Many thanks to Rochelle as always for hosting the Friday Fictioneers.
There are two sides to every story, every relationship. Ms. Maggie McConnell, romance author extraordinaire asked about Bill’s side of the story in reference to yesterday’s Cradle Broken Glass, which told JJ’s side. If you write about relationships, you know that it’s really easy to write one side, but what about the other? Well, dang, it’s a
little lot harder. 🙂 Here’s Bill’s.
Oh, and it continues yesterday’s theme of songs with “black” in the title.
The “oh” escaped my lips, high-pitched, definitely surprised.
Alecia smiled, nodding. “I know, right?” she said. “I’m as shocked as you are.”
I looked at Jason who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Alecia captured my hands in hers and jumped up and down just like we used to do when we were teenagers. I was supposed to do it too, jump up and down and screech because she was engaged to Jason, my Jason. My stomach did, however–bounce up and down as if on a nausea-inducing carnival ride.
“I’m happy, so happy for you,” I said, meaning it, for Alecia.
She frowned. “You don’t look well.”
“I’m feeling kind of yucky,” I said. “You know, hanging around preschoolers five days a week, constantly catching something.”
She hugged me, preschooler ailments be damned. “We’ll celebrate when you’re feeling better.”
Which felt like it might be when hell froze over, but I kept that to myself. I wouldn’t let her get hurt, even if my insides felt like they might explode. I glanced at Jason once more, met his eyes, and my imagined preschooler sickness grew in leaps and bounds and hopscotched around and suddenly my life felt like an REM song and I felt not so fine.
We each have our own truth.
I thought I knew you well enough so our truths overlapped often to become one truth.
And, yet, here I am, amidst the wreckage of your vendetta: ripped memories, broken souvenirs, walls stained with graffiti, realizing I did not understand that it wasn’t truth you were seeking nor justice in the way I understand it. Rather, you sought vengeance because I was born at all.
Day 2 of NaPoWriMo.
Prompt: Today, I’d like you to write a poem inspired by, or in the form of, a recipe! It can be a recipe for something real, like your grandmother’s lemon chiffon cake, or for something imaginary, like a love potion or a spell.
The Recipe for Enduring Romantic Relationships
Begins with Lust
(I hear dismay
“Yours is different;
“Love from mutual respect”
excuse me while I roll my eyes
glance at my shoe ties
Lust, more than a pinch
to build cravings
for kisses, time alone misses.
After Lust throw in Like
a generous helping
for growth during lulls
so dull does not rise
discovering infinite mutuality
Liking leads to Respect
much more than a pinch
pause, see what I did here?
Combine, stir. A cup of Loyalty
treat each other like royalty
bind together, support
add significant amounts of Humor
Laugh together daily
Stir, stir. Each day offer Kindness
Sometimes the recipe needs WORK
Of this do not be afraid, do not fail here.
The four letter word balances
the see-saw of relationship
Work and Love combined equals
a foolproof recipe.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sarah Potter
Thanks to Rochelle at Friday Fictioneers for hosting. If you’d like to participate, visit here.
For more stories, visit here.
Her tears add salt to the sauce she stirs.
He lingers in the doorway, watching, his suitcase a burden.
She averts her face, hiding red eyes.
Snow hugs the window ledge, inches already, so silent. Last year they constructed a snowman that melted the next day.
“Maybe you shouldn’t go yet. The storm,” she says.
“Maybe you’re right. I mean, if it’s okay.”
Their eyes engage, briefly. She stares at her sauce, he at his shoes.
“I can be an idiot,” he confesses. She smiles. “Me, too.”
She extends the spoon to him for a second opinion.
end 2/24/2017 (99 words)
Others taught her to cling to dead relationships. Cry, wail, pound fists, pursue histrionic tantrums. Wisdom taught: walking away.
You see just a damaged chunk of stone. You explain the geology, the fine scientific facts. How heat causes structural damage. How wind and rain erode. How time is the enemy to even the strongest substances.
When I look at the pedestal, cracked, injured, and the fallen curled arch broken, all I see is us.
To read other offerings for Sunday Photo Fiction, click here.
By circling the sun I evaporated
only when your radiance dimmed
did your details fade
to unearth the details of me
subsumed in your wake.
using even strokes