I’m grateful for the jungles.
I’m grateful for the swamps.
I’m grateful for the battles—
and how I learned so much.
I’m grateful for the winter days.
I’m grateful for the blues—
The lessons learned in trials
are the ones I wouldn’t choose.
And yet they are the ones that
make me strong beyond compare.
With all that strength I couldn’t
draw from any other well.
I ran across this little poem when I was rummaging today. It may still need a couple tweaks, but I hope you enjoy!
PHOTO PROMPT © Jennifer Pendergast
Don’t Be a Goose
“Geese? No. Not this morning.” Mike laid on the horn.
Some jerk behind him yelled.
“Asshole!” Mike gave him the finger, inched through the angry gaggle, and sped off, making the interview with moments to spare.
The boss arrived five minutes late.
“Sorry about this. Goose parade across Main Street. Some bozo couldn’t keep his temper long enough to let them cross. Got ‘em all worked up.”
He rustled some papers. “What do you drive?”
Mike gulped. “A red Civic.”
“Interesting. Saw that same blue Nissan out front. Only car I didn’t recognize.” He frowned. “Sorry. This position was filled.”
As always, many thanks for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! Stop over and read a wonderful array of 100-word-fiction pieces based on this photo prompt!
PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot
In the Mourning
Ellie closed the blinds that night the horrible news came. Lying alone in their twin-sized bed, Eric’s teasing voice filled her thoughts.
“The smaller the mattress, the longer the marriage,” he used to say.
She’d laughed. “Can you guarantee that?”
Eric would snuggle even closer. “I’m certainly willing to try.”
But love hadn’t kept him alive.
Ellie sat in bed staring dully, day after day, until she noticed the shriveling plants. Suddenly she stood. She brought water, cracked open the blinds, and caressed the leaves. “Come back.”
Next morning, Ellie woke with the sun—and a tiny ray of hope.
As always, many thanks for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! Stop over and read a wonderful array of 100-word-fiction pieces based on this photo prompt!
PHOTO PROMPT © Nancy Richy
The elderly man in the righthand corner made me think of a someone who has dementia. He’s waiting for his little daughter to come out of the library, like she used to. All the while, Susie is sitting beside him, trying to get him to remember who she is. (So sorry to preface! Unfortunately, this just didn’t come across in the writing this week…)
Waiting for Susie
The woman sitting next to me said it’s 2024. I shook my head. “It’s 1965, and I’m waiting for my daughter to come out of the library.”
She nods and smiles—what a jokester!—and says she’ll wait with me.
While we sit, she asks about the building’s architecture—something I’ve always loved—then lets me rant about that awful hippo. “Why’d they put it up and ruin the view?”
She smiles, but seems to have tears in her eyes. I thought she called me Dad once, but it must have been Dan.
Where’s Susie, I wonder? It’s getting late.
As always, many thanks for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! Stop over and read a wonderful array of 100-word-fiction pieces based on this photo prompt!
Thanks again to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers! Here’s my take on the photo prompt in 100 words.
PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
The Stage
Little Emmie loved to dance, but distrusted the stage.
She rushed twice a week to the room with mirrors and eagerly mimicked as Ms. Jones moved to the music. But it didn’t seem quite right, like trying to draw a sunset.
“On stage,” Ms. Jones’ words glowed with reverence, “it will be magnificent!”
Emmie wasn’t sure. Her costume looked too ruffly, sequin-y, and bright.
Mom read Emmie’s thoughts on performance day and smiled. “Just try it once, hun. Experiences are good.”
After the dance, Mom pushed her way backstage. Emmie ran to her.
“Agggghh!” She screamed. “I love the stage!”
It’s okay to admit when the light leaves
And the dark elbows into its place
The wondering mind will accept it
The cadence of life, a heart rate
Life comes and it goes in these patterns
The soul burns and shivers some days
Dig into the rhythm and lie there
In the womb of the sleepy blue haze.
It’s simple to go with the current
—Let me carry you where you belong—
Is the tune that it sings and it’s easy
Getting caught up in the song.
But the current goes nowhere special
And the effort it takes is minute.
It floats you along without action—
You need to be more resolute.
So much joy in this world come from setting
A goal and a plan, well-conceived.
You get strong fixing course and then training
And finding a way to achieve.
Don’t rush to set foot on the first path
The one that is overly smooth;
The way is well-trodden, that’s certain,
But adventure is really your truth.
What’s the point of a life without challenge?
Why live if there’s nothing to face?
There is joy in the fight, you’ll discover,
When you train hard and finish the race.
When you’re called by a challenge, give listen
To the things that it’s trying to say.
Then you’ll never be one who must mutter
An excuse that their life has been gray.
The adventure you’ve chosen
Is a hard one—
Others have lied;
I will not.
The things you encounter
Will paralyze.
You’ll be clueless
Where to go,
How to act,
Which way is up.
You’ll feel stuck
Under water
Fighting your way
For breath,
But you won’t know
Which direction
Leads to air
And which to sludge.
You’ll chose
And struggle
And hope.
Things will be
Excruciating,
Unfair.
They’ll chase you
To a panic.
You’ll finally see
A flicker of something
—sunlight—
And fight forward.
You’ll just make it
To the surface
Where you’ll breathe,
Deeply
—folded in brightness—
Just where you need to be.
Don’t be afraid to voice it.
—Yes, the irony is there.
You try to model it instead,
But when you craft a silence bubble,
They rush in with words,
And cram every cranny.
The place looks different in their eyes
—Awkward, lazy, wasted space—
Not the serene spot
You strove to shape.
Still, don’t be afraid to voice it.
There are so many things
About yourself you don’t know
But this one thing you do:
You need wild stretches of wordlessness—
Without assignment
Without expectations—
Pausing deadlines and headlines,
Cutting away dead branches,
Taking chances that you may be worthwhile.
You’re afraid to need anything
Afraid to let someone know when you do
Because vulnerability can be abused.
You don’t want to cast a shadow,
To be any color but clear,
To be more than a whisper.
Secretly, you want to be invisible
Because it would let you be
Free to listen to the stream run
And dance among the trees.
But you can’t want that, not really,
They say. We gave you a book
About how to squeeze every drop
Of time out of each day
Like a lemon on a juicer
But you didn’t study it.
Shame on me, you think,
And carry the book, for years and years,
Finally throwing it away, unread.
Then life begins.
With a breath of silence.
Angela Adams
They’ve been part of your life since you got here;
So, of course you have listened to them.
They may have been with you before you were born;
How could you not hear what they said?
Some of your earliest notions
Were wrapped in deceit and dread
Since you couldn’t distinguish the difference—
What was truth out of all that was said.
If someone had silenced those demons
Your mind might have learned they were false
But the truth and the lies intermingled,
And sang a bewildering song.
But who can silence silence?
They don’t hear what goes on in your mind.
So the lies got free range and they pecked at your brain
Like chickens let loose in the garden.
But the wonderful thing about growing
Is learning and starting to see,
That just because that’s where you started,
An ending place it need not be.
Run hard into battle; don’t fall back.
Stand up when they fire; call them out.
Hold the line. They’re not friends; don’t mistake them.
Lies have only the power you assign.
Angela Writes... 