Blessed Salts Inc.

18 Sep

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

19 September 2014

©Tales_From_the_Motherland

Photo copyright: Dawn Q. Landau or even better..Tales From the Motherland Facebook page and give her a “like”

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The C.E.O of Blessed Salts Inc. was giving a presentation to his American investors.

“We only hire workers who are over the age of seventy” he said proudly. “In exchange for their labor they are given free room and board in luxury suites. We also supply clothing and all necessities of life.”

“Interesting concept” says the Governor of Vermont “does that keep them from stealing?”

“Unfortunately no” came the answer as a gunshot rang out “if we catch them we shoot them. They are  going to  burden  their families if we fire them. Besides,  the elderly are expendable.”

“Surviving Childhood”

16 Sep

Written for:

Sunday Photo Fiction: September 14th 2014

Rail track taken in colour and adjusted to sepia via the after touch menu on the camera to age the image

 

Surviving Childhood

My siblings and I were born to a mother who made a tobacco company rich. Pregnancy did not deter her from her favorite pastime,  our infancy  spent in a haze of smoke. When we were kids mom would send my sister and I out for the day. We each carried a sandwich filled with peanut butter and jelly and a mason jar containing koolaid. We never worried about peanut allergies or sugar intake back then. Our days  filled with exploring the woods nearby, nobody feared being kidnapped by sexual deviants, everyone knew who the “creepy” neighbor was and we always avoided him. We played on train tracks that were heavily doused in d.d.t. to keep down the weeds. We pulled chunks off of the salt licks in the farmer’s fields and ate them and played with the mercury we got by breaking open thermometers. We rode our bicycles without helmets, sometimes three to a bike, yet we managed to survive. But now my sister is gone. Not the results of a damaging childhood but at the hand of someone who thought he could drive, eat his lunch, and chat on his cell phone all at the same time. A multitasking God, so to speak. My sister, rest her soul, wiped out by an idiot.

A Reflection On Life..

11 Sep

Written for Friday Fictioneers

12 September 2014

Copyright - Janet Webb

Photo Copyright – Janet Webb

A Reflection On Life..

She walked into her bathroom and locked the door leaving all the pretence behind her. The face that stared back at her from the mirror was pale, the eyes haunted.

Her hospital stay had been a whirlwind of activity. The day of her surgery a haze of medications and questions. Always questions. How do you feel? Do you want to talk about it?

She slowly unbuttoned her blouse revealing the bandage beneath. With trembling hands and heavy heart she unwound the gauze and stared at what remained of her femininity. It’s just a breast..it’s just a breast

Cookout

4 Sep

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

5 September 2014

Campfire

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cookout

Juju wanted to treat his American neighbors to an authentic cookout from his homeland. He spent several hours preparing the meat, wrapping it tightly in water saturated banana leaves. After digging a pit in the sand he carefully placed the package inside then built a roaring fire just above it. After waiting patiently for the fire to die down, the meat was removed and sliced into paper-thin strips and served with a hot dipping sauce.

How delicious! they raved

Succulent!  others agreed

Did you say wild boar? asked another

Juju shook his head no..

I said wild Boris..he used to be my mailman.

 

Bitter Pills

3 Sep

Written for :

Light and Shade Challenge Monday 1st September 2014

The withered old prune lies on her bed with only her cat Shakespeare for company. The voices of her family laughing and chatting about their day as cutlery makes chinking noises on china, is heard  from the floor below while her tray of food sits untouched.
She can’t say she is not well cared for. A caregiver arrives every day to attend to her needs, and her meals although somewhat bland, are adequate. But damn is she lonely.
Although her door is always open, no one, not even her own daughter, takes the time to stop and chat. They are always too busy with things to do or places to go. Busy, busy, busy…
She  remembers years ago when her daughter was only a child. Such a sickly child at that. Always pulling on her skirts looking for attention.It was so annoying trying to get things done with a toddler constantly demanding something. Thank God they had hired a nanny before she went stark raving mad. As the child had gotten older she had learned that Mommy was a busy lady with work, committees and grown-up things to attend to and had stopped making demands on her time.
You would think that her daughter and son-in-law could show a little more affection now that she is bedridden and in her twilight years, and those grandchildren, cold as fish…

Pendulum

31 Aug

Written for:

Sunday Photo Fiction: August 31st 2014

75 08 August 31st 2014

“““““““““““

My mother is the Queen of useless gifts. Last Christmas she presented me with a pendulum which she insisted would look great on my office desk. I honestly think it was a sly attempt at mockery since she knows full well that I suffer from misophonia and that the clicking would drive me beyond rage. Nonetheless, like a good daughter I set the damned thing up and swore to everyone who entered the room that they would be put to death if they even so much as thought about getting those silver balls swinging.

Yesterday afternoon as I was deep in thought ( or possibly napping ) the tiny orbs began to vibrate then suddenly started moving on their own. I had just enough time to dive beneath the desk as drawers slid open and began emptying on the floor. Lamps, picture frames and ceiling tiles fell like rain all around me. What felt like an eternity only lasted a couple of minutes. Sweet! My first San Francisco earthquake.

…No Evil…

17 Aug

Written for :

Sunday Photo Fiction: August 17th 2014

73 08 August 17th 2014…No Evil…

He sits at the edge of the cliff and revisits his childhood, remembering his neighbors the meerkats. Thinking about how they would watch him from the shadows and whisper among themselves, never willing to get involved. “A man’s home is his castle. What goes on in their house is not our concern.”

They would raise the volume on their televisions to drown out the noises and avert their eyes from the bruises. “Poor children” they would say, but they never – ever reached out a helping hand.

He shakes his head, trying to erase the memories. Standing up he takes a deep breath and slowly approaches the edge of the escarpment and shoves the lifeless body of his father over the edge.

 

The Art Of Listening..

15 Aug

Written for:

Sunday Photo Fiction: August 10th 2014

72 08 August 10th 2014

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“You could at least pretend to be happy.” he hissed under his breath. “You’re  just depressed because you want to be. All you have to do is try harder. Now cut it out dammit you’re spoiling the fun for everyone.

“It’s not that..” I try for the umpteenth time to explain “its the dream I had. Please can we go now?”

“NO” he says with pouty lips “we stay”

I try not to look at the gathering storm clouds as the planes give a final salute, wing tip to wing tip the jets pass over our heads.The thunder  is barely audible with the roar of their engines. The jets disappear over the horizon just as the first large drops of rain begin to fall. My boyfriend and his buddies  run for cover as I stand there frozen with fear.

I ask myself for the last time, why wouldn’t he listen when I tried to tell him about my nightmare? A deafening crack splits the air as a bolt of lightning sends his body catapulting end to end like a rag doll, just as my dream predicted.

Dreams

14 Aug

Written for Friday Fictioneers

15 August 2014

Hosted on  August 13, 2014 by rochellewisoff

PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright - Jan Wayne Fields
PHOTO PROMPT -Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields
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Above my antique writing desk is a watercolor painting that came to me by way of my Grandfather . The glass is cracked in one corner the result of falling to the floor the day my Aunt left his house forever, slamming the door behind her.

“Women have no business attending medical school” he had yelled at the closed door “next damn thing you’ll be wanting to vote.”

I keep a picture of Granddad propped  on the desk as a daily reminder of how one man’s narrowmindedness inspired someone to follow her dream. I pick up my pen and follow mine..

Willie Alaire

7 Aug

written for Friday Fictioneers

8 August 2014

Björn 6

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright-Björn Rudberg

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Willie Alaire

William Alaire is an artist. Unfortunately  for him, his best work is done when he is stark naked. Uninhibited by clothing and unspoken rules he makes magic with brush and oils.

His neighbors were always complaining about him. Put aside that they were all voyeurs,  Willie was the constant recipient of police visits and citations for indecent exposure.

When he found the house on Craig’s List he could hardly believe his luck, his nearest neighbor was almost twenty kilometers away! He finished unpacking and stripped down.

What he hadn’t planned for was the mosquitos the size of helicopters.

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