched the last glob of mashed potato splat onto hardwood floor. His eyes moved to the baseball, to his wife, to two mortified faces.
“What did I tell you about playing ball in the house?”
“Not to,” his sons answered in unison.
Paul sighed. “Honey?”
Alice obligingly closed her eyes.
Alice started awake. Darting to the kitchen, she saw her husband fussing over the turkey, mashed potatoes safely on the counter.
She turned. A ball speeding to the bowl of mash instead smacked into her raised hand.
“What did your father tell you about playing ball in the house?”
Mo’s Superpower Mash Disaster by M J Mallon
Mo had always wanted to know what people really thought about her so she developed a special mash infused with a truth serum. What a disaster! Mo’s cafe was now closed until further notice. No one wanted Mo’s magic mash infused with such a bizarre superpower. Who would want to be on the receiving end of that kind of damaging ability? Finding out what people really think about you isn’t great – unfiltered thoughts and comments hurt. Mo’s Mash cafe reopens tomorrow with a new menu topped by:
Tell a bunch of lies mash to keep the regular punter’s happy.
The Super Food by The Dark Netizen:
One whiff of it, and I knew it was ready.
It was almost time for the meeting. I had promised my peers that I would cook something pep their moods up. And boy, did we all need a boost. We had lost for the tenth time in a row. Few of us had already decided to call it quits. However, as the team leader, I decided to take matters into my own hands. With my experiment turning out to be a success, one spoonful of my mashed potatoes, and we would remain villains no more.
We will become super-villains!!
PART II (10-minute read)
Blown Cover by Allison Maruska
Anyone who thinks having superpowers is so cool doesn’t have a sister.
McKenzie hasn’t stopped sucking up to Mom today. She set the table, cooked side dishes, and collected coats at the door.
Time to prove she isn’t so nice. I just have to make her randomly lose her temper.
I turn invisible and creep to the Thanksgiving table, planting myself behind her seat. When she lifts her full glass to her mouth, I shake her arm, soaking her.
I dart away, but something warm and gloppy hits my invisible shoulder.
My cover is blown.
Taterman To The Rescue by Patrick O’Connor
Look, out the left window. It’s a squirrel. It’s a train. It’s Taterman!
Taterman. A superhero who gets his strength from mashed potatoes.
His favorite mashed potatoes are from Popeye’s Chicken. It’s all about the cajun gravy.
Whenever there’s a call for help, Alvin Wyatt becomes – Taterman.
His secret lair is in his mother’s basement.
In his regular life, he’s a struggling comedian.
Alvin doesn’t pay attention very well and forgets punchlines. He’s frequently unemployed.
The next time you need help, cook some mashed potatoes and Taterman will be there shortly.
Don’t forget the cajun gravy. He’ll respond faster.
Mash Master by oneletterup
“More garlic!” He shouts. “I’ll do it.”
Masher in one hand. Stick of butter in the other.
“And cream.” “Garlic and cream.”
Twenty years old. Slouching. Half awake.
Scruffy beard. Stained sweatshirt.
Waving them aside.
He scoops up twelve cloves. Minced and done.
Their eyes water from the steam. Whirr of the beaters.
“Taste!” he commands.
The garlic bite smoothed out by the creamy russets.
The pot of potatoes transformed.
They watch awestruck.
His eyes brighten. He stands up straighter. Grinning.
“You’ve done it again,” they cheer.
The Almighty Master of Mashed.
Where Farmers Get Their Strength by Molly Stevens
“Grandma, what it was like when you lived on a farm growing up?”
“It wasn’t an easy life, Nick. Everyone worked hard – my parents, brothers, sisters, and hired hands. We got up before the sun, and worked in all kinds of weather – from blistering heat to frosty mornings.”
“What did you do?”
“I milked the cows, shoveled manure, drove a tractor, and picked potatoes. But that was nothing compared to the hours my parents put in to keep things going. It was like they had superpowers.”
“Where did they get their strength?”
“Mashed potato – it was their kryptonite.”
Count Spudula by Susi J Smith
“That’s your superpower?”
Count Spudula grinned, posing with hands on hips as he awaited applause from the studio audience.
The presenter cleared her throat. ”You un-mash mashed potato?”
“I call it…re-formation.”
“So no laser vision, or invisibility?”
His smile faltered.
“No curing the common cold?”
“What about mushy peas, or diced carrots?”
The count lowered his arms and sighed.
“Just spuds.” He dropped down onto the armchair and rubbed his brow. ”I spent a fortune on gamma rays…changed my name legally…My wife left…”
The presenter smiled, rubbing his forearm. “Maybe next time, Gary.”
But the Greatest of These … by Anne Goodwin
He isn’t the man she married. Not even the man whose passions she failed to comprehend. Ten hours to cook a meal consumed in ten minutes? Ten herbs and spices to flavour the flesh when one would do. Now the gourmet’s reduced to eating pap.
When the diagnosis came she panicked. How would she live with his shell when the man it was built for was gone? Now, feeding him mashed potato like a baby, she draws on the power he gave her long ago. Back when he found her, lost and wounded, and, by loving, taught her love.
Potato Dead by Deepa
“It was the table’s mistake!” I came crying and hugged mom tightly.
“It hit me!” I murmured slowly with heads down.
“You have got the first potato on your head, Roy!”
Mom laughed and kissed the bump on my head.
When I was four years old, it was a challenging time for mom to handle me. She tells me even now that she never had to detox or diet to lose her post-pregnancy fats. All she had to do was follow me wherever I ran.
Super Spud by Kay Kingsley
“If Popeye can eat spinach and get super powers, I can eat mashed potatoes and get MY superpowers!”
“Kevin, who wants to eat mashed potatoes to get super powers? That’s lame. Wouldn’t you rather get bit by something and turn into something cool?”
“No. Why should I have to get bitten by something?”
“Um, because that’s what happens. Duh. Mashed potatoes… so lame.”
“It’s my drawing. Stop looking!” I covered my paper with my arm. I was SUPER SPUD! A 50-foot potato with huge mashers for feet, ready to squish my brother, my red cape flapping in the wind.
Mashed Miracles by kate @ aroused
My love for humans is so divine.
with their hearts mine does entwine
as a universal one I regard them mine
Know they have hardships to work through
by doing so they will become more true
add mashed spuds made like glue
So they can unite through adversity
know they must embrace diversity
wherever they live rural or city
Such power will truly transform their life
if for kindness and insight they do strive
they will blossom and emerge from strife!
They can develop clairvoyance and healing
if they avoid drama and stealing
live ethically dealing with their feeling!
THAT Thanksgiving by Kerry E.B. Black
I always knew Momma was more than her lithe frame suggested, but THAT Thanksgiving I was sure. Money was tight, and winter’d set in with a merciless, frosty stranglehold. “How’re we gonna feed everyone?” I wondered, but Momma sang as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Baking turkey perfumed the air before guests arrived. Stuffing spilled from its belly when we carved. Golden gravy and ruby cranberries sparkled like treasures beside a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes light enough to be an angel’s cloud. I wept, ravenous. She’d done it. With meager rations, Momma produced a feast.
If Only by Norah Colvin
Jake pushed the plate away. “Don’t like mash.”
Mum sighed and turned away.
As Jake stared at the potato, out popped a tiny, lumpy, and obviously grumpy, old man. He shook his fists.
Jake leaned forward. “Pardon?”
“Ya always push me away. Say ya’d rather chips or roasties. Doncha know we’re all the same—inside—only outside’s different.”
“Your kind—unkindness—never do. Gotta learn ta look beyond the differences, kid.
Learn ta love us all.”
“What?” said Mum, turning as Jake scooped the last spoonful of mash into his mouth.
Into the Wild by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Lizzie stared at the monitor, hands folded in her lap. The cursor blinked.
Sighing, she trotted off to the kitchen for more coffee.
Returning, she sat again and watched the cursor blink.
A dearth of inspiration.
Even that third cup didn’t raise Lizzie’s superpower: quirky imagination.
“Wonder what the weather’s doing?’ she clicked to raise the radar map on her screen.
And there: a dense cloud of snow skating toward her town, like a sneeze of mashed potatoes.
“No inspiration inside? Then it’s outside for me!”
Lizzie rose to dress in layers, inspired enough to don a bra!
Smashed Potatoes by Miriam Hurdle
“What are you doing, Meg?”
“By doing what?”
“Smashing the potatoes.”
“You do what? For what?”
“Didn’t you read the email from the Community Center. They need additional 50 lbs smashed potatoes with opinion power to serve the Thanksgiving dinner to the veterans.”
“Oh no, let me check the email.”
“I’ll do 10 lbs mixed with fortune cookie opinions.”
“OMG. That’s what it says. Let me call Judy.”
“Meg, let’s pick up the smashed potatoes and cook them.”
“What did she say?”
“Judy made some typos. We still can make mashed potatoes with your smashed potatoes.”
Fast Hands (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
Nancy Jane flung the bowl of mashed potatoes at Horace. The bowl bounced off his shoulder and Hickok caught it midair. Horace hadn’t even moved except, Sarah noted, his eyes had widened the way a cow might look when protesting a lead rope to the milking barn. No one spoke as glops of white, buttery mashed potatoes slid down Horace’s shirt. Nancy Jane growled and slammed the heavy oak door when she stomped outside. Sarah understood her friend’s upset with how poorly Horace had handled Cobb’s interference at the station. More than that, she marveled at Hickock’s super speed.
Super Power Heroes by D. Avery
See how the engineer’s designing a structure to retain the gravy?
The starving artist here, she’d rather sculpt and splatter than put fork to mouth.
Her twin’s a musician. He’ll plop and slop and get every sound he can from this meal. Every fork’s a tuning fork in his hands.
The historian’ll tell you all about pomme de terre, and how the reason it’s associated with the Irish is because the English couldn’t be bothered to steal them from under the ground.
That one’s a magician, mashed potatoes disappear in a flash.
Me? I fed them on the cheap.
Mash Flash by D. Avery
Pal, you sleepin’?
Started readin’ that book, Creative Courage. Been thinkin’ on Shorty’s post.
I know Kid, it’s intriguin’ ta think on what Anne Goodwin would think.
It is Pal. An’ I’m inta the epiphany of it ain’t gotta jist be the protagonist that changes. Could be the writer or the reader- any an’/ or all.
It’s a trifecta all right. Makes sense, long as someone gits some elixir.
Pal, have you been inta the elixir?
Yep. Ornery come by, brought some product.
He never comes by.
Came fer the mash.
Ain’t corn mash, it’s potato flash.
Light up a lamp, candles, hot air balloon and more because around the world people believe that light overcomes darkness. Even when our festivals are attacked or melded strangely when cultures collide, our humanity glows brightest with hope.
As we enter a season filled with holidays, writers lit up the page with stories about festivals of light.
The following are based on the November 1, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a festival of lights.
PART I (10-minute read)
Festival of Lights by Charli Mills
Glass shatter during dinner. Papa grabbed the boys and we sheltered beneath the table. Patterns of woodgrain forever etched my memory. Mama stood until Papa hastened her to hunker down with us in frightened silence.
We waited for boot thuds and forced entry. A truck engine revved. Guttural voices hurled invocations hard as the pick-ax that smashed our front window and toppled our Menorah – “Big-nosed Jews!” “Death to Hymies!”
My 10-year old mind probed why Papa’s features fated us to die. Friends at school said, the Holocaust wasn’t real, grow up, get over it, this is 2018 in America.
It only takes One: by Di @ pensitivity101
There is no darkness
When a single light shines,
It brings hope and promise,
A gathering of minds.
Another light beckons,
Two soon becomes three,
Four, five and six,
Reaching out to set free
All sizes and bright
Dazzling in glory,
Embracing the night.
Some call upon spirits
For Lost Souls to find peace,
Warmth, joy and kindness
Are within easy reach.
All join together,
No-one is ever alone,
Lend a hand, ear or shoulder,
Or just pick up the phone:
Let light show the way,
It only takes one
To keep darkness at bay.
The Festival of Treats and Lights by Rhuchira Khanna
Raj lights lamps in all corners of his house with hymns playing in the background.
He is celebrating Diwali the festival of light that symbolizes the victory of light over darkness, knowledge over ignorance.
Just then the bell rings, he opens the door to a bunch of kids dressed in spooky costumes and shouting, “Trick or Treat.”
He smiles, grabs his bucket full of treats and shouts “Treat…Treat!” As if surrendering to their threat in a sweet way!
Shuts the door, and continues with his prayers of the Hindu festival that comes around the same time as Halloween.
Glowing Lights by Patrick O’Connor
It was a dark evening. The clouds didn’t allow the stars to easily be seen. On top of that, the New Moon meant visibility would be low.
Then the announcement.
“Burn in 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”
Multiple flashes and suddenly the whole park lit up in multiple colors.
Seventy-five hot air balloons lit their fires all at once causing a kaleidoscope of color.
It could not have been more beautiful.
Once a year, in September, the balloon festival comes to town.
As the balloons slowly lifted to the night sky, the glowing lights offered an image of peace.
Chester Learns About Hygge by Molly Stevens
Chester stomped into the house after getting his ice shack ready for winter. He said, “What in the blazes are you doing with all these candles everywhere?”
Ruth took a sip of hot cocoa. “Now that the weather’s turned cold and the days are darker, I’m practicing the Danish art of Hygge.”
“Hoo-gah? Where’d you get that cockamamie idea? From our loony neighbor, Myrah?”
“No, I read a book about it. You have to admit. The candles make the house look cozy and inviting.”
“Inviting? Yes, to a crew of firemen.”
Ruth smiled. “That might not be so bad.”
Lustre by Reena Saxena
The festival was extra special this time around. Her husband had splurged on the best of everything for Diwali, and the children had an excited look pasted on their sweet faces. She couldn’t deny being happy …. but she sensed a dark secret somewhere, which the illumination could not cover.
The Anti-Corruption Bureau guys were at the doorstep, early morning. Their house was being raided.
The lamps looked morose in the light of dawn, and the floral designs lost lustre. She handed over the keys to the officer, and moved out, not wanting to see the can of worms.
The Light of My Life by Susan Sleggs
I sit alone most evenings in my dark high rise apartment looking out at the colorful lights that make the city seem like a welcoming, safe place. Too bad I know most of it isn’t friendly at night even for a man. I have admitted to my co-workers that I do this but I haven’t shared why. It isn’t any of their business. They say it’s a strange habit. I know when my cell sounds a specific tone the whole place will be brightened with the chatter of my daughter while we Face Time. She is my true light.
Brown Mountain by H.R.R. Gorman
Recent floods had stopped the trains from winding through the mountains, and Stewart took advantage of this darkness to investigate the Brown Mountain lights.
Lights glinted ahead. They didn’t flicker like a lantern or candle, but this region wasn’t lit by electricity. Stewart picked up his pace.
The massive, golden source became more apparent as he closed in on it. He noticed the light streamed from an open doorway, and a queue of skeletal figures entering. The ghosts ventured forth with smiles, and Stewart felt no inclination to stop them.
He reported on the haunting, “Lights caused by trains.”
Festival of Lights by Frank Hubeny
“I saw one once,” Joel’s grandfather admitted.
“We knew Teresa didn’t understand things like we did because of some birth defect. At her mother’s funeral, dark thunderclouds approached. Her father wanted to speak but couldn’t at the podium. Teresa rushed to him, ‘Don’t cry, Papa! She’s right here.’”
“With a lightning crack the power shut down. Someone lit candles so we could see.
“When I told them what I saw, they thought I was as nutty as Teresa, but a ten-year-old doesn’t misunderstand the way adults do.”
Joel’s grandfather paused. “Teresa’s mother was there caressing her husband and daughter.”
Come On Baby by Geoff Le Pard
‘Mum’s left Dad.’
‘He came back from that Jazz festival, turned all the lights on, got all frisky…’
‘Right? She asks what’s up, he says he’s high…’
‘Your dad!? How’d that happen?’
‘One chap brought cake. Dad asks what is it. According to Dad the guy said they’re not brownies but Dad had a bite, insisted they were and had six. Larry, Dad’s mate checks. They guy actually said “They’re pot brownies” by which time Dad’s on his way to light Mum’s fire.’
‘Sounds like you’ll have a sibling come spring…’
‘Or they’ll divorce…’
A Quality of Mercy by Liz Husebye Hartmann
“Alas,” Lady Arabella sighed, holding a palm out from under her parasol. Days of full darkness had been followed by months of half light. “It seems the sun will never again shine, nor rain warm our moonless nights.”
“I fear you’re correct, sister, but what can we do?” Rob, hand tucked behind his back, reached down to adjust a spat. He noted the striped caterpillar crawling across their path, and raised his heel
“Hist! Show mercy, brother!” Arabella touched his arm.
With that, soft drops of rain began to fall, shimmering with all the colors of love and hope.
Star of the Show (Part I) by D. Avery
Hope made her guess. When her mother had incorrectly guessed Mary, Joseph, wise man, sheep, donkey, cow, inn keeper, and even baby Jesus, Hope finally told her what part she had in the Christmas pageant.
“It was my idea, Mommy! I got them to let me do my idea!”
“What, Hope? What role is left?”
Hope’s eyes shone with her broad smile. “The star! I’m going to be up on a ladder behind the stable dressed up like the star!”
“Do you have lines to memorize?”
“Nope. I just have to shine.”
“Oh, Hope, you do. You’re a natural.”
Star of the Show (Part II) by D. Avery
“Our Hope is a star, alright. Come on, we’re going snowshoeing.”
“Now? It’s so dark out.”
“I have a surprise.”
“Let’s go, Hope. I’d rather tramp in the snow than have to guess again.”
From the top of the meadow the frozen lake was an empty blackness in the moonless dark, framed by twinkling lights of houses on the surrounding rolling hills.
Below them their own kitchen window glowed warmly.
Suddenly beams of light reached out from the high roof of their barn.
“Daddy! A Christmas star in the cupola!”
“Not just Christmas. We’ll light up every dark night.”
Brief Outage by Bill Engleson
In the night, there is the increasingly familiar hum. The neighbour’s high-end generator has kicked in again.
The house is silent, a symphony of darkness, save for the thump of the fatter cat’s feet in the room above.
And a near-spent nightlight.
The electric bedside clock is unforthcoming.
My toenail slashes her ankle.
I get a wallop. “That hurts,” she points out.
“Damn! You’re sorry, are you? You always do it.”
It’s the best I can do…
Then the house starts to buzz.
The clock flashes its resurgent time.
The night’s electric again.
Where is Clarity? by Jules
Gnat. Sat. After annoying my nose, flying past my glasses.
Adding an extra period where it did not belong on my screen.
I could imagine the gnat elsewhere, like visiting simmering dew, outside.
While thinking about what to write I forgot about my coffee.
The rim of fluid enchanted by the glowing reflection of the chandelier.
not quite caught in a raindrop;
gnat gained afterlife
could’ve drowned in a raindrop
did his soul add any light?
Saturday we will switch from later dawn to an earlier dusk.
Just who are we fooling by ending Daylight Savings Time?
Rainbow sequins burst onto a velveteen sky. With every screech and bang of the lightshow’s soundtrack, she feels him flinch. People scowl: his barks and yelps foul their outdoor entertainment. She grips his collar, strokes his head.
In the before, they baked potatoes in the embers, her brother’s boxer snug in his basket beneath the stairs.
Only one more night before the park’s returned to her and him and others like them. Pitch and peace from sunset to sunrise. Until Christmas. Hopefully, they’ll be bedded down in a shelter then. When another batch of fireworks explodes in the sky.
Tragedy by kate @ aroused
Some use their tragedy to educate the masses. Talk to politicians, schools, service clubs, whoever will listen. About the ongoing violence and abuse, the demeaning vitriol and sadistic mind games that was their life for far too long.
But some feed off the drama, others wonder why they never left, most can’t listen with their heart. We don’t want to believe this is our sons, fathers and husbands.
They hold mass candle light vigils to mark extremely violent deaths, or the just sheer vast numbers. But still the laws and attitudes don’t really change. The women are to blame.
River by Anita Dawes
This river of lights, each one a wish
Hope to pin your dreams upon
A prayer to Lakshmi to chase away the darkness
To turn your demons into dust
A river of starlight echoing the world above
Each light a prayer to the ghosts of old Gods
In the heart of the people
India, a place of colour
Smiles light the faces of people passing by
Hope lives here
The old Gods love them for it
Each light above, connected to the ones below
To the dreamers who believe Lakshmi will come calling
To greet each wish made tonight…
Return: by The Dark Netizen
Praises be sung, our lord has returned victorious!
The cheers and chanting continued throughout the capital as its ruler made his triumphant return. The citizens lit torches and kindled celebratory flames in order to welcome their light bringer. They sang praises of his exploits in battle, how he alone destroyed half the enemy army. They celebrated their victory over their greatest enemy, one who was threatening their very way of existence. The roads leading to the palace looked like rivers of gold, and the palace itself shone like the sun.
The Festival of lights marked the Demon king’s return.
Haunted by Rosemary Carlson
“It’s always darkest before the dawn.” That old quote popped into her head at 4 a.m. It wouldn’t be daylight soon this morning since the Earth was spinning toward the shortest day of the year. She was still awake at this ungodly hour, as she often was, yearning for the light.
She couldn’t sleep until it was daylight. The old dreams, the terrible dreams of her childhood, haunted her, and she knew she couldn’t sleep until dawn when they would subside. She remembered them when she awoke, screaming, but only for a few seconds. Only the light chased them away.
Harvest (from “Diamante”) by Saifun Hassam
Spring’s unusually heavy rains flooded farms and orchards in the villages. Working together, the villagers replanted the fields and shared the harvest.
Diamante, a school teacher, was also responsible for the ancient temple until the Abbott could send a priest. For the fall harvest celebration, the children festooned the ancient temple with flowers and lit countless candles. From the open roof, sandalwood smoke drifted into the sky.
As evening deepened into night, Diamante recited the ancient prayers. The children excitedly traced the paths of shooting stars, imagined them falling into the sea, turning into myriads of tiny green lamps.
Christmas Eve by Margaret G. Hanna
We begin our ritual.
We’ve been here before. We know what to do. We sit in silence and darkness. Quietly. Calmly. Anticipating. The organist plays one single note. We sing “Silent Night.” Softly.
The minister lights the first candle. We pass the flame from one person to the next until the sanctuary is bathed in the soft, warm, gentle glow of candlelight. The primal call of flickering flame draws our attention to why we are here. To remember and celebrate the miracle of birth, of rebirth.
We go out into the night, to the sound of snow falling silently.
Festival of Lights by Kay Kingsley
Along life’s backyard fence hangs endless strands of twinkling lights.
Each strand is separate but when viewed from a distance, they all seem connected, end to end, as far as the eye can see.
We each have a strand of our own, each bulb shines bright for a wonderful life event but suspended between those bright events an invisible darkness remains, the home of hardships and monotony.
With a little luck, we try not to linger there as the dim glow of hope beckons in the distance.
Our chains are unique and together our festival of lights hang eternal.
PART II: (5-minute reads)
Bandi Chorr Diwas by Ritu Bhathal
Emperor Jehangir found no reason to keep Guru Hargobind imprisoned anymore, for he had shown no danger towards the leader.
The Guru insisted upon the release of fifty-two innocent Hindu kings imprisoned alongside him.
Whoever was able to hold onto the cloth of his gown would be free.
He had a special cloak stitched with enough tassels so they could all hold on.
The day Guru Hargobind arrived back in Amritsar happened to be Diwali where the whole city was flooded with the light from candles, lit in joy at his return back to the holiest of Sikh cities.
Gert by Kate @ aroused
Many gathered for the monumental celebration of Gert’s life. She inhabited our earth for nearly a century seeing so many changes we can barely comprehend.
Gert struggled with the night as sleep evaded, she would be restless so we chose a theme of light as she transitioned to better things. Her favourite opera was broadcast as we had a light parade … some with lanterns or candles, their wax safely caught. The entire village strung with vibrant coloured lights.
Then we gathered in the local for her favourite toddy while we shared stories of her many adventures and achievements.
The Tradition by tracey robinson
Every December the family went to the huge light display in Winterhaven. Mom complained about the crowds, the kids complained about the cold and Dad complained about the cost. But it was a family tradition. This year Mom said she just couldn’t face it and Dad didn’t want to pay so they didn’t go.
On Christmas Eve, once it got dark, Mom said, “Everyone get your coats on, we have a hole in our holiday that needs to be filled”. They walked through their still, silent neighborhood, savoring all the small light displays, happy to continue their family tradition.
Horticultural Thoughts by D. Avery
“Whatcha thinkin’ on, Kid?”
“Thinkin’ on plants Pal.”
“Shorty said ta be thinkin’ on light.”
“I am. Ever heard a phototropism?”
“I favor geotropism. Like ta keep rooted, grounded in my place.”
“Plants kin take root jist about anywhere. Patient and perseverant. I reckon plants gotta be rooted firmly an’ reach fer the light. Always pointin’ towards the light.”
“Yep, Kid, they’s a lot ta contemplate with plants. Mebbe it ain’t so far afield, you thinkin’ on plants. Reckon folks is like plants, Kid?”
“Some is Pal. Some need cultivatin’.”
“Light. We gotta stay grounded and shine on.”
Ranch Lite (Yarn I) by D. Avery
“You fixin’ ta build a fire, Pal?”
“Yep. Figger if ever’one’s as tuckered out from the rodeo as me, they might wanna jist set a spell by the light of a warming fire.”
“Pal, ‘member when we first showed up here?”
“We? ‘Member, I’ve always been here, jist no one knew it.”
“Oh yeah. Then how come we’re always together?”
“I wish I knew, Kid. Prob’ly ‘cause when people hear voices it’s always plural, not ‘voice’. Someone needs us.”
“Someone could do worse.”
“You set, Pal, I’m gonna tell about showin up here.”
“Can I stop you?”
Ranch Lite (Yarn II) by D. Avery
It was a dark an’ stormy night.
“Kinda cliché, Kid.”
“Well it was, ‘an mebbe it’s metaphorical.”
“Meta for who?”
It was a tumultous time, deep winter. A young greenhorn, feelin’ her age-
“What? You describin’ cheese? How kin a young greenhorn be old?”
“That’s the way it is, Pal. Jeez, where was I?”
“On yer way here.”
An old greenhorn was wanderin’ the desert. The wind was blowin’ an’
somewhere in that wind was the answer, my friend.
“The answer was blowin’ in the wind? Was this 1963? Jist cut to the chase already.”
Ranch Lite (Yarn III) by D. Avery
I was wanderin’ somewhat aimless, had gone off trail. I was stumblin’ in the dark. Then, crestin’ a rocky ledge-
“What’s that meta for?”
I saw a strange glowin’ light, color of carrots on the horizon…
“Were you near Roswell, New Mexico?”
I went closer, real cautious like. I wasn’t sure what it was, if’n it were safe. If’n it were meant fer me…
I followed the light and come ta the fire here at the Ranch.
“Not much of a story, Kid.”
“Lighten up Pal.”
Step aside or join in the march — it’s a parade of nations coming through! Parades move forward with noisy color and colorful sounds, twirling the senses, often giving candy and vitality to bystanders. Nations can demonstrate such vibrancy when they come together, celebrating culture with joy.
Writers took to the parade street this week and traveled the globe (which is not all that difficult given the many time zones we all write from).
The following is based on the September 20, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a parade of nations.
PART I (5-minute read)
Her Family of Cultures by Sascha Darlington
This job at the university laboratory was a stepping stone. She’d get her master’s and then a career. Unexpectedly, her international colleagues became part of her new family.
A Chinese woman taught her joy despite suffering.
A Polish man taught her flirtation.
An Ethiopian woman demonstrated caring through injera and wat.
An Indian confided emotional injury despite pride in culture.
A French woman showed her strength through adversity.
A Mexican taught her the value of beer, laughter, and literature.
A Yugoslav gave her saxophone and gypsy jazz.
When she thought she might finally leave, an Englishman stole her heart.
Flash Fiction by Jan Malique
Come, let us rejoice, for one day at least. The Otherworld Gates open wide, bring forth all who inhabit places hidden. Silent feet tread lightly on paths of whispers and songs of joy.
For such a parade of nations do the denizens of ancient, and half forgotten places venture forth. For unity’s sake do human and the Old Ones gather. For sake of Peace, at least for one day, may blessings gush forth, shower like gold upon heads bowed.
See them parade, show pride in their souls of sunlight and birdsong. Show pride in the babel of tongues aplenty.
Wandering With Purpose by JulesPaige
They are the migrators of nations. Parading in the sky. Canadian Geese and American Redstarts. Even the insects get into the act the Monarch butterflies, that Fifth generation setting off to Mexico in late summer. Some Blue Jays stay put one season and head to warmer climates the next. Robins also have a few that stay northerly. Some Ruby Throated Humming
Birds can end up in Panama.
Greys, browns, black, orange, yellow, red, white, and blue. Free from borders, These critters carry natural colors as their wings flag and flap in Vee’s, groups or just as a single flutter.
Parade of Nations by Deepa
cars unloaded on the lakefront
thousands were drawn to the park
headed by the finest bandwagon
drawn by twelve magnificent horses
the marching band parade
of anxious thoughts
followed by the drum roll of words
dancing off their rails all night
the ringmaster lost control
parade of nations
jump into action
Dayton Peace Accord: World Affair by Nancy Brady
Participants began to line up for the parade. For some nations, there were only one or two participants; other contingents had larger groups, but all were dressed in their various ethnic costumes. Voices grew louder as the wait seemed to be interminable, waiting for the start of Dayton’s World Affair with its Parade of Nations.
World Affair was a yearly event that celebrated the proud ethnic and cultural diversity of the area. Lithuanians, Germans, Japanese, Scots, Irish, Greeks, and other people from around the world representing their ancestral countries, mingled together in the convention center for the three-day event.
Equestrian Event by Abhijit Ray
“I bet she is here for the annual equestrian event and she will participate in parade of nations this evening,”
Sid was looking at the woman in blue jacket riding a white horse.
“Lets go talk to her and find out more.”
“What event? How are you going to talk to her?”
“Be a little bold and a little innovative my friend,” Sid was already halfway towards the girl.
That was Sid, always forward, always brimming with easy confidence.
Sid did not know that girl’s army major husband was also a rider and disliked romeos hanging around his wife.
Flash Dance by Charli Mills
Jamie clacked his tap-shoes across the pavement. He’d found the kilt at the Keweenaw Consignment and paired it with his mother’s discarded turquoise blouse, the one that matched his sunglasses. He danced every day, preparing for his solo march in the Parade of Nations. Jamie was alone in his nation – an outcast. Many people treated him kindly and he managed to live on his own. Others said cruel things or pointed and laughed. He ignored them. A shout from the bystanders, “Dance, laddie, Dance!” inspired a spontaneous back-flip. Too late, he remembered what was worn beneath a kilt – nothing.
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
We line the road, watching them hobble around the bend, ragged and hollow, the rabid fight from only hours ago now carved out of their eyes. We’d spent most the summer surrounding them, from Richmond to Farmville, cutting them down before they scurried down to Lynchburg.
Now the two nations would be one again.
Their great leader is in the courthouse, signing papers and negotiating mercy. I stand with my infantry. Slaves to soldiers who only now, in the eerie dawn of peace, as the confederates wait to be pardoned or paroled, dare to dream of our own freedom.
Good Fences? by D. Avery
Complaining about the bordering gardens, the new neighbor did an un-neighborly thing. He enclosed his property behind a fence, a veritable wall, really.
Thing is, the surrounding peas the others were tending throve. Whorls of tendrils covered the fencing; vibrant blossoms cascaded over the fence, their sweet fragrance carried on the soft breeze. There were many colors and hues, for the neighbors grew all sorts of peas. The new neighbor looked up from watering his monochrome crew cut patch of ground. Awed by the parade of color, he had a change of heart. He would give peas a chance.
When Time Stood Still by Colleen Chesebro
“Eyes left, salute!”
I listened to the drill sergeant’s voice and a sense of pride swell in my chest as I raised my hand to salute the onlookers in the parade stand. Exhaustion had set in weeks ago. Air Force Basic Training had drained me of everything I possessed, but somehow, I carried on.
This was my flight’s crowning achievement to march in the Parade of Nations to salute our NATO allies. We had earned the honor as the first women’s flight to graduate from the USAF. The cadence of my life slipped into place and time stood still.
School Parade by Ritu Bhathal
I hate assemblies!
I stood there nervously.
They came trooping in, like a parade of nations, English, African, Indian, Slovakian,
Polish, Vietnamese… and more.
This was my first time and I had four hundred and twenty pairs of young eyes trained upon me.
Clearing my throat, I said, in a loud, yet slightly wobbly voice, “Good morning everyone!”
“Good morning Mrs Johnson!” came the singsong reply.
And those eyes looked at me with such trust, my nerves melted away.
“I’ve got a wonderful song for us to sing, and then we’ll talk about the year ahead…”
I LOVE assemblies!
The Varied Strait by JulesPaige
There at the falls… up and down the stairs to the caves, for zip lining, to ride the ferries into the mist. Promenading in a free form dance along both sides of the Niagara river a parade of nations. Tourists from everywhere. Their song
varied in the many languages that were unfamiliar to almost every other set of ears there. Some had driven, others had flown across the oceans.
Perhaps every continent was represented. And the mist of the falls smiled and looked back at each pair of eyes when the sun helped to form rainbows at the horseshoe.
Commune Communiqués-June 1968 by Bill Engleson
I wasn’t all that excited.
An old guy coming to live out his life…in our commune.
“He’ll be here mid summer,” Kate said, clutching the old Frenchman’s letter.
“And he knows about us, how?” I asked.
“His niece, Rosario,” she says. “Passed through last summer. Was here most of that July. Then she hit the road. Lives in Columbia, I think,” she adds.
“Hmm,” I mumble, and down my carrot juice.
I’m a local. Not well-travelled. But we are a potpourri of flavours.
An underground railroad of Yanks.
Bobby Kennedy’s dead but our life goes on.
PART II (5-minute read)
Captain Amira (from Quantanelle in Space) by Saifun Hassam
The great starship “Valentina” was on its way to Mars and beyond. Captain Amira Robertson watched Earth’s blue and white swirls receding.
On her tenth birthday, Amira’s Grandfather Qassim had given her an encyclopedic book, Astronomy and Astronauts. Photographs of the Solar System, the Milky Way, and faraway galaxies captured her imagination. Earthrise from the Moon and Mars. The stormy gas giant Jupiter. Saturn with its rings and satellite moons. The Oort Cloud comets.
Neil Armstrong had taken that first step on the Moon. And now spacefarers from a parade of nations were exploring ever farther into deeper space.
A Parade of Nations by Norah Colvin
The children listened intently, eager to learn. Each family’s wish was for a better life. The group was a parade of nations; with Dragos from Serbia, Duy from Vietnam, Melino from Tonga, Ervine from Scotland, Rongo from New Zealand, Jung from Korea, Sanhitha from Sri Lanka, and Jawara from Senegal; and these were only the new arrivals. Others were first and second generation with but a few who could count back further than three, except for Kinta whose ancestors were the first to arrive. The wall map, dotted with pins to show each one’s heritage, was their proudest display.
A Different Sort of Parade by Chelsea Owens
Oogdiblok the Fiercely Flatulent surveyed the plodding masses, scowling. Urgdup, his counselor, knew this meant nothing since the stinky leader always scowled unless he was angry.
“Fmouglisk oog digump,” Urgdup warned.
Sighing, Oogdiblok replied, “Gurdonk.” He blew a raspberry with his fat lips, dismissing his counselor. His expression did not lighten until Fmouglisk oozed in.
She was upset. Oogdiblok knew this by the radiant smile she wore. “Eekdi homespank murgle!” she screeched.
He smiled and winked. He knew he’d started without her. Next time, he resolved, she wouldn’t be allowed to watch The Parade of Ogre Nations at all.
The Gluzzlebups’ Parade of Nations by H.R.R. Gorman
The announcer put its lips to the microphone. “Next, we have the United Statesians!”
A three-toed alien named Gluzurr held the head of her bounty high and licked her lips. Plump cheeks belied the delicacy of Gluzurr’s kill.
“And the Chinese!” the announcer bellowed.
The crowd gaped at the corpse on Boolan’s flaunted staff. The meal had kept a fine diet.
“Next, we have Furrazh with a Zambian!”
The Zambian representative of choice had been flayed perfectly to show off the marbling of the athletic muscles.
“What a lovely parade of nations!” the announcer cast. “Let the feast begin!”
The Family Hairloom (Pun totally intended) by Anurag Bakhshi
There was a parade of nations to honour him at his funeral. The greatest hero the world had ever seen, there had been none like him before, there would be none like him hence. Samson- a God among men, they called him. With his courageous act of bringing down the pillars of the temple, sacrificing himself in the process, he had achieved immortality.
I read what I had written till now and looked at the box on my desk. Now I just needed to add a suitable price to my listing on eBay for Samson’s seven strands of hair.
Parade of Nations by Deborah Lee
Jane ambles through festival avenues, enchanted. The diversity is staggering. Bright colors, strains of different styles of music, smiling faces beckoning her to their booths: Come see this blanket, this bracelet, this vase. Flags are everywhere, almost none she recognizes.
What draws her most are the smells, the different foods. There are foreign foods she’s familiar with, of course — Thai, Korean, Italian, Mexican. But so much to taste from countries previously unconsidered: Romania, Guyana, Cuba, Lebanon, the Basque provinces. Her mouth waters, her stomach rumbles.
As a parade of nations, the Olympic Games have nothing on downtown’s International Festival.
National Food Parade by Susan Sleggs
The buffet in the, new to us, Bed and Breakfast was a wonderful surprise. There was a virtual parade of international foods. We couldn’t name some of the fresh fruit and the egg casserole had a spice we couldn’t distinguish. Both were delicious. We tarried longer than the other guests so we could ask our hostess about the strange exotic flavors. She told us she had asked her international guests over the years for spice and recipe suggestions then incorporated them into her breakfast preparations. Her goal was to please any discerning pallet from anywhere on earth. She succeeded.
Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle
“I often wonder how many great potential inventions the world misses out on because the inventor lives in a country where it is difficult to develop the idea.”
Jade laid her book aside and stared at Tim.
“You mean because the country the inventor comes from doesn’t have any institutions that provide financial support to inventors?”
“Yes, financial support is one aspect. I was also thinking of educational and research opportunities and even something as simple as a market to buy the invention. There are lots of barriers to inventing.”
“Your right, we need an international inventor support programme.”
A Scorcher of a Summer by Anne Godwin
“How was your summer? Did you get away?”
“It depends what you mean by away.”
“Oh, I forgot, you don’t go away anymore, do you? Don’t blame you, this year. Who needs to go abroad with the scorcher of a summer we’ve had?”
“You did go away? Where?”
“Barbados and Madagascar most recently.”
“Most recently? You went other places earlier on?”
“Finland, Indonesia, Iran, Italy, Japan, and Poland, as far as I recall.”
“As far as I recall? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I watch a parade of nations in the pages of a novel.”
Flash Fiction by tearsofbloodinmyheart
Mari sat and looked at the pile of stickers in the box. Her heart sank. Why no one had bothered to put them into any sort of order and fill the book was beyond her. And now it looked as though the job would fall to her.
She could of course throw them all out, claim she didn’t know what they were and why they had become so important. She hadn’t the heart.
She sorted the flags, a parade of nations, peeled back the thin film to reveal the sticky coating and started filling the gaps in the book.
Parade of Clowns by Perigrine Arc
I sat on my blanket, eating my morning cheerios with my grandpa. The television was on while we ate.
“Grandpa, you sure these are clowns?”
“Yes, Rosie, most of them. Each one represents a state in our nation. Look there–that’s the clown from D.C.…”
I squinted. He didn’t look happy.
“Why’s that lady look so scared?”
I looked up. My grandpa’s gaze seemed far away.
“It’s a parade of clowns, dear, and that woman’s the only sane one.”
Quiz Night Is Always Educational by Geoff Le Pard
‘Come on, Morgan. You’re the expert on flags. We need this. Blue stripes.’
‘I don’t know, do I?’
‘Funny, isn’t it? Each nation has a flag, all different yet we still get hung up on skin colour.’
‘Nicaragua ? What’s brought this on? Drat, I do know it.’
‘Oh I got bollocked at work for saying coloured when apparently I meant people of colour.’
‘Yeah, daft. Look at me, like someone’s sicked over my face, yet I’m white.’
‘That’s booze, not ethnicity.’
‘We’re all red underneath.’
‘I thought it was blue?’
‘Good to know. Cyprus!’
Flash Fiction by Anita Dawes
The birth of a Nation is hard, as any mother will tell you.
It’s new, shiny and fragile.
It must be nurtured, fed at regular intervals
Like a garden, it needs water, love and guidance.
All easy to say.
You let it grow, wait for the day it can stand
Take the rain. Will it weather the storms?
Yes, if it was built on firm ground
Strength comes with unity
Invisible hands holding everything together
A strong chain will let no rust in
You know what is said about one weak link
Never take your eye off the ball…
All We Are Sayin’ by D. Avery
“Kid, what the tarnation you so wound up about?”
“All the Buckaroo Nation celebrations! I was already gittin’ all excited ‘bout the Rodeo. An’ now there’s ta be a parade! I cain’t wait ta see all the flags from all over the world.”
“Flash, Kid, not flags.”
“And the food, Pal! Multicultural culinary curiosities from countless countries.”
“Jeez… Folks’ll likely serve food fer thought and fer the soul, Kid, but it cain’t fill yer belly. Don’t s’pect Shorty ta cook bacon either.”
“I’m hopin’ fer peas.”
“Why in the world”
“Exactly. Let’s have world peas.”
It’s a mac-and-cheese kind of read — comfort food for the literary soul. From beyond the myths of Marco Polo, pasta has traveled the globe in many forms from different cultures. Which came first, the Chinese noodle or the Italian spaghetti? Who knows for certain, but we do know that Thomas Jefferson introduced the colonies to macaroni and cheese, solidifying a future for America’s top pasta.
Writers took to pasta like worker bees, buzzing around the idea of how to dish it up in a story. Like fine dining or a casual dish to pass, these stories will leave you wanting seconds.
The following is based on the September 13, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes pasta.
PART I (10-minute read)
Tradition by Reena Saxena
We love Grandma, and yet are never on the same page where food is concerned. She cannot appreciate the subtle flavors in a pasta or pizza, or the convenience of having carbs, proteins and fats all in a single meal. She is so stuck up in her concept of a traditional Indian thali meal. Who has the time for that kind of luxury eating?
Yet, today, as I celebrate a festival away from home, I miss the unique, delicate flavors of different dishes. I try to put a meal together. I am more Indian at heart than I realized.
Pasta Bee by Floridaborne
She waited for her word, looking down from the stage of her elementary school auditorium. She’d loved sitting at the kitchen table learning to spell while pasta cooked and tomato sauce simmered on her mother’s stove. She didn’t like standing under lights, stared at by 200 people.
“Antonia Giordano, spell…”
Starched ruffles itched at her neck, compliments of the dress her mother sewed from remnants for this occasion. But that didn’t stop her from spelling out a word she’d known since the age of two.
“S-p-a-g-h-e-t-t-i,” she replied.
Maybe next year they’d give her a harder word; like Vermicelli.
Too Bad It’s True by Susan Sleggs
Dear Diary, They say pasta is a comfort food. I’m choosing to believe that and plan to make a serving every Saturday from here to forever because it seems I end up at one hospital or another on Sunday. A few months ago I sat with my sister while she and her husband decided whether kidney dialysis was worth the extra time on earth for him. Two weeks ago it was my daughter fighting sepsis (she won) and this Sunday it was my son with a smashed shoulder. The wine is gone tonight, the yummy red sauce pasta awaits.
Remember that Old Elvis Song, In the Ghetti? by Bill Engleson
“So many noodles in the world. Whatdaya think…? You gotta choose, eh!”
Right, buddy. It’s been a long day, All I want is a quiet bus ride home. But that ain’t happening, is it?
There I am, going all silently rhetorical on the fellow sitting next to me. And all he wants to do is chit-chat about pasta.
I try and remember what Emily Post had to say about Public Transportation Etiquette.
Nothing immediately jumps out.
So, I say, noncommittally, “Noodles?”
“Yeah man,” he says, “My mom’s Mac and Cheese. It was the best.”
Yeah, I think…mine was too.
Spaghetti alla Carbonara by Bladud Fleas
The rule for pasta requires the water to be as salty as the Mediterranean. Paolo gives thanks it’s not Jordan and the Dead Sea. Nonna scrutinises him as he puts the chopped guanciale in the pan, heating slowly, extracting its flavoursome fat. She’s a fine mentor; he’s a teaser.
He gets the cream jug from the fridge; she cries out, “ai-ai-ai!” and tries to snatch it but he keeps it out of reach. He laughs then, returns the jug and chooses an egg for beating. She pinches his cheek, within reach. So he knows Carbonara; she’s taught him well.
Pasta – Preschool Style by Ritu Bhathal
“Okay, today we are making Mother’s Day gifts for your mummies, grandmas, or aunties.
What I want you to do is take the string in one hand, and pick up a piece of pasta.
Remember, the other day, we painted it?
It’s like a tube, and you can thread the string through it, and make a lovely necklace.
No, David, you can’t eat it.
Penny! Stop strangling Julia with the string!
Peter! Don’t tip the tray upside d-…
Don’t worry Mary, we can pick it all up, stop crying, please…”
The life of a pre-school teacher.
Elbow Macaroni by TN Kerr
Margarite grinned wildly, stepped off the bus and hurried toward me.
When she got close she dropped her backpack and leapt into my arms.
“Holy smokes, Kiddo,” I pushed her hair back and kissed her, “what are you so excited about today.”
“Art class, Daddy. I made a picture of you.”
“No, Daddy. Mixed media,”
“Mixed media? What’s that?”
I put her down. She pulled a paper plate from her backpack and showed me.
Macaroni was glued to the plate. There were pencil lines and hints of orange marker. It looked just like me.
Pasta Pray Tells: What Are We Eating, Exactly? by Peregrine Arc
The little girl grimaced in her seat, staring at her plate of pasta. The garlic bread basket sat in the middle of table, steamy and pleasant. Her parents urged her to try her meal.
The little girl sighed resignedly and tried to eat. The fork and spoon soon fell to her plate with a clatter.
“I can’t do it!” she exclaimed. “Please, don’t make me.”
“Why not, dear?”
“It’s angel’s hair!” the little girl sobbed. “Give it back to them, please!”
Traditions by Heather Gonzalez
Angela stood on her tiptoes to be able to see over the counter top. Her nonna was mixing the pasta dough with her hands, and she was finally tall enough to watch. Each movement seemed like nonna had choreographed an intricate dance. Fingers and dough intertwining to create the magic of pasta.
After each piece of pasta was perfectly shaped, nonna motioned for Angela to come closer. This was it. She was finally getting a chance to be apart of the magic. Gently she lowered the perfectly crafted dough into the water with pride.
“Al dente. Perfecto.” Nonna smiled.
A Fish Tale from Lake Country by Liz Husebye Hartmann
It couldn’t be un-seen. It was right there in front of me: the giant spaghetti bowl, the splash of Tante Lianna’s special sauce, meatballs rolling off the table and onto the floor, parmesan spread all over the dining room table, like sleet in a Minnesota mid-June storm.
And the noodles! Seemingly caught in mid-flight from the bowl, they lay heavy as nightcrawlers escaping a flooded sidewalk, the aftermath of the aforementioned storm, turned to punishing rain.
And Uncle Wilford, face down in the middle of it all.
He should have heeded the warning twinge in Tante Lianna’s trick knee.
Love’s Give and Take by Sascha Darlington
“Pasta Puttanesca? Do I have to perform an intervention?”
“I’m at a crossroads.”
“Something you’re not telling me?”
“It’s not about you. It’s Chloe and that jerk.”
“AKA her husband?”
“He got fired. Wants to be a stay-at-home dad. Do consulting work.”
“Don’t see the problem.”
“You wouldn’t. You’re nothing like him. He’s perpetually lazy, doesn’t know how to use a vacuum or a dustpan. Stove’s foreign as well.
“Why’s this your problem?”
“I promised Mom I’d look after Chloe. I’ve failed.”
“He’s failing. Your pasta smells good.”
“You didn’t use anchovies?”
“Not when you hate them.”
Peter the Pasta Maker by Michael Grogan
Peter, the Pasta Maker, was a jolly chap.
Peter had a crush on the Lady Macaroni who would swan in each day and buy his freshest pasta. She never passed the time of day with him, she was focused on her pasta.
Always five hundred grams of spaghetti, she could never be tempted by a fettuccine or a Peter’s famous spiral.
One day she surprised him by asking he would cook for her, a pasta party with Peter the Pasta Maker would go well she thought.
Peter was flattered and prepared to make Lady Macaroni his best ever pasta.
Flash Fiction by The Dark Netizen
“Is the order for table number ten ready?”
I turned the blaze of the cooking flame down and grasped the pan in my left hand. With my right hand, I expertly arranged the lines of spaghetti on the plate. Reuben walked up to me and winked.
“You know, she’s looking quite fine in her black dress today.”
I peeked outside through the kitchen door window. There she was again, sitting in perfect poise, making my heart beat harder. Reuben whispered.
“Tell her, man!”
I put the final touch on the dish with the red sauce.
“A red heart, sweet!”
A Visit To The ER by Patrick O’Connor
“Pasta! I want pasta!”
“It must be penne pasta, with meatballs, and marinara.”
The doctor stared at me with a quizzical look.
My wife shook her head and said “That sounds about right. He loves his pasta.”
After the x-rays, CT Scan, and EKG, they worked on getting the blood pressure back up.
“I’m sure your wife will take you to get some pasta once you are released.”
“I’ll make sure of it Doctor.”
Seemed like forever before we got out of the ER.
Got to the restaurant and ordered penne pasta with meatballs and marinara.
“I’m not hungry.”
Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle
“Would you like some spaghetti bolognaise, Nan?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t eat that foreign food. Nasty, gloopy stuff. You can’t even pick it up on your spoon properly; it slithers right off.”
“Why don’t you just give it a try, Nan? It really is very tasty with David’s sauce.”
“No, thank you. I would rather eat English mashed potatoes. Such a versatile food. Did I ever tell you how we used it to make pastry during the war when we couldn’t get flour?”
“Yes, Nan,” said Julie with a sigh. “You have told me about potato pastry many times.”
Lunch by oneletterup
“I think I know who she is.”
“What should we do?”
They whisper, but she hears.
Crouching in the hall shadows. Hidden.
Disappearing. Like before.
“Lunch time!” the nice man calls.
The little girl and little boy are at school.
She perches on the edge of her chair.
Her very own place at their table.
“Honey…” the nice lady begins.
“We’re so sorry…”
“You can’t stay here anymore.”
The girl freezes. Stares. Forkful of spaghetti suspended.
Fingers clench into a fist snapping the fork upright.
Steaming tomato sauce spatters.
Drips down her hand.
Red spreading. Staining.
Pasta for Breakfast by Norah Colvin
Papa Bear pushed back his chair. “Not this muck again.”
Mama Bear stopped mid-ladle. “It’s Baby Bear’s favourite. I— I thought it was yours too.”
Baby Bear’s lip quivered.
“Pfft! Sometimes a bear needs real food.” He grabbed his hat. “I’m going for a walk.”
“Papa!” Baby Bear went after him.
Mama Bear dumped the porridge, pot and all, into the bin, grabbed her hat and followed.
“Where are we going?” asked Baby Bear.
“Somewhere nice for breakfast. It is spring after all.”
Papa Bear paused outside BreakFasta Pasta, then went in.
Mama Bear smiled; pasta was her favourite.
The Legendary Feud by Anurag Bakhshi
The boy’s great-great-great-grandfather was apparently the one to blame
For he called the pasta sauce of the girl’s great-great-great-Nonna tagliatelle, listless and tame
The echo of that insult had now been felt by these two star-crossed lovers
Who, let’s admit it, were just looking for some good old action between the covers
Their dead bodies were a testament to the folly of pride
A lesson that a family pasta recipe is not something to mock or deride
As the Bard put it so succinctly- For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo
No Pasta Was Harmed in Making This Story by Anne Goodwin
She snipped off the seal and upended the pack. Closed her eyes as fusilli clattered into the bowl. Paused, shook her head, reached for the rigatoni bag.
An hour later, there was barely room for his coffee cup among the bowls of dried pasta on the kitchen worktop. “Tell me, you’re cooking dinner at six in the morning or you’ve invited a kindergarten class for hands-on play?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m researching sound effects for my radio drama next month.”
“You’ve set it in a restaurant? In Italy?”
“A shack in Madagascar. I’m recreating rain on a corrugated-iron roof.”
My London Marathon by Kelvin M. Knight
I squinted through the rain. The other competitors looked comically savage – the way their dyed hair dripped down their faces. Nonetheless, these fun runners were out my league. Hugging my bin liner coat, I felt under dressed. I felt under trained. I should have done more. These words were my epitaph.
Still, I eat more than anyone else at the pasta party yesterday evening, so the complex carbohydrates would be on my side, along with this pantomime horse, this huge banana, and this Herculean woman with a refrigerator chained to her back.
Groaning, I waved at the BBC cameraman.
World’s Worst Poem, Plated by Chelsea Owens
Perdonnez, signora, will you taste my
veritable vermicelli which lost a
Tagliatelle or gnocchi -or was
it tortellini or gemelli?- that cost a
Few dozzina homemade noodles: measured,
mixed, rolled, chopped, shaped, and boiled -hasta
Domani, questa mattina -when nappy
And wriggly rigatoni-head rastas
Dangle candid cannelloni for
colazione (o pranzo o cena o altro) sauced, a
Banchetto of bavett, bucatini,
bigoli, e barbina; which fosta
Amore, our home country joy; precious
mem’ries of mamma o zia o ci, who bossed a
Flourishing, famishing family,
practically-plated with a plethora of pasta.
If that doesn’t bake your noodle, you’ve lost-a.
Pasta by Anita Dawes
What is it good for, not eating.
Throw it at the wall, see if it sticks.
Leave it until it falls off, give it to the kids to play with.
Oh, wait a minute they have already done that.
My granddaughters have used it for school projects
Picture frames you cannot dust…
The Italians love to tell us it has to be Al dente, the bite.
The thought of eating pasta makes me want to run for the hills…
And I know it’s well-loved across the globe
But seriously, why was it ever invented?
Does it grow on trees?
PART II (5-minute read)
Mangia, Sii Benedetto e Mangia! by JulesPaige
Mama thought a good way to teach us to listen was to keep our mouths full. Mama would serve us bountiful plates of Orecchiette. Sometimes the way Nonna Bella would make It, or she used recipes from Nonna Julia. Northern and Southern Italians cooked a bit differently. But there was always too much food!
Nonna Bella made rich red tangy sauces. While Nonna Julia employed creamy cheeses to dress her pasta.
Today you can get Gluten free pasta. Though Doc’s say a serving is one cup cooked of any shape you choose. And that Isn’t nearly enough, is it?
Boon or Bane? by Deepa
I was drenched in sweat that soaked the back of my clothes like a scattered map. My fitness tracker blinked up a new record today. It was the best result accomplished for my running record.
Well, don’t I deserve a small treat?
I swiped the pasta mania app in my mobile and selected the double cheese creamy chicken pasta, porcini mushroom, and an orange drink to balance my cheesy treat.
From a fitness tracker to palatable feelings, everything in a swipe at your door service.
Mobile apps, is it a boon or a bane?
So What’s for Dinner? by Di @ pensitivity101
Hundred of marbles
On vines to be seen.
Pasta is long,
Pasta is thick,
Cheesy or savoury,
It’s simple and quick.
Put them together
A meal in a flash,
Wholesome and nourishing,
Even better than mash.
Add meat and an onion
For spaghetti bolognese,
Or kidney beans and chilli
On somewhat colder days.
Pasta is versatile,
Be it boiled or baked,
One thing I’ve not tried yet
Is a pasta filled cake.
Macaroni is pasta,
Add sugar and UHT
To make a sweet pudding
As afters for tea.
Pasta’s a staple,
For Hubby and me.
Chester, the Reluctant Dinner Guest by Molly Stevens
“Myra invited us over for pasta tonight,” Ruth said.
“Pasta?” said Chester. “Don’t she mean spaghetti?”
“No, she was clear about it. She said pasta.”
“Well, la-de-da! That’s what she calls it, does she? Was there another fancy name stuck to her highfalutin pasta, like ‘prime-a-veers?’”
“She didn’t say. It’ll be a surprise.”
Harrumph. “I better grab a six-pack of Papst Blue Ribbon. I know she’ll be pourin’ some cheek wine, like chardonnee that will give me heartburn.
“You can always stay at home if you’d like.”
“Nah, I’ll go with along you. Besides, I’m clean out of SpaghettiOs”
Mother’s Italian Cooking by AbijitRay
“I am going out, shall be back by evening.”
“I am making a new dish Shailaja, don’t go before you try.”
“Mother has become adventurous;” wondered Shailaja, “she is experimenting with non Indian recipes!”
“What’s cooking mother? Am I your only guinea pig?”
“Today I am making Italian noodles.”
“Italian noodles, mother! Its called vermicelli; noodle is Chinese. Spoken in public, this may result in a diplomatic incidence!”
“Stop lecturing, try this out. This is vermicelli cooked Indian way.”
Shailaja found her mother in kitchen juggling a cook book in Hindi along with a host of vegetables and spices.
Remembering Terra by Saifun Hassam
Down at the SeaQuail Market, by the old Fishermen’s wharf, we feasted on a picnic lunch under blue summer skies.
Jumbo pasta shells overflowing with sautéed shrimp, sun-drenched tomatoes, zucchini, eggplant, red and green bell peppers, olives, garlic and onions marinated in olive oil and just that delicate touch of rosemary, fennel and basil.
A generous sprinkling of shredded mozzarella, Gorgonzola and Parmesan cheese.
Espresso coffee and cinnamon ginger fudge.
In a week, Adriana, an astronaut and biochemist, would report for training for her first assignment to Mars. She was my sister. Would we ever see each other again?
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
David shut the door, shaking his head. Heather smirked. “Who was that?”
“The Pastafarians,” he said with a flourish.
“Welcome to Austin, right?”
“You’d think they’d respect dinner time.”
“What did he say, about the Flying Spaghetti Monster?”
They watched the disciples slink down the driveway, the tallest holding a book with a noodle dangling from the binding. “Do you think they’re serious?”
David shrugged, halfway holding a smile. “No. Yeah. I mean, I think that’s the point. We take this stuff too seriously.”
“Careful. You could get struck down talking like that.”
“Wouldn’t that just prove their point?”
Fettuccini Afraid-O by Susan Shuman
“This menu is amazing…” Shelley feigned enthusiasm.
“Get whatever you want,” Eddie shrugged. “Looks like you could use a good meal.”
“Oh, I can’t decide…”
Eddie wished she’d leave her hair alone. It looked like she was trying to strangle her fingertips with it. “Why are you doing that?”
“Huh?” Shelley let go of her hair. “Oh, bad habit.” Her throat tightened.
The waitress brought a steaming loaf of bread to their table and began rattling off the pasta specials.
That’s what did it.
Shelley stifled a scream and scrambled for the door—
Phagophobia: a legacy from her mother.
Pasta by Deborah Lee
Jane ambles through the grocery store, pushing a cart and luxuriating in the experience of grocery shopping. Like people who have a food budget, cupboards to store recipe ingredients, a kitchen for melding them into a home-cooked meal, refrigerator for leftovers.
She hesitates in the pasta aisle, torn between the thought of a steak or her mother’s standby, macaroni with tomatoes and cheese melted through. She used to think of pasta as poor-people food – before she became a poor-people. But it will always be comfort food, Jane thinks, tossing three times as much as she needs into her basket.
Whether you are slammed in a bottleneck of traffic or sitting on the front porch slamming back bottlenecks of beer, the time such moments lend a person is pause to contemplate. Bottlenecks might slow down processes or create unexpected releases.
Stories about bottlenecks vary in design as much as glasswork. You might feel the urge to wedge a lime into a bottleneck of your own as you read.
The following are based on the August 30, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a bottleneck.
Part I (10-minute read)
Commuting by kate @ aroused
My senses were being assaulted by the cacophony of others preferred listening choices. Our windows were wound down to catch any air. Driving home during peak hour was a drag, concentrating on traffic after intense work.
The main thought that was getting me through was of the sushi I’d picked up and the promise of a long hot shower. Then curling under my sheet with a good book … the kind you held and turned the pages. Electronic reading was not for me.
My wandering mind is brought back with a jolt as the traffic bottlenecked around an accident.
Bottleneck by FloridaBorne
We waited behind a semi, unable to see what blocked the road ahead. I sneezed at the diesel exhaust and asked my wife, “Found anything yet?”
The truck moved forward a few feet, and then stopped again, cars merged from the left lane as my wife stared at her tablet. “We’ll be out of this bottleneck in another 50 feet.”
“Was there an accident?”
“No,” she sighed. Traffic moved past an area where the left lane was devoid of anything but a lone boot.
That’s all it takes to stop traffic in LA — a shoe in the road.
Acrostic Bottleneck by TN Kerr
B eneath the dormant wheels
O f this sharp, sleek, motionless luxury automobile
T he motorway lies still, inert and unmoving despite my serious objections. Roll up the windows then,
T he heat is relentless and the malodourous exhaust fumes of a thousand cars
L ingers and mingles languidly with the
E ther that surrounds us.
N eedless to say, we should take the next available
E xit, we should find a relaxing spot to picnic; or a back road we might use as an alternative – a means to
C ircumnavigate this bottleneck, else we won’t be home before
K wanzaa, and it’s not yet Guy Fawkes Night.
Idiots on the Road (from Miracle of Ducks) by Charli MIlls
Ike passed cars like a Hollywood speed-chase. Danni put her hand on his knee, “Slow down.”
“These idiots on the road are going to cause an accident.”
Danni kept her opinion that Ike was the one driving like an idiot. You’d think he was chasing down Al Qaeda in a Humvee the way he swerved around slower vehicles.
Stands of pines zipped past until traffic ahead came to a bottleneck at Culvers Point. Ike swore smooth as opera. Tourists stopped in the road to snap pictures of a mama moose. Danni reminded Ike, “Remember, we’re in Idaho, not Iraq.”
Lemons, Limes and Other Mysteries by Norah Colvin
She hit the brakes and thumped the steering wheel.
“Why we stopped, Mummy?”
“There’s a traffic jam.”
“Jam? I love stawbrey jam sammich.”
“Not that jam — must be a bottleneck up ahead.” Please be a merge, not an accident.
“We learned ‘bout bottlenecks today.”
“Live in the ocean. Maminals, like us. Where’s bottleneck, Mummy?”
“Not bottleneck, Jamie, bottlenose.”
“You said bottleneck.”
“I meant — aargh!”
Finally, they were home.
“You look frazzled, hon.”
She rolled her eyes and took the beer.
“Why lemon is in your bottle neck?” asked Jamie.
“Because it’s not lime.”
A Lesson in Trust by Susan Sleggs
My grandson’s dentist appointment was after school which meant dealing with rush-hour traffic. While sitting on the overpass waiting for the light so I could turn onto the expressway ramp, I could look down to gauge the usual traffic bottleneck. Bad news. Traffic was completely stopped. I said, “We’re going for a little ride to avoid the expressway.”
I wound my way around side streets going north and west.
I heard from the backseat, “I have no idea where we are!”
After two more turns he saw familiar buildings. “You weren’t lost after all Grandma? I was worried.”
Word Jam by Ritu Bhathal
The ideas were just pouring out of my mind, my heart, my soul, and I didn’t know where to start.
No, that’s not right.
I knew where to start, I just couldn’t work out where to stop, how to organise the thoughts rushing through me.
My fingers danced across the keyboard, letters appearing, filling pages and pages.
Faster and faster they came, until-
I knew there was more to come out, but it was as if the impatience of my ideas had caused a bottleneck in my brain.
Time for the muse…
Backcountry Bottleneck by Ann Edall-Robson
A body and soul drive along gravel roads riddled with potholes is nothing short of bliss. The gray matter lodged between the ears has no expectations other than to watch for what Mother Nature has to offer. There is no rush in this journey. It is a plethora of whoa, stop, back up moments soaking in the sights on a trek to an unknown destination. Traffic lights do not exist, and the only bottleneck to endure may be a herd of cattle coming at you on the road. There is nothing like the backcountry to rejuvenate the writing mind.
Empty Bottles All in A Row by Billy Ray Chitwood
Those empty bottles tell a pitiful story of my life, Buckaroos!
Those empty bottles once carried many of those once-held dreams I carried around in my head, all rather noble and fitting for human consumption – for anyone willing to listen to my maudlin cries for do-overs written out on barroom napkins and motel room stationery.
Those empty bottles lit me up like a neon billboard, allowing me to show off my amazing way with the women and with words.
One thing wrong with that pitiful story…
It left me a ‘wimp of a man’!
So, the tombstone says!
A Grain Of Sand by Patrick O’Connor
A single grain of sand at a time.
One by one, they slip through the bottleneck of the hourglass.
Our lives, measured in time is representative of those grains of sand.
One day at a time, our lives slip through our fingers.
Are we striving to leave a legacy or simply living for the moment?
Meanwhile, another life gasps as the last grain of sand drops.
A sad day for some; a joy for others.
How will people remember us; or will they remember us at all.
Only time will tell – one single grain of sand at a time.
The Slide by oneletterup
She sees it. Poking out from under the sofa. She reaches down, closing her hand around the smooth green glass.
Just like Gramma’s! When she played the big guitar. Special for her.
“Honey, this is a bottleneck slide. It goes on my finger. Look!”
Then Gramma would smile, wink and whisper…
“This song is just for you.”
Pressing on the strings, she’d slide the glass. And sing. And fill them both up…
”If not for you…I’d be sad and blue if not for you…”
The little girl finds her there.
Holding the green slide. Tight.
“You found it!”
Champagne Wishes and Caviar Dreams by JulesPaige
Tammy wondered if it was always this hard to buy your first home. You had to prove you were, have been and would be employed – able to make mortgage payments.
What started out as a simple bottleneck situation turned into a log jam. The red tape became like a thick hungry boa constrictor wanting to squeeze the very life from her with having to fill out form after form after form.
There would be a celebration eventually. Hopefully soon. One where she’d invite her best friends to uncork a bottle of champagne. When she finally held her home’s key.
The Bottle Opener by Robert Kirkendall
A party goer grabbed a longneck bottle of ale from an ice chest and searched around. “Anyone know where the bottle opener is?”
“I got this,” another party goer said as he picked up another beer bottle. “Now give me yours.”
The first party goer handed him his bottle, then the second party goer held his bottle upside down and placed the edge of its bottlecap against the other bottlecap. “A little trick I learned in college, using one bottle to open another.”
A cap popped off and beer spilled all over his pants.
“Ooops, wrong cap came off.”
Bottleneck Life by Kayuk
“Ready for the big job interview this afternoon?”
I grin across the table at Sally, “You bet! I’ve been preparing for weeks.”
“Well, you certainly look stunning. The old ivory of the suit sets the perfect tone.”
“Thanks”, I say, draping a napkin across my lap and picking up the fork.
Startled by a crash and yell behind me, I leap from my chair and turn in time to see the waiter’s foot descend on a plastic catsup bottle sliding across the floor. Pressurized contents spew from the bottleneck splashing the front of my perfect suit with garish red.
Trust Deficit by Abhijit Ray
“Bottleneck is always at the top,” thundered CEO in the townhall meeting, on productivity, he convened for his employees, after attending a conference.
“Tell me is what problems you face? Is it resource allocation, time management or decision making?” senior managers shifted uncomfortably in their seats, as chief goaded his employees for a response.
There was pin drop silence, till an eager beaver junior shuffled in his seat. “Idiot! Not yet confirmed, you are a sitting duck,” whispered his friend, “this is all sham. CEO knows very well, where the bottleneck is. He is trying to identify trouble makers.”
Quality Control by Liz Huseby Hartmann
“There’s your bottleneck,” Justin nodded at the bleach-blonde woman at the end of the production line. A stack of TMPuregold Widgets sat to her left. Picking one, she held it up, squinting along its length, and nodded.
“Lorna’s a bottleneck?” His uncle chewed the end of his mustache.
Lorna picked up another widget, ran her hand across its end, and crooked her finger at a young brunette. They bent their heads together. The younger brought the piece back to her station, smiling.
“I have lots of streamlining ideas, Uncle.”
“Tell your mother we’re not hiring just now.”
You Made Your Bed by Sascha Darlington
First a bottleneck on the road and now a bottleneck at the charity event. I see who is causing it and suddenly wish I had a bottleneck in my hand, preferably high-proof.
I try to avoid her, but she’s holding court, her brittle laughter wince-worthy. When her eyes focus on me, her lips tighten.
“Surprised you came.”
I sigh. “I’m chair.”
She waggles her diamond before darting to my ex-. Robert glances up. Do I see regret? Perhaps the younger, improved model wasn’t as good as the original.
Jake squeezes my hand. “You look beautiful tonight.”
Mine is though.
Lil’ Ugly by D. Avery
When he drew a bull called Lil’ Ugly the other cowboys laughed.
Bow legged and barrel-chested with a bottle neck and a jug head, he endured a great deal of ribbing. He disappointed his tormentors by walking away. They could tell they angered him but could never get him to throw a punch. In addition to picking on his looks they questioned his manhood.
As he approached the chute the others joked, wondered who was going to be on top.
They didn’t wonder any longer than eight seconds.
They knew now what he did with his bottled up rage.
Saddleback Sanctuary (from “Diamante”) by Saifun Hassam
Where the valley narrowed, the flagstone path disappeared under boulders and jagged rocks. Landslide from early spring. Diamante surveyed the bottleneck. He weaved carefully around the larger rocks, clambering up and down smaller ones. He paused to rest. A lark flew up into the warm sunny skies. A lizard slithered across the boulder, briefly eyed Diamante, and disappeared. No bottlenecks for lizard or lark.
Another half mile and he was on the flagstone trail again. The ancient abandoned monastery came into view. Near an open broken gate, a giant tortoise slept, its neck well hidden within its saddleback shell.
Part II (10-minute read)
Bottleneck by Anita Dawes
Something we experience when pushing our way into a new life. A tight space, hard to get out of.
Days when the tension holds on to the back of my neck like giant metal claws.
Other times I feel as if I have been snapped back in time, trapped inside the Trojan horse with a bunch of sweaty human beings, waiting to do battle.
The sun will come back and you can move on with your life. The way ahead is clear, or am I trapped inside someone else’s mind?
Is this the bottleneck that will finally break me?
Bottleneck by katimac
They say humans of many forms lived a long time ago. Then a natural disaster struck which wiped out nearly all of them. It was most likely the progenitor of the Great Flood stories found in nearly every culture. Geologists can point to physical signs of it all at about the same time, nearly seventy thousand years ago. Anthropologists can point to one at the same time, about seventy thousand years ago, when mankind was reduced to a small bottleneck group on the western coast of Africa. We ain’t none of us lily-white if we go back far enough.
This Time, This Place by Kelvin M. Knight
Standing in his pulpit, he regarded one bottleneck after another: his overworked PCC; the cavalier making of tea during the service; the choir grumbling behind him; the organ whimpering far far away.
He prayed silently, swiftly. Upon opening his eyes, he spied a congregation transformed. Now they all looked resplendent in starched white collars, whereas he was a shadow, bloated and distorted, and pinched in so many places: from his wallet to his timesharing; from his patience to his love.
Realising he was more guilty than them, he pondered the complexities of daring to share this truth with them.
Not Exactly an Hour-glass Figure by Di @ pensitivity101
‘You need to go on a diet.’
‘Don’t you start! How can I help it if there’s so much to choose from, I want to try it all?’
‘Somehow seeing you stuck like that is doing you no favours as regards your street cred.’
‘I’ll have you know this colour is very fetching! Brings out the natural blue of my eyes.’
‘At the moment they look a bit bloodshot. You’ve probably cut off your circulation, you’ve gotten so fat.’
‘No need to be nasty. I’ll just make a wish!’
‘But that’s cheating!’
‘Ha! I’m a Genie darling! I’m allowed!’
Bored Panda by Deepa
Honey, does this look good?
I nod quickly thinking my way to escape.
Is this one better? She asked me.
If I nod again, I fear she’ll say, ‘so what is wrong with the first one?’
Which one do you prefer? This was she again.
Oh, darling! You look equally amazing in both.
Oh, honey! Do you mean to say can I have both?
It is a terror for spouses when it comes to shopping.
A pleasure for sales guys and a reason for more congestion in the roads and malls.
Buy 1, get one free!
Jessie by Kay Kingsley
It had been 3 weeks and 4 days since Mike and Jessie had broken up and each second that passed was agony for him.
He sat in his usual chair at the bar hoping to be as invisible as he felt, a chameleon basked in neon.
The bar was a loud distraction as he mindlessly stroked the bottle neck, lost in the memory of her smile and the smell of her perfume. Full of regret, his heart ached.
When she touched his shoulder from behind, he looked up and thought it was a dream. They smiled at each other.
Bottleneck by Frank Hubeny
Some say your real brains are in your gut. Bill knew his wasn’t in his brain. Sharon doubted he had any in his gut either.
That’s when she got pregnant and started worrying.
That’s when they had to move to a smaller apartment.
That’s when it looked like he would lose his job.
That’s also when he didn’t lose his job, but got an indirect promotion.
That’s also when they realized they loved that new apartment.
That’s when he held her and told her he was glad she was pregnant.
That’s when she changed her mind about his brains.
One Night, Both Ends of Life by Paula Moyer
One Night, Both Ends of Life
6:30: the call. Finally, that night.
“Today’s the day.” Her nephew Max, about his father, Jean’s brother.
“Did he die?”
“Yes.” The wait/weight – done. Alcoholic organ failure – complete.
7:30 p.m.: the text. “My water broke.” A very pregnant woman’s message to Jean, her doula. “But nothing’s happening.” Jean gassed up anyway.
9:30: the call. The husband. “It’s time.”
Jean battled State Fair traffic, road work, bridge closures.
10:10: Raced into the birth center. “Waaa!” On the floor: Chux pads, blood everywhere. On the bed: parents and one angry baby.
11:30: the drive home, joy and grief wedged in together.
Hillsborough, April 1989 by Anne Goodwin
The match was a sell-out, but progress through the turnstiles deathly slow. To ease the tension outside, they opened the gates and funnelled the supporters directly into the already swollen stand. As the game kicked off, no-one heard the protests of those at the front, the screams forced from crushed lungs. While grown men cried for their mams, kids hadn’t the air to whimper. The first to scale the fence were met with truncheons. Belatedly, the ambulances pulled onto the pitch.
No goals were scored that day. But records were broken in the numbers killed at a sporting event.
The Happiest Traffic Jam on Earth by Chelsea Owens
“When will we get dere?”
“It’s …uh, your turn to answer him, Dear.”
“Whe-e-e-e-en will we get de-e-e-e-ere?”
“I told you, Honey. We’ll be there soon.”
“You said that a long time ago!”
“I wish you wouldn’t call him-”
“No! You said we go in duh car!”
“Yes, Sweetheart. Vroom! Vroom! Remember?”
“You said LITTLE ride in duh car!”
“Well, I meant-”
“You did tell him just a little ride-“
“Dear, please. That’s not helping to side with him…”
“Are we picking sides?”
“WHEN WILL WE GET DERE?!”
It’s a Boy! by Sarah Whiley
Yet still, the cap wouldn’t budge.
I felt so frustrated. This liquid was yearning for release for human consumption and to be enjoyed.
It was a perfect summer’s day for a beer.
Not ready to concede defeat, I kept on trying.
The effort began to hurt my hands.
Damn this thing, I thought.
Then suddenly, I felt it.
A helpful force; working with me from the other side.
Oh joy of joys, the cap began to move!
Finally it was released, and cool liquid amber gushed through the bottle neck.
“It’s a boy!” I smiled.
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
Music pulsed, matching the thump of my heart in my ears as I leaned in and gave the wine bottle a carefully planned spin. Breath held. The circle tightened. Julie Jennings’ knee touched against mine, the bottleneck now a whir of fate.
Thump. Warmth hit my cheeks as the wand settled on Julia. A nervous laugh. What now? But with a giggle Julie nudged it two more places—miles it seemed!—to the metallic smile of Christina Cash. A small terror in my chest. A gust of strawberries. Julia shrugged, winked, then shoved me off towards her best friend.
Chester Makes Amends by Molly Stevens
Chester knew he had to dig himself out of a crater after he gave the wrong impression to his wife, Ruth.
He settled on his strategy and said, “I remember the exact moment I knew you was the one. And though it was magic, my decision to ask for your hand in marriage had nothin’ to do with a silly eight ball.”
“Yes. I chose you in the fifth grade.”
“Remember the party at Rosie house? We gathered in a circle, and I spun first. When the bottleneck pointed in your direction, I knew you’d be mine.”
Bottlenecking by Bill Engleson
I peer into the darkness.
The fog’s thicker than shower steam.
“There’s the turnoff,” I point, bumping my digit against the windshield.
“I see it,” she snaps. “I’m not blind.”
“Sorry…” I apologize, shaking my bent finger.
“Did you hurt your pinkie?” she asks.
“No. Just nerves.”
The offramp quickly turns into a one-lane cow path.
“I can barely see,” she offers.
“It’s a good thing you’re driving,” I confess. “I can’t see squat.”
Suddenly, a tiny wooden bridge appears.
“THAT,” she says, “looks flimsy. I’m turning back.”
“Can’t. Bosses party.”
“Yup. The only guests.”
The Real Winner by Anurag Bakhshi
I looked down at the battlefield, and my heart filled with pride.
My fellow countryman Leonidas and his small band of 300 Spartans had been pitted against more than a million of the invading army of Xerxes.
But the wily Leonidas had taken a stand at a bottleneck in the pass at Thermopylae, and stopped the Persians dead in their tracks for three days.
And the mighty Persian Army would still be fighting a futile battle if I, Ephialtes, hadn’t told them about the hidden path that would allow them to flank Leonidas and his men, and slaughter them.
Bottleneck by Reena Saxena
“I will not give my land. The price you offer is not enough to sustain me, and I don’t have any other means to earn a livelihood.”
“Do you understand that this is for a mega-project, which will change the face of the countryside. History will not forgive you for being a bottleneck in progress.”
“History might forgive and glorify you, but goodness will not.” He signed the sale deed.
Three years later, the land purchased by the parliamentarian’s brother was sold at thirty times the price he bought it for. It helps to know about future developmental plans.
Slow and Steady Kid by D. Avery
“Hey, Pal. Have a beer with me. Ever wonder why bottles is shaped the way they are, with the long neck?”
“Mebbe it’s so it’s easier ta pour. But we got no glass nor class, drinkin’ right outta the bottle.”
“If ya hang onta the bottle neck yer beer doesn’t git all warm.”
“Jist drink it down fast. Gimme anuther Kid.”
“I like coozies, ‘specially handy with so many switchin’ ta cans.”
“Don’t need a coozie, jist drink ‘em right down. ‘Nuther, Kid.”
“You prefer bottles, or cans, Pal? Pal?”
“That was fast. Pal’s downed from downin’ beer.”
What we call magic can be inexplicable — the fantastic, supernatural, universality of experiences beyond the realm of the five senses. Magic can be dark or ethereal. It can be a moment, or, as Elizabeth Gilbert explains, Big Magic is the courage to hunt for the creative life.
Enchanted, or not, writers set out to story-craft tales of magic this week. Like a rabbit pulled from a hat, you’ll be surprised at what emerged.
The following is based on the August 23, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes magic.
PART I (10-minute read)
On the Occasion of the Poet’s Being Challenged (or TGIF) by JulesPaige
Magic for me, starts at dusk
after the sun has retired.
One must wait an entire cycle
for the moonflower to bloom.
Defenceless against the weather,
the desire to grow at night
in shadow is strong.
I find a quality in dusk turning to night
that makes it seem as if the silver river
flows slower over the stones.
The heat of a summer day
makes me tired.
I discover strength in darkness.
Uncover the burdens of night dreaming
and cover myself in moon glow.
Repeat over and over a mantra of freedom.
“It is Friday, it is Friday!”
Magic Exists by Pamela
In the space between the words
In the ideas left unthought
And in the needs now left unspoken
In the dreams as yet undreamt
In the strangers still unmet
And in the future paths untrod
In your mind and in your soul
And in your heart so cautiously
It exists in you
Look for the magic
Be open to its charms
Bask in the wonders
Of the magic that exists
Look for the magic
Before it is gone
I cannot imagine a world so bereft
That magic was not a part
Magic by The Dark Netizen
The old man observed the couple in his crystal ball.
They were standing at the sea face, hand in hand, looking at the setting red orb in the sky.
“You know baby, when we are together, it feels magical.”
She looked into his eyes and smiled in agreement.
The old wizard however had a grim face. He spotted two shadows approaching the oblivious couple. There was no way they could sense the darkness approaching. The old man turned to his assistant.
“Merlyn, we need to move fast. We cannot lose our source of magic. We must protect true love…”
Adamant Acceptance by JulesPaige
Young Kendra willed magic. Ever since the first time death visited her family. Maybe Azrael possessed some healing powers? The girl wanted to communicate with those who had crossed over. Since the ones who were still
around didn’t really communicate very well.
Didn’t the adults read any of the books that contained rituals for magic? If they had maybe they wouldn’t shout so much or rub salt in old wounds. How could they live with themselves?
Kendra would read all the books, even if they
believed she could not read. She would whisper,
repeat and most of all believe.
Janice by Saifun Hassam
With eyes closed, Janice traced the delicate raised patterns on her favorite porcelain vase. Dogwood flowers, swallows, leaves on curving branches. The subtle magic of that touch flowed into her mind.
Her left eye was still blind. Her right eye filled with vision, tears. Fear and hope. The tumor had crushed the left optic nerve, destroyed the pituitary gland and sent tendrils into the gray matter.
She savored the taste of cherry chocolate cake Tom had prepared for her. She breathed in the aroma of the coffee. He had gone to work, but he had left her with magic.
Magic Moment by Sherri Matthews
‘Happy Birthday, hope you like it!’
Colin tore off the wrapping paper revealing a child’s magic set to roars of laughter from his friends.
‘Thanks guys…nice one…you bastards.’
Colin laughed along, but the memory of his family’s teasing when he had put on his first magic show as a kid still stung. Not that his friends knew. It didn’t matter. They only knew that Colin was a media sensation after his win on Britain’s Got Talent.
‘Drinks on me.’
Everybody turned as Simon Cowell arrived holding a magnum of champagne.
Nothing beat the magic of that night for Colin.
Footloose by D. Avery
Ilene Higginbottom pulled a folding chair from the bed of the El Camino and joined Marge and Ernest where they sat in their camp chairs outside the shop.
“That’s a pretty fancy camp chair, Ilene, dual cup-holders, and look at you, it reclines too!”
“Yeah, I like to put my foot up. This’s the last thing I bought with my ex-boyfriend’s money before letting him go; only thing about him appealed to me was his magic mailbox.”
Ernest squeezed Marge’s hand before going for more beer, told her he’d start dinner.
“Marge,” said Ilene, “What you’ve got is real magic.”
Reckoning by Kerry E.B. Black
“Where is your wife, Ward?” The magistrate’s robes flapped like a gaping hole.
“She took our son to visit her family.” Thank God she fled.
But what of Nina? Legs twisted like gnarled, unsupportive vines. Defenseless. Her only crime saving his infant’s life.
The magistrate rested a heavy hand upon Ward’s shoulder. It pressed like a stone. “Your wife will be tried. She consorted with a witch to save your son.”
Fire erupted within Ward, but he struggled to keep calm. “She didn’t. I fetched the woman who nursed our son. My wife had nothing to do with it.”
Magic by Frank Hubeny
On a blue planet people believed in nothing that they couldn’t see. No ghosts. No gods. No angels.
There were natural laws. That magic was powerful. The more it worked, the more they believed. Those who doubted were educated until they believed or in extreme cases there were prisons. In really extreme cases there were nuclear options.
The people on the blue planet made a lot of money except for those who didn’t and so everyone who counted was happy.
Things went very well until the “fay-rees”, as they became known after The Event, had their fill of it.
Flash Fiction by Geoff Le Pard
‘Do you believe in magic, Logan?’
‘In what context?’
‘What’s wrong with a yes or no?’
‘If you mean prestidigitation…’
‘Slight of hand, deceit, then that’s not magic. If you mean the magic of nature or of birth or first love…’
‘You soppy romantic…’
‘… then yes. There are some things that are truly magical, truly miraculous. They constantly amaze me.’
‘Like my wit and brilliance?’
‘Like the fact that despite you driving me nuts, talking rot, playing the fool, we are still friends.’
‘And my wit and brilliance?’
‘Give me a hug.’
‘Don’t push it…’
The Magic of Decision-making by Molly Stevens
Ruth was on a mission to purge. She examined a round, black object she retrieved from the bottom of the trunk.
“Chester, this yours?”
“Why have you held onto it?
“It means a lot to me. It helped me make some major decisions through the years.”
“Remember when I was thinkin’ about quittin’ school? Magic eight ball said, ‘My reply is no.’”
Chester remained silent.
“Magic eight ball, did Chester consult with you before he proposed to me?
“‘Signs point to yes.”
Chester snatched the prophetic orb and pitched it into the dumpster.
Sleight Fright by Ritu Bhathal
“Think of a name.”
Deanna held her chosen name tightly in her mind and nodded.
“Think of an object related to that name.”
She self-consciously touched her wrist, where her watch was.
Except it wasn’t there.
Where was it? It was the only thing she had left of him.
“I believe you were thinking of Peter, and his black diver’s watch, am I right?”
The magician held out a watch.
Slight of hand or magic, she didn’t know, but Deanna didn’t wait to find out. She rushed to the front, snatched the watch and rushed out of the building.
The Feather by Colleen Chesebro ~ The Fairy Whisperer
I finished my gardening chores and wrapped the hose into a coil. There on the ground was a tiny grey feather. I picked it up and placed it under my gloves on the table for safe keeping.
I walked toward the front garden where my daylilies drooped. I held the spray over the plants, and there on the ground was another gray feather!
I hurried to retrieve the first feather, but it was gone. It was then, the magic of the moment struck me. Without a doubt, this feather had wanted me to find it. What could it mean?
The Return Home by Jan Malique
Soft, soft are their feet upon the forest floor
Hear their whispers lift on perfumed breeze
The Crystal Sentinels wait
Offer messages only once
Offer wisdom never seen
Hark, the Fey do come
The Light of Ever Becoming approaches
Issues through sky and earth
Infuses Crystal Sentinels
Weaves magic most powerful
Weaves magic neither light nor dark
Hark, the do Fey come
See the Faerie Queen step forth
Peer at human worlds
Command Otherworld gates be open
See her warriors step forth
Speak words of release
The Crystal Sentinels rise
Step through gates of welcome
Step through worlds incandescent
A Warning and a Plea by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Lucy’s footsteps echoed pale blue, up and over the far reaches of Karlssen’s Glacier.
She took her time, minding her breath; these tower steps had been built by others taller than her six foot frame. Per her nature, she’d planned for extra effort to reach the peak.
The half-troll girl was on her way. Magnhildr would need another Season to convince her fellows to foster yet another non-jotun, even Sylvi’s child.
She wrapped the message-crow in her hands, whispering a plea, “The child is no longer safe.”
The bird erupted into the northern sky, its cry splitting the night.
Protected by abhijit ray
“This is magestic,” Sam looked admiringly at the luminous diamond sitting at the feet of deity in dilapidated temple.
“I want it Sid,” said Sam greedily, “it will fetch a fortune.”
“Don’t invite god’s wrath Sam. This stone is under protection of reigning deity of this fort.”
“I don’t believe in power of magic. I did not walk all the way to just have a peek. What good is it here anyway? At least, we shall have good time.”
The leopard was following them for some distance now. As Sam bent down to unseat the stone, the predator pounced.
Acronym by FloridaBorne
“Dr. Michael Arden?” The young woman with a recorder asked, “Why did you become a scientist?”
Should I remind the world? Why not? “You do realize this is a funeral and we’re standing in front of my mother’s casket?”
“You’re a hard man to corner for an interview.”
“My mother believed in magic, used a cauldron and thought she could talk to fairies.”
Wide eyed, she gasped, “Your mother was a witch?”
“If you could read, you would know why,” I scoffed at her. “Mother was schizophrenic! MAGIC is nothing but an acronym for mentally addled gullible insecure citizen.”
Shakespeare’s Cheat Sheet by Katimac
Shakespeare scribbled halfway down the page and froze. It was the same rubbish he had written an hour earlier, reworded. He cursed and crumpled the page, tossing it across the room to add to the growing stack of crumpled pages in the corner of the room. He threw himself back in his chair and thought furiously. After a moment, he called for the maid.
“What’s her name again?”
The maid glanced around nervously. “Are you certain, sir?”
Shakespeare swore again. “What was her name, the magic hag?”
The maid whispered the name in fear.
“Bring her here. It’s time.”
PART II (10-minute read)
First Morning in the New Place by Anne Goodwin
Despite her diligence in tidying away her thoughts on retiring to bed, Matty awakes to a muddle. It is as if a kitten has whiskered its way into a sewing box and woven a cat’s cradle with the thread.
Opening her eyes, it is obvious something larger than a baby cat has caused the chaos. Has a magic carpet whooshed her to China? Or, like Alice, she’s fallen down a rabbit hole to a world where walls move and rooms shrink?
A maid beams at her from the bedpost. “Welcome to Tuke House, Matty! Are you ready for breakfast?”
The Source of Magic by Anurag Bakhshi
Sue woke up to see Charli staring unblinkingly at a tall tree near their campsite.
“Look at that light emanating from that tree, it’s magical,” Charli said softly.
Sue looked towards the tree, and said dismissively, “It’s just sunlight reflected from a mirror on the tree. You really shouldn’t have had those magic mushrooms last night.”
Charli shrugged her head and looked again. Her friend was right, it was nothing at all.
As Charli left to wash her face to clear her head, Sue looked towards the tree angrily. That magic tree had got to control its yawns better.
Magic by Kay Kingsley
I don’t believe in magic tricks but I love being sucked into them. The slight of hand, the show, the impossible result… it’s mesmerizing and entertaining and I have zero desire for someone to explain it to me. What fun is that? I want to be entertained and tricked into awe.
And although I don’t believe in magic tricks I do believe in magic. The magic of timing, of bonding, the pure magic of love. Magic felt, magic seen, magic experienced.
The only magician I ever knew was time and the only magic he ever showed me was life.
Transformed by Reena Saxena
“I have stopped writing,” he appears cold and distant in the darkness.
“Really? Will you survive without it?”
“I spent a lifetime, staining white pages and interlocking fingers with keyboards. It was heaven, it was hell, and I knew of nothing else”, he rambles on, unaware of my presence in the room.
“What do you plan to do now?” I am genuinely concerned about his mental health.
“Whatever I am ordained to do….. I experienced magic today. I saw my thoughts in a physical form.”
I walk out with heavy footsteps, knowing that he does not need me anymore.
The Magic Pill by Ruchira Khanna
“Dr. Ali, I come to you with hope since I’ve heard that you have cured, many!” Sheela said in an earnest tone as she held her rumbling stomach.
“Yes! I treat all,” he said with confidence as he handed her a box of pills with a blank label.
“Fill out your symptoms!”
She followed his instructions with a puzzled look.
“Take 1 pill twice a day. Visit me after a month.”
A month later, ” I am cured!” she shouted with glee, “You have magic pills.”
“Nah! it’s just the placebo effect, and I’m not even a medical doctor.”
A 1966 Really Groovy Incident by Bill Engleson
I wasn’t supposed to be home the day that Alan dropped by with Lita and Louise, two Oregonian hitchhikers.
“Picked them up on the freeway,” he said. “They need a place to crash and I…” and he explained…two rooms, one wife and a huge red setter with bladder problems.
“I can see it’d be awkward,” I commiserated, adding, “In any case, we’re a commune. We can always make extra beds magically appear.”
The Oregonians were exceptionally close.
Still, Lita and I quickly found…mutual ground.
Only Louise needed her own bed.
Everyone was good with that.
Magic Mushrooms by Robbie Cheadle
What happened to her?” Rose asked, horrified at the red spots and broken capillaries that covered her pretty daughter’s face.
“We had to rush her to the hospital and have her stomach pumped,” said her sister.
“She was playing with Sean in the garden and they found a patch of toadstools hidden in the corner under a bush. Sean said she ate one. She wanted to grow big like Alice. She thought they were magic mushrooms.”
“Oh, my goodness, I thought I was doing a good thing when I read Alice in Wonderland to her. More context next time.”
Childhood – A Magical Time by Susan Sleggs
Now that I’m an old lady I can say my favorite sound is a symphony of night time bug noises. I remember the music lulling me to sleep when I was a little girl and I kept the window by my bed wide open. During the day we built forts in the woods, raided the garden for snacks, and enjoyed getting dirty and tired. I didn’t know enough to worry about being hungry, having money problems, alcoholism, or cancer. Today the bug music takes me back to that magical time so I can clear my mind to fall asleep.
Seeing Is Believing by D. Avery
“Pal, watcha doin’ way out here all by yersef?”
“Felt like bein’ alone, Kid.”
“The ranch hands is all busy corrallin’ stories ’bout magic Pal.”
“Jist wanted ta git away, lay out here unner the stars. ’Sides, I don’t believe in magic. Since yer here, set still, listen ta the popple leaves whisperin’.”
“The Ranch is out west Pal, call ’em Aspen or cottonwoods.”
“They whisper the same songs, Kid. Now look’t that big orange moon through the silhouetted treetops. Eh? Look ‘t that star strewn night sky. I tell ya Kid, it’s… it’s…”
“I believe it is.”
A Magic Sound by Susan Sleggs
“Child, open the window by my bed.”
“Nurse told me not to. Too humid tonight.”
“Don’t have nothin’ to do with hot or cold; has to do with bugs.”
“If you open that window like I asked, I can hear them bugs singin’. That sound is magic.”
“Cause that’s the first sound I remember. Lulled me to sleep before I knowed what meanness, goin’ without, prejudice, and drinkin’ was. Can still do the same if I can just hear that singin’.”
“Can I leave if I open the window so’s I don’t get blamed?”
A Sprinkle of This and a Pinch of That by Norah Colvin
“Makin’ a spell.”
“What sorta spell?”
“A magic spell.”
“Can I help?”
“Whadda I do?”
“Put stuff in the pot.”
“What sorta stuff?”
“Gotta read the recipe.”
“What’s it say?”
“Ya gotta read it.”
“Oh. Okay. I’ll help. Look, it says …”
Mum stopped at the door to the kitchen. “Wha— What are you doing?”
“Nothin’,” mumbled the older.
“Makin’ magic spells,” grinned the younger, covered in flour from head to toe.
“What sort of magic spell?” asked Mum, wishing for her own magic spell.
“Take us to outa space.”
“Can I come too?”
The Magic of Imagination by TNKerr
Waves of assassins, ninjas, and marauders had already been turned away by the intrepid Timmy McNab. Dead and wounded were piled, like cordwood, against the back fence while weapons of all types lay scattered throughout the garden. When the whistle sounded, our hero held up one finger stopping an attacking pirate who waited; cutlass in his left hand, dagger in the right, pistol tucked into the black sash around his waist.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” That’s Mom. I gotta go, dinner time.”
“No fair, Timmy it’s my turn.” The pirate groused.
“We’ll play again tomorrow, after breakfast. You can go first.”
Do You Believe in Magic? by Chelsea Owens
Here, he sits. The screen reflects his fat fingers, his glasses, his balding head.
Between lines of numbered reports, his memory sees small hands, perfect sight, full hair. Laughter.
There, she rests. Against the mopped floor rest her orthopedic shoes, her sore cankles, her ample midsection.
Mundane mind-wanderings recall barefoot summers, skinny legs, an inverted belly button. Happiness.
Where, do we stand? Honest bathroom mirrors capture our eye lines, our neck bulges, our long wrinkly faces.
Fleeting cognizance remembers smooth skin, thin necks, unblemished features. Smiles.
Fairy dust? Hardly. Evaporating imagination pulls us ever farther from Never-Neverland.
Magician by Miriam Hurdle
“Danny, you’re my helper. Get me a chopstick and a cloth napkin.”
Uncle Pat shaped his left hand like a funnel, pushed the center of the napkin into it with the four corners flapping like petals. He poked the thin end of the chopstick into the napkin fiercely to the bottom, then pulled it through and shook the napkin in the air.
“Uncle, you didn’t poke a hole!”
“Do it again.”
Three days later.
“Hello, sis, how are you doing?”
“Danny poked a hole through three cloth napkins.”
“He’ll be a great magician one day.”
Up to His Tricks (from Rock Creek) by Charli MIlls
“Wanna see a magic trick?” Hickok splayed a deck of cards to Monroe.
“Pa doesn’t like hands playing cards.” The boy glanced at the barn door expecting Cobb to materialize.
“We’re not gaming. Just magic. Pick a card, any—”
“Monroe, your Ma is asking for you. Said to bring her the hen eggs.” Sarah stood in the door, arms crossed.
Monroe shuffled and then ran out the door. Sarah had to address the new hand before he got on Cobb’s wrong side.
Ready for her scolding, Hickok winked and smiled a boyish grin. “Wanna see a magic trick?”
Breakfast by oneletterup
Nobody even mentions the comet.
But she saw it! Last night. Out the window.
Would they even believe her?
Nobody believes her. Ever.
The little boy squints at her over his oatmeal.
“Come on…what’s your name?”
She shakes her head. Chews.
The little girl smiles at her.
If only she could stay here forever.
She wishes hard for a magic wand.
Poof! She would belong in this blue house with the swings.
This nice man. This nice lady. This little girl and little boy. And her. Safe.
She would stop remembering.
And she’d never have to go back.
Crystal Clear by Di @ pensitivity101
The ranks were gathered, thousands staring at the wondrous sight.
Whispers of ‘where did it come from’ and ‘what was it’ filtered through the regimental columns, no-one making any effort to climb the mossy mound to investigate.
Their Leader came to the front and once he had their full attention, announced that it was indeed magic, a Gift from the Gods.
Their prayers had been answered and their diligence rewarded.
This crystal globe contained a never ending source of the water they so badly needed.
He thus called upon his ant armies to carry it and its precious cargo.
Falling by Patrick O’Connor
There was only one explanation for what happened to me.
No one would have survived such a thing.
I was hanging over the edge of a cliff, clinging to a branch.
My strength gave out and I started falling.
Falling to the rocks below.
Just as I reached the rocks, everything went black.
I awoke on a beach, witnessing a beautiful sunrise.
The only explanation – magic.
I was in the same clothes.
I had all my memories.
But there was something even more extraordinary.
There were two moons in the sky instead of one.
I awoke in the hospital.
Pal Pays PayPal by D. Avery
“What’s up, Pal?”
“I been thinkin’ on all thet Shorty’s doin’; second anthology, the rodeo…”
“Yep. Shore is a worker. Gives so much a hersef ta the Ranch.”
“Well, Kid, I found a magic button thet’ll hep us give ta the Ranch too.”
“Thought ya didn’t believe in magic.”
“Well, I’m beginnin’ ta. Ya jist go up ta the upper left hand corner an’ push some buttons and Kazam! Magically the Ranch is gifted.”
“You ain’t so gifted though. It ain’t magic; ya gotta pay, Pal.”
“So? I’m happy ta pay fer some Ranch magic. It’s priceless.”
With trails that stretch across the sky, some comets burn so brightly they appear during the light of day. They burn into our imaginations, sparking questions and prophecies. Some people dance (naked), some despair.
Writers flashed comets this week with tales from around the world and both hemispheres. Take a ride on a comet through the literary art of flash fiction.
The following is based on the August 16, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a comet.
PART I (10-minute read)
The Comet of 1858 by James McCanles (5th-great-grandfather of Charli Mills)
Hail! beautious stranger to our sky,
How bright thy robes appear,
Noiseless thou trends thy paths on high,
And converse with all our stars.
In radiant flame of glowing light
Thy silent orb rolls on,
Through vast eternities of night,
To mortal man unknown.
Thy magnitude thy fiery glow,
Thy towering wake of flames,
But mock our wisest skill to know,
We’ve barely learned thy name.
Through boundless depths of space unknown,
Beyond the realms of days,
In blazing language of thy own,
Thou speaks thy Maker’s praise.
Words beyond time stretch comet-like from 1858,
Oldest flash of 2018.
NOTE: last two lines added by C Mills to make poem 99 words.
Comet by Anita Dawes
When I look at a comet, having been lucky enough to see one, I see a giant snowman, throwing a ball of ice across our night sky, with its tail of dust.
We look upon it with wonder.
Could this giant hand be playing Rounder’s, or maybe Alleygobs with giant marbles? Is there someone on the other side of our dark sky ready to catch them, to hold onto them for too long before we see them again?
Could it be an invisible jockey riding a sky horse or maybe a knight from some forgotten age, looking for Merlin?
Sibling Games? by JulesPaige
There would be punishment for stealing his marbles. But only if the thief was caught. Which was why she hid them in the hem of her black velvet skirt…
Being the children of the Gods, they still behaved with human attributes. Or was it just that humans had to have excuses for their own failures?
If he wanted them back, he was going to have to look carefully. She took them into the night and with all her might tossed them into the universe. The marbles were pulled by gravity, while gaining speed and left a lingering light trail.
The Prophecy by Colleen Chesebro ~ The Fairy Whisperer
The comet streaked across the sky dragging a fiery tail against the inky blackness. Dennitsa shivered in the gathering gloom. Her dreams of late had been infiltrated by the ancestors revealing the prophecy this celestial nomad heralded. Time was running out.
The old ways of healing-magic were in danger. Today, the Byzantine priests had instituted a plan to hunt down and kill the fairy witches, thus performing a cleansing upon the land.
Ripples of magic exploded from the woman’s form silhouetted against the night sky.
Her spirit calls out—
the continuum answers,
The solution came from above.
Stardust and a Comet by Carol Keefer
According to the J.R.R. Tolkien’s cosmology of elves, the Eldar who lived with Valar in Aman “were also called Calaquendi (Elves of the Light).” The Eldar developed their faith in magic and became magical elements in the tail of a powerful comet. As long as the Eldar drove the comet, the comet would not die. Because they left Aman, these elves did not live in the world of Arda and were subsequently unknown to the inhabitants of Middle Earth. These comet-dwelling Eldar sailed through the universe, developing new weapons and magic until they attracted the attention of an enemy.
Ilesol (from “Quantanelle: Stranded in Space”) by Saifun Hassam
The King’s Astronomer Ilesol tracked the arc of the great Comet Cygnet across the starry skies. At midnight, he was alone in the Royal Observatory on the high plateau overlooking Port Estrella.
Comet Cygnet was known since ancient times to return to the Terran skies every seventy years.
This would be the first and only time Ilesol would see the Comet.
In that thought and moment, the Comet seemed to beckon him, to venture beyond Port Estrella, the Isle of Ilbaiyat, to travel the Great Terran Oceans, to explore unknown worlds. A brilliant light filled the observatory. Ilesol vanished!
Comet by The Dark Netizen
“Whoa! What is that?”
Ethan had taken his little sister for camping. He looked at his little sister pointing up at the astronomical expanse. He could see what she was referring to.
“That is a comet.”
“A comet? What are those?”
Ethan adored his little sister. However, the way she asked so many questions about everything annoyed him to no end. He decided to have some fun.
“A comet is an alien flying so fast, that its ass starts burning, and it leaves a trail.”
“So cool!! We spotted an alien.”
*Many miles above*
“How did the earthling know?”
Comet by Robbie Cheadle
From the small window of the rocket, it looked like an enormous snowball. Comprised of frozen gases, rock and dust, it was the size of a small town. The astronauts realized with horror that there was no escaping it. The rocket lay directly in its path.
As the frozen ball’s orbit brought it closer to the sun, it obliterated the rocket, ending its urgent mission immediately. The comet heated up, releasing dust and gas which formed a glowing head and long trailing tail. The people of Earth rejoiced in its beauty, not realising the loss they had just suffered.
Origins of Comets (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
Sarah spread a quilt on the knoll above Rock Creek to watch the night sky.
“The year before I was born, stars landed.” Yellow Feather pulled a pitted gray stone from his medicine pouch. He passed it to Nancy Jane.
“Feels kinda like lumpy metal.”.
“It’s heavy, too. This is a star?” asked Sarah.
Yellow Feather said, “My grandfather found it where many small stars burned the prairie grass.”
“Look – there’s one,” said Nany Jane.
“I saw it! Did you see Comet Donati last year?”
Yellow Feather laughed. “Comet Donati? That was just First Shaman urinating across the sky.”
How The Stars Aligned by Geoff Le Pard
‘There’s a comet passing tonight, Morgan.’
‘No, come on. Even you must see how extraordinary these things are.’
‘They’re a bunch of rocks and ice, Logan. You may think watching space grit is fascinating but I’ll stick to the footie.’
‘These are nature’s warnings. They portend the great events of history. The Battle of Hastings, Genghis Khan’s attack on Europe.’
‘Rubbish. Your average Russian isn’t interested in Hastings.’
‘You know what significant event occurred when Halley’s last appeared? It changed the world as we know it.’
‘We started school together and you stole my banana.’
What do YOU Wish For? by Chelsea Owens
“I wish to be a famous dancer!”
“I wanna be a millionaire!”
“I want to build the world’s first robotic house!”
They all turned to their silent friend.
“What do you wish for, Chelsea?”
“I can’t tell.”
Shrugging, they watched the comet pass, carrying their wishes. It would return in ten years’ time, granting them what they had asked.
Carly would be a dancer.
Tanner would be rich.
Edward would be building robots.
And Chelsea? She didn’t know. How could the comet possibly turn her into a cosmic fairy able to soar through the night sky as it did?
Comet Hale Bopp by Miriam Hurdle
“What a crispy night to look at the stars.”
“Yes, it is. A good crowd here. I’m Tim.”
“Hi, Tim. I’m Eric, this is my wife Jan. Jan Hale and Eric Bopp.”
“Hale-Bopp, like the comet?”
“You know it? My dad saw it in New Mexico.” Sparks jump out from Jan’s eyes.
“My dad saw it too in Arizona.”
“My dad saw it first.”
“Your dad emailed the astronomical discoveries. My dad sent a telegram. They got the email faster than the telegram.”
“Who sent a telegram in 1995?”
“Your dad was only a hyphen faster than my dad.”
Once in my Lifetime by TNKerr
I was twenty-four the last time it came, that periodic star that causes ships to ground. She was twenty-six. We drove to the desert’s edge and climbed Blue Mesa in the dark; leaving behind the city lights, the traffic sounds, and the sounds of club music that floated incessantly through the downtown streets. In the stillness we spread our blanket and made love waiting for and watching Edmund Halley’s dirty snowball with it’s retrograde orbit and curved tail. She speculated that lovers had done the same for thousands of years before and will continue to until the comet dies.
Scope by Floridaborne
“Mira,” Frank said, pointing up at the sky. “A comet!”
She looked through her telescope. “Nope.”
“Why do you always disagree with me?”
She chuckled at him, an act that served only to fuel his umbrage. “Peer through the scope. What do you see?”
“I don’t need that thing to recognize a comet!”
“Are you afraid I might be right?” Mira asked, cocking her head to the side like a puzzled parrot.
“Women!” Frank cursed. Through the telescope, a 3-fingered, grey being waved at him. “God almighty!”
“I told you so, Frank,” she said, waving up at the light.
Bequest by Liz Huseby Hartmann
It started as a tone, growing in volume and pitch as it resolved itself into a bright streak, slicing silver blue through an opaque night sky. The tone grew to harmonies as dark stars broke free and distributed themselves across the horizon.
“By all rights, we shouldn’t be able to see anything.”
“Magic tops meteorology!”
“Ha! You just made a pun.”
The first one rolled its eyes as the other two giggled. The dark star slowed, resolving to a single, sweet contralto. It landed in the clearing with a fragrant whump of meadow grasses, rolling, unfolding, and standing tall.
Believe Me by Reena Saxena
I don’t know why the Comet chose privacy, when it struck me. The media remained oblivious of change.
I am transformed. I am blessed with supernatural powers. I can see and hear things other mortals cannot. They do not believe that I am going to outlive them. The idiots have locked me up in a cell in the mental asylum.
I do not seek revenge. I seek enlightenment for all. I pray for another comet to strike them, so that they see and believe what I say. We are all made of stardust.
But, I am the chosen one.
Heaven’s Gate Away Team by Anne Goodwin
I stared and stared, praying for God to reward me. To grant me a glimpse of that celestial spaceship carried in the comet’s tail. But Marshall’s vision was sharper than mine. And his faith.
When the time came, we swallowed the elixir, pocketed the interplanetary toll. We lay on our bunks, veiled in purple cloths. We waited.
The pain was my soul struggling to escape the bonds of my body. The moans were angels serenading us to the sky. Paralysis signalled I was becoming transhuman. And yet.
What if Hale-Bopp were simply a comet? What if Marshall were wrong?
The Idiot by Anurag Bakhshi
They’re right, I AM an idiot.
Moreover, I had to demonstrate my stupidity to the entire world, with my doomsday predictions of comets, and meteors, and asteroids.
I’d even set a date for the collision, yesterdays.
But they laughed at me, while I hid with my family in the bunker that I’d constructed for us.
I should go out and admit to my failure now. Maybe I can just blame it on my tiny brain.
Their brains are much larger. That’s why the dinosaurs have ruled over us for ages, and we cockroaches will soon die out, I’m sure.
PART II (10-minute read)
Perseid Meteor Shower 2018 by katimac
I lay in bed, drifting to sleep in a window filled with falling stars.
A cool breeze wafted across my nose, and stardust drifted in my eyes.
A cat shadow crept along the window sill. She sniffed the screen and sneezed stars.
“Gedsunheit,” I whispered. Her eyes glowed disdainfully down at me, starlight reflected in them.
Meteors competed with the moon as they exploded overhead, casting noon-bright shadows on the side of the barn outside my window. Horses stood in the paddock in silent awe, watching the spectacle with equine aplomb.
Hair! Up in the Sky by Bill Engleson
“There!” I point skyward.
She looks up sharply, asks, “Where?”
I, of course, hang my head and repeat, “gone.”
“You gotta be quick,” I tease. “Don’t call them comets for nothing.”
“So, smart guy…what else do you know?”
This poses a challenge. I’m never quick to put on my thinking cap.
She knows this. Oh, I’m good for a slick rib poke but actual knowledge…that’s a puzzler.
“You got me,” I confess, adding “Halley’s Comet.”
“What about it?”
“Well, I know I’ll be 114 when it rolls around again.”
“Good luck with that,” she laughs.
Pamela Comet by Ruchira Khanna
High School Reunion
Pamela, the brunette at the age of 23, was huffing and puffing about her new husband to her friends.
“Then, what do you?” inquired one of them.
“I raise my voice. I argue. I fight until he bows thee!” she said with a wink and triumphant smile.
Pamela meets her old friends who inquire about her life. She blushed at first then pushed the stray grey hair behind her ear, ” I was like a comet, bright at the head, but years changed my perception allowing me to tail away from the headstrong attitude.
Winning at Charades by Molly Stevens
Rosie was excited about an evening of charades with her women friends.
She glanced at her word and said, “This will be tough.” But having once yearned for a career in the theater she knew she was up to the task.
She pointed to the sky and mimicked staring through a telescope.
“Star! Constellation! Astronomy!”
Rosie shook her head no. Then she stretched her arms in a dramatic upward sweeping motion and assumed an awestruck expression.
With no answer forthcoming, she kneeled on her hands and knees. Pretending to sprinkle something onto the floor, she started scrubbing.
Comet by Jack Schuyler
Janet scrubbed with all her might, but the brown ring remained. As she did every day, leaning over the toilet bowl, she found herself hating her job. The same stains, the same sore arms, and the same cleaning solutions.
She had studied astronomy in school, but apparently there was no more need for people who looked up at the stars. Now she only found herself looking down.
She dumped more Comet into the toilet and scrubbed with irritated vigor. Comet, The irony of the name stung. There was one shooting start that would never make her dreams come true.
Impeding Doom by Susan Sleggs
“Who cares if I don’t know the difference between a meteor and a comet?”
“I care, as a science professor, you embarrass me.”
“Well la-dee-da Mr. Education. Is it true a comet warns of impending doom?”
“That’s all myth. Science has advanced enough that we know better.”
“Perhaps this one is warning of our doom.”
“It’s not going to hurt us.”
“You give me no credit. I was thinking of how doomed our marriage is.”
“You may have a point.”
“Maybe I could catch a ride on its tail to a happier galaxy.”
“They don’t leave our galaxy. Sorry.”
Comet’s Tail by Abhijit Ray
Rahul was alone on the terrace in this moonless night. A comet appeared on the night sky with its long tail following luminous body.
“Kind of like our life would you not agree” observed Heena softly, “a promising career, a high profile marriage, followed by a trail of scandals and a messy divorce.”
Internally, Rahul accepted his failed career compounded his drinking and philandering habits, culminating in divorce from Heena. He simply did not want to hear about his weakness from Heena.
He did not want to extend comet’s tail any farther by strangling her.
Close Call by Patrick O’Connor
“You never know what you’ll see ‘round these parts.”
Stanley spoke to Bert on the carpool drive to work. 4:30am rise time.
Hit the road by 5:15am in order to make it to the factory on time.
“Yup. Sure don’t.” said Bert.
Suddenly, in the sky in front of them, a huge ball of fire, complete with a sonic boom.
“Jiminy Cricket!” shouted Stanley, Startling Bert.
“Woah! That’s big.”
“Look there! It’s gonna hit!”
Across the sky, the ball of flame got closer.
Suddenly, there was a flash and the comet (meteor) burned out.
“Whew! That was close.”
You Should Have Listened to Me by Robert Kirkendall
“I see a dark omen ahead for you,” the sorceress warned.
“Well that’s a bummer,” the man said nonchalantly.
“Heed my words!” the sorceress reiterated. “When a comet appears that is aligned with one of the planets, it will spell your doom!”
“How does a comet align with a planet?” the man said dismissively. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Doubt me at your own peril!”
“Planets move in orbits, comets go in a straight line,” the man explained condescendingly. “Crazy old bat,” the man chuckled and left.
He crossed the street and was struck by an old Mercury Comet.
Comet by Deborah Lee
“They say our origins dictate our path in life, our fate,” Henry says. He looks at the homeless tent city around them. “The son of a teacher and a CPA, upright churchgoers, shouldn’t end up without an old-age pot to piss in, wouldn’t you think?”
Jane laughs ruefully. “I was conceived on a hot summer night, in the blaze of forbidden teenage passion, in the backseat of a ‘64 Mercury Comet,” she tells him. “Shouldn’t that make for a charmed life?”
Henry tops her wine cup, his grin brilliant. “Maybe, maybe not. I’d love to have that car, though.”
The Signifier by Margaret G. Hanna
A hot summer night.
Two friends, friends since high school, different in backgrounds but united by their uniqueness. Friends through husbands, children, divorces.
They sat together on a park bench by the river walkway, watched couples stroll by hand in hand, a canoe slide down the river. Heard a whippoorwill call. Felt a gentle breeze. Contemplated the white slash of the comet against the ink-black sky.
“Medieval people believed a comet signified the end of the world.”
A glance exchanged. A wry smile shared.
“They were wrong. It’s the beginning of a new world.”
They clasped hands. Embraced. Kissed.
Elgin: Our Cross-County Rival by Nancy Brady
In the early sixties, it became common for smaller schools to consolidate into larger schools. My county was no different with several schools opting to consolidate. Not my school, however; our district chose otherwise!
Elgin became one of those county schools; it was supposedly named by combining the three schools that made up the new school: LaRue, Green Camp, and New Bloomington. Elgin even named their mascot based upon America’s new obsession of space.
Elgin was our biggest football rival, and often, the conference championship hinged on the last game, us against them, with the Comets streaking to victory.
An Imperfect Proposal by Norah Colvin
He scrambled through bushes, slipping and sliding on twigs and gravel in haste to his love. When he reached her, she was doubled over holding her belly.
She shook her head.
“I thought…” Her body shook.
“What?” he soothed, wiping away tears.
“Snake… I thought…” She pointed.
On the bed lay the strap of his telescope bag coiled neatly.
Camping became their family tradition, but their children’s favourite story was of the “snake” that frightened Mum, not of the comet that graced the sky the night that he proposed.
Speed Demon by Ann Edall-Robson
Crouched by the fence she watched, reminiscing, smiling at her childhood partner in crime. They had been a formidable team. Each day they had forged rivers, hid in canyons and chased foe. Together, their teamwork had conquered imaginary obstacles. No chore was too tough for them. Sometimes reckless, but always sure-footed, and with mane and tail flying in the wind. She laughed, remembering their nickname, Speed Demon. Those days were gone now. Slowly he came toward her, head high, ears at attention, looking for a treat. Standing, she called her trusted friend, the one she had named Comet.
Comet by Frank Hubeny
There are stars out, but that doesn’t mean anyone notices. However, the comet was special. People pointed it out proving how smart they were being able to see what others told them about.
Charles didn’t care. He looked at Anne’s eyes.
Sure, they were told about the comet, the rare comet that comes once in a million years. “You better look while you have the chance!” “You may never see something like that again!” “Don’t miss it!”
They looked, but they were not sure they saw anything particularly remarkable out there. They were more interested in each other’s eyes.
Goodnight by Di @ pensitivity101
Emily was sitting up and looking out of the window, fascinated by the bright star in the night sky.
She turned to her Dad who had just finished reading her a bedtime story.
‘Do you think she can see us Daddy?’
He felt a lump in his throat and tears fill his eyes. It had been only two months since
Nancy had been taken so cruelly from them.
‘I think so Sweetie.’
Emily waved at the comet and snuggled under the sheets, then looked across at the empty bed where her twin used to sleep.
‘Night, sis.’ she said softly.
Make a Wish! by Deepa
as a child
I always thought
airplanes were stars
wishes and requests
my heart pains
‘Hey! shooting star
make a wish!’
I heard me say
not to expect
anything out of
something that occurs
once in 75 years
I wish upon
to show my son
who I lost
to terminated pregnancy
several years back
for unknown reasons
A Thousand Wishes by Kay Kingsley
The sunset fades into dusk. Bright pinks and reds slowly change to burnt shades of orange and purple. The horizon glow dims as the blanket of night covers all.
The rising hum of crickets and frogs fill the summer night and a warm breeze welcomes us to settle in like the flashing of lights before a performance begins.
Time to take your seat. The show is about to begin.
With excitement the event begins as the first comet streaks the sky.
Tonight is a night of a thousand wishes and with all of mine I wish you were here.
Comet by oneletterup
The screen door slams behind them.
She rushes past the little boy. Runs upstairs.
The little girl stays behind.
“What happened?” he asks.
“I think she’s scared,” the little girl answers, eyes wide.
“Someone was spying on us from the woods!”
They like this new silent mysterious guest.
She stays upstairs. They let her be.
Day becomes night.
She crawls from under the bed.
Peeks out the window, eyes scanning left and right.
Nobody out there.
Transfixed by the starry night, she sees it.
A blazing white streak across the sky.
Like from the book.
Billy & The Comet by Grae:)
“The ‘Comet’ is coming!” hollered little Billy Ollerenshaw, at the top of his voice. “The ‘Comet!’ Billy passed by nos. 17 and 19 Combination Street heading towards the town centre.
“Do you think he’d be so happy if he knew that it was a rogue comet that is going to destroy the Earth, rather than that old steam train that he so loves? He has a picture of it on his wall.”
Mrs. Ekkerslike was a placid lady, the far side of sixty, and resigned to her fate.
“Best to let him think of a steam train.” said Mrs. Wensleydale, sighing.
Heavenly Calling by Ritu Bhathal
It was 1910. She was ten. She’d often sit on her windowsill, legs dangling, staring out at the stars. That night, she’d seen something different, a ball of light travelling through the sky.
She never expected to see that in her lifetime again, and yet here she was, in 1986, eyes trained on the stars, with her ten-year-old granddaughter for company.
A ball of light flashed through the sky. Doris smiled and sat back.
“I saw it! Did you see it? Gramma!! Did you see it?” Rosie turned to her grandma.
Gramma sat, eyes closed, at peace.