Making a Scene – FFfAW#59

Below is a piece inspired by the prompt at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The key elements were the photo below and a word range of 100-15o (+-25).

Painted cows

This week’s photo prompt is provided by S. Writings. Thank you S. Writings!

Making a Scene – 169 words

Lila watched the familiar blue car pull into the parking lot. She mimicked Mama’s sigh from the front seat.

“Get your backpack on, Lila. I need to talk to your dad for a sec.”

Lila knew what that meant. She’d overheard Mama telling Aunt Suzy “that son of a bitch didn’t send his support check again this month.” Mama only called one person a son of a bitch.

She pulled the collar of her fleece up around her ears to try to keep out the sound of the adults arguing. It didn’t work.

She stared at a pair of painted cows in a display across the street, hoping if she didn’t look at her parents, they’d stop yelling. They didn’t.

When Mama opened the car door, Lila wasn’t sure she should get out. It was Daddy’s weekend, but Mama’s face was blotchier than the painted cows’. Lila clung to the door. “I don’t wanna go.”

Mama pushed her toward where Daddy waited. “Get movin’, Lila. Don’t make a scene.”

 

Advertisements

No Words – FFfAW54

Below is a piece inspired by the prompt at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The key elements were the photo below and a word range of 100-15o (+-25).

scaffolding men

Photo courtesy of Ellespeth’s friend

No Words – 175 words

“But we’ve come all this way! Are you sure we can’t take a peek?”

“I’m sorry, Nana. The sign on the cathedral door says it’s closed for repairs.”

Nana takes a step back and cranes her neck so she can see the men high on the rickety scaffolding leaned against the cathedral wall. The sun glints off of her glasses.“You there!” she yells, and when they don’t respond, she calls again until the men look in our direction. “Yes, hello. We would like to tour the cathedral.”

“Let’s go, Nana,” I hiss, embarrassed as the men chuckle and point at us. They aren’t speaking English, but I know what they’re saying.

Nana plants her feet and puts her hands on her hips. She’s barely five feet tall, but her face is stony. She points at one of the men—clearly the one in charge—and then points at a spot on the ground next to her. The laughing stops.

Nana tells everyone the tour of the cathedral was her favorite part of the trip.

A Childhood in Flames – FFfAW53

Below is a piece inspired by the prompt at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The key elements were the photo below and a word range of 100-15o (+-25).

**As a side note, I wasn’t going to participate this week because my work week got the best of me. However, I stumbled across an article written by British historian Philip Beck about the burning of Saint Malo, France, the city in the photo (looks like it anyway–if not, I’m just going to pretend it is!). I couldn’t get it out of my head, so this little piece is my homage to the burning of that city  in 1944. Please forgive the fact that my French narrator is speaking in English; my French is pretty miserable!

photo-20160215084213932

Photo courtesy of TJ Paris

A Childhood in Flames – 126 words

I was ten in 1944, the year ash rained down over the walled city of Saint Malo.

It was the first summer I didn’t spend down at the beach, poking at urchins in the tide pools and chasing my friends with ropes of seaweed tangled in my hair. I thought myself too grown up to race down the cobblestone path, trying to prevent my shoes from getting soaked as the tide returned, cutting our little island off from the French mainland.

Instead, I spent my days in Father’s library, blushing my way through Baudelaire’s poetry and flirting through the tall windows with the German soldiers marching through the streets below.

When the Americans shelled the city that August, I understood what a child I really was.

Is It Him? – FFfAW52

Below is a piece inspired by the prompt at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The key elements were the photo below and a word range of 100-15o (+-25).

** I admit to missing that word-count requirement this week, but I couldn’t decide what to cut–sorry! 

bench park

Thanks, Ady, for the beautiful photo prompt!

Is It Him?  204 words

Lainey leaned around the tree to get a better view. “See anyone?”

“Not yet.” Tara’s face was white beneath makeup applied with precision.

“What time did he say he’d arrive?”

“Five minutes ago.”

“So, he’s late. Not a great start to the relationship.”

“Why did I bring you?”

“You need me. He could be an ax murderer. I’ll protect you.”

“With what—your purse?”

Lainey held up her phone. “I could call 911 if needed.”

“Put your phone away.” Tara said. “He’s not a murderer.”

“Yeah, we may never know if he doesn’t show.”

“He’ll show. We’ve been emailing for weeks.”

“And you’ll know it’s him how? Anyone could plop down on that bench.”

Tara’s face flushed. “He’s carrying a copy of Pride and Prejudice.”

Lainey giggled, one hand over her mouth. “Really? That book? What self-respecting man would carry that?”

“It’s my favorite—Shhh! Someone’s coming!”

“Is it him?”

“I can’t tell,” Tara said, but the butterflies spin-diving in her stomach told her differently.

A tall man with graying hair entered the park from the road, a book beneath one arm.

“There he is, Tara. You ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be to meet my father for the first time.”

Heads Heavy – FFfAW50

What follows is a piece inspired by the prompt at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The key elements were the photo below and a word range of 100-15o (+-25). Thank you to Sonya, owner of the blog Only 100 Words, for the photo. 

photo-20160125132605717

Sonya – Only 100 Words – https://sonyca.wordpress.com/

Heads Heavy – 144 words

When Jordy planted sunflower seeds in the narrow bed of soil in front of her house, she told me she was channeling her inner Van Gogh. As far as I knew, the closest she’d ever gotten to a Van Gogh painting was a postcard on her refrigerator.

Why sunflowers, I asked. Why not zinnias to attract butterflies or sweet peas so passersby could stroll along perfumed pavement? Tulips to herald spring? Chrysanthemums to rival the color of autumn leaves?

Jordy ignored my questions, adjusting the scarf on her head as she pushed seeds into the dark ground.

The sunflowers grew tall that summer. Each day, Jordy sat bundled in her chair watching them. Their heads and hers followed the trajectory of the sun across the sky.

At summer’s end, the sunflowers leaned, heads heavy.

I like to think their heads were bowed in prayer.