Shredded veil

Mother said the veil is a double-edged sword. To the innocent it purifies. To the guilty it condemns. For both it can embolden or shame, depending on who is behind the veil. Father tore the veil at 14. Kruber destroyed it at 24. I have no veil to embolden or hide me. I live exposed both physically and metaphorically. Photo credit @ Roger Bultot It has not been easy. Sometimes I itch for a veil. A shield against fractured thoughts from my past seeking to cross over into my future. But I need no veil for He is risen. His love is enough. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Written for Friday fictioneers, a weekly witting group hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-fields. Please click the link to visit her page and this link to read other lovely stories.

The present past

“Did i comb it right, Emilia?”

“I got it cut the other day and Tony..” he chuckled midway through the sentence.

“Tony said, I look like Elvis Presley,” it bloomed into laughter.

“Me?, Elvis Presley, you gotta laugh ehh, haven’t you” he carried on combing his hair or rather head.

Grandpa was bald, like the bald eagle from geography class.

And I wasn’t Emilia. I was Adriana. Everyone says I look like grandma so i guess it’s understandable.

But he, he was still grandpa and i love him receding memories and all.
“Have we got any gel?” he carried on.

Copy right by Rochelle Wisoff-fields.

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Written for Friday fictioneers a weekly blog event hosted by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-fields.

Please click the link to visit her lovely blog. And click this link to read other lovely stories.

Do join in if you can. Thank you.

Skipping steadfastly

Hi everyone,

This is an update on my skipping endeavours. Today, Sunday, 17/3/2024 I skipped four hundred times (yippee). A hundred skips each day to cover from Thursday (14/3/2024) till date.

May I appeal to you once again to please support my fund raising venture.

Please click on the link. Cancer Research UK needs your support to continue its work. Every donation will go straight to the charity.

Looking forward to seeing a difference in the amount raised.

Thank you for every donation made and for those yet to be made.

Kind regards.

Chioma

Trickling storm

“Water, water everywhere, we are gonna get went.”

“When it rains it pours.”

“It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man is snoring. He went to bed and struck his head and couldn’t get up in the morning.

The chant continued.

There was a pool on the floor, it was the color of poppies.

The old man, well he wasn’t snoring but he was certainly stuck in the bed, a hole in the middle of his head, perfect size for planting seeds.

And the torrent of disjointed thoughts ceased. For now…. just like the rain.

Copyright Rowen Curtin

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Written for Friday fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff. Please click on this link to visit her page. And click on this link to join the fun.

Silencing of the pants

If anyone cared to ask, which they often did, to Natali, Kibbles and Teddy were the cutest dogs ever. The best gift life had ever given her. Her mother often frowned whenever she vocalized such sentiments.

It wasn’t that her mother hated dogs. I mean she had kept Dover, a gorgeous Rottweiler for years. She only let it go when the poor fellow became more riddled with joint aches than it’s seventy-five-year owner. Regardless of their strong bond, her mother could never equate kids and pets to the same sentimental level.

Pets cannot argue back. Hence, they could not intricately provoke several waves of introspection. Nor different degrees of self-doubt ending in the proverbial “NO!-because-I-told-you-so” as the end of every “can-I-have-this or can-I-do-this” debate. Depending on the child’s age this debate could happen multiple times in an hour. A dog, however, came with no such hassles.

This did not change Natalie’s opinion, Kibbles and Teddy were the best. And as she walked them on the promenade this evening, she felt more certain she could love no one or anything as much as she loved her dogs.

As usual kibbles kept wandering off, sniffing at everything. His leash was extended almost to its’ limit. Lots of scratching, sniffing and rapid abandonment if no trophy was found. He reminded me of judges at wine testing; take a sip, swirl a little or in this case tug as hard as you choose. Then swiftly pass a rapid judgement.

Teddy had no such issue; he was happy to walk beside her. They both weren’t bothered by kibbles nosiness. But not tonight. The weather was too muggy. It felt like a wet blanket hung over the moon. Her skin felt itchy.

She walked fast tonight. The dogs didn’t seem to mind the brisk pace. Thus, she failed to notice kibble wasn’t stopping as often to sniff at anything. This only happened when he had something of interest clenched in his mouth.

They walked past some teenagers, not unusual for the promenade. They seemed to stare a bit longer at her. And she wasn’t sure but there was heard some snickering too.

She headed home, both dogs still walking at different paces.

She sensed someone walking behind her. Just as she turned the corner, she stepped aside to let who ever was behind her get passed.

“Am sorry I think your dog dropped something? Said the boy, who stopped rather than walk past.

At first, she thought it was a scarf. On a closer look she saw it was a pair of black leggings with pink stripes.

“They are not mine,” she replied.

“Your dog dropped it, so I thought,” ….

Why the boy would think they were hers was beyond her. She had her own trousers on.

Although people were known to lose clothing items on the beach from time to time. She still couldn’t decide why the boy thought they were hers.

She looked down to check the dogs. Then it caught her eyes. Oh, this was why the boy thought she had no trousers on.

She was wearing nude-colored leggings.

Her mother called them the beginning of “the silent pants.” This was a story for another day.

The life cycle of an exercise routine.

“This is all your fault; you know that right?” Huffed Calfina.

“Are you talking to me?” Asked Bicepscius

“Not you! You know who.”

“Actually I don’t. Who is …”

“Then why don’t you just butt out.” Calfina interrupted.

“Gees sorry. Take it easy.” Replied Bicepscius

“If one more person tells me to take it easy, I will ensure I cave in next time she gets up to walk.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit harsh! And if you think about it, you’ll be setting yourself up for more work.” Trapzy chimed in.

“No, I would not be setting myself up.”

“Yes you would .” Continued Trapzy. “If you cave in when she tries to walk, everyone would be like you need to see a physiotherapist. Your leg muscles or perhaps it’s the nerves have forgotten how to function. There will be more hours of INTENSE therapy.”

“That’s so true. Right now, it’s up to her, how much effort she puts in. Then it will be everyone’s job to push her. They will be like burn honey, BURNNNNN.” Growled Tricpetor, the official clown of the group.

They all laughed raucously; all except Gluttina and Calfina.

Tensing angrily Calfina pushed through ten more squats and sit ups.

In soothing voice, Longinus said, “Hey Calfina, I know it seems unfair to be constantly caught up in all this especially when it does not seem necessary for you. I often wonder why she keeps stretching me out, it’s not like I can get any longer.”

Sighing Longinus continued “But I remind myself that no matter how good I am, if everyone else is falling apart, it’s only a matter of time before it has a knock-on effect on me.”

“Am sorry you are angry with me Calfina. But honestly its not my fault. She decided to have those babies, should I have suffocated them by not growing to give them breathing space? Or squeezed the stomach so the food wouldn’t stay? Should I have strangled her dreams so you could be happy?” questioned Recti.

Everyone was quiet. Sometimes it really wasn’t anyone’s fault.

Growth much like change is constant and it comes in different forms for each of us. However we face it, one thing is certain, growth pains are rarely fun. The discomfort alone is enough to distract us from our desired outcome.

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Happy 2024…

Can you identify the muscles in the story?

Cutters stone.

I am that bridge between the past and present.

Gran says I broke the hunch on mothers back. Ma says I melted the iron
chains around grans heart.

I’m not sure how I managed to do all that.

But I like knowing gran waits up for ma when she’s late from work. And
grandpa cautions ma on speaking truths without caution.

I asked him why this was important, he said, “Like perfect cake batter
in the oven, true words served carelessly can deflate the receiving heart. Give
it time and it could lift the soul from despair.”

He calls me the cutters stone.

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Photo prompt from Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Written for Friday fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle. Please click the link to visit her site. And click this link to read other lovely stories.

Thanks for the opportunity to participate.

Rocky prospects

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Mrs Avery was dying. This was a certainty.

For Malcom, her death meant a solid cash flow into his investments.

For Angelica, she would finally take her rightful place as matriarch. The benefits were endless.

Servants served with baited breath, fretfully anticipating dismissal.

Franco read through his proposal adapting it for a new sponsor. He acknowledged Mrs Avery’s support for the new children’s shelter as a lost opportunity.

David sat inconsolable by her bed, silent tears drenching their linked hands.

Mrs Avery was dying. A cornerstone smashing some to smidgens, building others up.

Her will, the ultimate decider.

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PHOTO PROMPT © Amanda Forestwood Thank you Rochelle for hosting the writing event Friday fictiooneers. The rule is to write a 100 word piece in response to the provided picture. Please click the link to visit Rochelle’s blog. It will be worth your while. And click this link to read other stories and write ups.

Footloose and fancy free

Sing me a song, oh fair maiden.

Play me a tune, ye drunken rascal.

A ballad of viperous tides and disquieting mermaids.

Sing me a song, ye scurvy ridden merchants,

Lusty for fortune, plagued by misery.

With a ratty blanket for comfort, and folded boxes for a cushion, he caterwauled day and night by Brewer’s arch.

To the left a bowl was held, his vault for every drop of kindness spared wisely or otherwise. And in his right a cup secured fast, his greatest treasure close to his heart. Dreaded by his quivering liver and ochre coloured tooth. PHOTO PROMPT © Amanda Forestwood Thank you Rochelle for hosting the writing event Friday fictiooneers. The rule is to write a 100 word piece in response to the provided picture. Please click the link to visit Rochelle’s blog. It will be worth your while. And click this link to read other stories and write ups.

The stage is set.

PHOTO PROMPT © Liz Young

“On that stage, everything is a gamble.”

“Any risk is allowed, all subterfuge embraced.”

“Every man must play his part … whether sad or happy… great or small.”

“It matters not the hand you’re dealt nor your zeal.”

“Calling, all players to the stage.”

So, the trials began.

Each wanting the most dynamic role. To hold all the chips in their favour.

To soar above the stage.

Deeply everyone knew who would play what role.

Still, they gambled, pretended valiantly.

Thus, death only registered when Sebastian did not rise to leave the stage.

The pound of flesh was long overdue.

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Thank you Rochelle for hosting the writing event Friday fictiooneers. The rule is to write a 100 word piece in response to the provided picture. Please click the link to visit Rochelle’s blog. It will be worth your while. And click this link to read other stories and write ups.