short stories – lifehomeandaway

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.

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.

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.

Rocky prospects

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.

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.

The stage is set.

“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.

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.

Face me, I face you.

Living to jaw to jaw with one’s neighbour wasn’t ideal.

They were worse fates than that; this Amina knew.

And running a business opposite another enterprise which was a doppelgänger to yours was certainly one. A test of ones resilience in a failing economy.

Knowing that they most likely pulled similar numbers of customers each day was no relief.

Neither was the lack of preference amongst customers for either place.

All they wanted was sustenance to see them through hours of labour at the mining site.

Daily Amina grew stifled.

Her mind, an incubating chamber of perturbed ambition.

Sheathed emissaries.

Masquerade balls were pleasurable.

Anyone could indulge without fear of consequence.

So why exactly was he here at God knows what hour, preparing to shoot or get shot at.

How had this happened?

Simon tried so hard to recall last nights event but his memory seemed set against such backward glances.

He heard the counting, he took the steps.

He turned, he fired.

Pain shoot through his mind, breaking the memory bank.

He had a kissed her rose-tinged lips, the only part of her delicate constituent not hidden by her white but sharp edged eagle costume.

Great expectations

Room 102

“Would you catch me if i jumped?”

“Jumped?

“You know, jumped from the window, Rapunzel, damsel in distress situation ….”

“Right. Wait, do you still qualify as a damsel?”

The pillow narrowly missed his right ear.

Room 110

“They must have really come down hard on him this time.”

“I can’t help but agree.”

“But the conniving heathen still found a way to pass the buck to us”.

“You did want greener spaces….”.

“Yeah, yeah. I know what we asked for, no one mentioned flower boxes.”

“The devil is always in the details honey.”

And so the day continued …

Rebirth

The sight of laundry hanging on a wash line, intrigued and unsettled Daphne.

It was so common place but yet so unusual in her world.

As a child, gardens had been a place for endless frivolities.

Yet there she found her father, by the fountain, neck grotesuely twisted, a knife pointing to the heavens from his chest.

It became an archway to nightmares, an end to childhood.

Like her mind that garden lay over run by weeds, struggling to find its self.

She desperately longed for her mind to be reborn, to shed the carcass of her old home.

Forgive me for the lack of response to the last two weeks participation and for being absent last week. I tried to merge my thoughts from last weeks photo with this weeks prompt. I hope the story is interesting. See you at your blog post.

	neilmacdon on Shredded veil
	creatingahome on Trickling storm
	creatingahome on Trickling storm
	rochellewisoff on Trickling storm
	neilmacdon on Trickling storm

Tag: short stories