Holes #amwriting

I’m back to Friday Fictioneers! I’ve missed it! Thank you to Rochelle, as always.

PS I am still on vacation for another couple of days and will be back in totality (or whatever) on Sunday or Monday. Thanks for sticking around.

 

Holes

The war damaged Uncle Randolph. Continue reading

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I Fall Behind

 

I Fall Behind

I’m wearing my blonde wig, red cowboy boots, denim mini and a tight v-neck red top.

I never have much to set up, just an amplifier and the microphone’s already in place, but I do like to have my guitar plugged in and it’s then that I see him: Callum Johnson, sitting at a front table, his blue jean-clad legs stretched out in front of him, while he draws from a long-neck bottle of some standard American beer. Still no microbrew for Cal.

Continue reading

French Connection

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photo by Clem Onojehungo via Unsplash

Three Line Tales, Week 56


French Connection

 

In the only picture we have of her, Great Uncle Bob’s French wife, Camille, leans against a rusted Chevy pick-up, her eyes staring into the distance, her lips pursed, seeming far away and unhappy.

“A traitor,” Aunt Daphne said flicking her finger at the photo. “She consorted with the damn Germans and betrayed her townspeople.”

At seven, the words “consort” and “betray” were as foreign to me as the distaste in her mouth, so I said the only thing I could relate to: “My best friend, Kira, is damn German and she talks funny but her mommy bakes nice cookies.”

end 2/25/2017 (100 words)

S. Darlington


 

The Wars of Men

 

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The Wars of Men

Every weekend my dad takes my great granddad’s car for showing.

There are words here I don’t know.

My dad bruises, sorrow buried deep, he doesn’t share. Skinny boys with bombs strapped around their torsos.

My granddad’s scars hide within, jungle mayhem, Saigon falling.

My great grandad survived Bataan, barely. Skeletal body, but a poet’s soul. His words of marching and death, echo in earliest memories.

I am a girl lost in the wars of men.

end 1/28/2017

S. Darlington

 

Shadowbox Memories

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PHOTO PROMPT © Claire Fuller

Friday Fictioneers. Thank you, as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting. To read more stories written for this photo prompt, click here.


Shadowbox Memories

My grandmother rocks while her fingers worry the ridges of a pink-hued scallop shell from her shadowbox. She smiles.

“The photos Alice wants are on the clothes bags,” she says.

“Why are you donating everything?”

She shrugs. “Downsizing, Beanie.” Her voice is tinged with sadness? Regret?

She grabs my hand, presses the shell into my palm and closes my fingers over it. “You take the shadowbox. You would have loved your grandpa. Your Danny was like him. You understand me?”

I nod.

Memories of teenaged boys, lives stolen by wars, and babies born to widows while the world skips along.

 

end 10/19/2016

S. Darlington

To Life

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PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Friday Fictioneers


To Life (100 Words)

We were so busy fighting we didn’t witness the world exploding around us.

Now in the flickering light cast by oil lamps, you and I sit in this bunker on the border of life and annihilation.

Radios have been silenced. Electricity ceased. No throb of life echoes above.

What short-sighted egotism determined this war would have a winner?

Today we traded stories about childhood, discovering we weren’t so different. This evening we trade thoughts about life, weighing miracles, promises, laughter, births.

Later we will open bottles of bourbon and raise our glasses in the radiation-polluted air.

“To life, my enemy.”

 

end 10/15/2016 (2)

S. Darlington

 

To read more stories based on this photo prompt, click here.