Our gracious host, Rochelle, at Friday Fictioneers
asks us to use the photo below as inspiration
to write creatively in 100 words or less while
making every word count. This is my flash.
Tag: Sadness
To Hang The Moon
Written for the dVerse Prosery Prompt by Amy Woolard:
“What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead”
“What does it matter that the stars we see are already dead? What does that even mean, Margie?”
“Oh, Nell. If I have to explain it to you, it loses its gravitas, its pathos, doesn’t it?”
“Gravitas? Pathos? I’m sorry .… when were you named chief cook, bottlewasher and poet laureate?”
Margie gave her friend a dismissive eye roll before turning her back, busying herself with little scraps of paper on her desk.
There was a time the two were like sisters, cherishing a bond they never found with anyone else. Now they barely recognized each other; their conversations were stilted to the point of being painful.
And it all came down to Nicole, a newcomer in their exclusive inner circle …. a renaissance woman and Margie thought she hung the moon.
“I miss us, Margie”
Intense silence. Spoken words were never as wounding.
NAR©2024
144 Words
This is “Sisters Of The Moon” by Fleetwood Mac
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Go Gently: A Musette
For Jim
Sudden
Dreams in the night
Undone
Weeping
A pain too deep
Creeping
Broken
No goodbye words
Spoken
NAR©2024
This is Kate Rusby, “Underneath The Stars”
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Ponte dei Sospiri
Written for Friday Fictioneers. Greetings, friends. Some of you know, others do not. We had a death in the family last week … my husband’s twin brother passed away on Tuesday. I’ve taken some time off from writing but now I’m ready to return. You may read about our loss here if you are so inclined. Thank you for your thoughts. This is my story today.
It wasn’t in the evening when a calm tide rolls out, nor in the early morning as the glorious sun rises but rather in the middle of the day, just after noon when he crossed the bridge and left us stunned and lost. One minute he was with us …. happy, strong and alive. The next he was gone, in an instant, in the blink of an eye, he crossed the bridge and slipped away. We had no time to prepare, no time to say “Goodbye and fare thee well, brother”. He was just gone, peacefully and silently across the bridge.
NAR©2024
This is “Bridge of Sighs” by Robin Trower
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR©2017-present.
THE WHISPERING COTTAGE
“It’s a nice house, don’t you think, Virginia? The property is a decent size. And the fresh air! Just what the doctor ordered.”
Finding the perfect house for his ailing wife was first and foremost on Edgar’s mind.
Encouragingly, he continued: “It’s quite affordable at $5 a month! Downstairs there’s one bedroom, the parlor and a nice kitchen which your mother will put to good use. And upstairs is another bedroom for us with my very own writing niche.”
From their carriage Virginia smiled at her husband, covering her mouth with a handkerchief as the deep cough began again. Edgar hurried to her side and she stared lovingly into his eyes. “Yes, my dear. I think we will be very happy here.”
“Then it’s settled! I’ll finalize the rental while you rest here.” Before returning to the cottage Edgar covered Virginia with a blanket to protect her from the cool April breeze.
Sitting in the carriage with her mother, Virginia gazed at the cottage. “A lovely little home for the three of us, Mother.” Closing her eyes, Virginia pictured their caged songbirds on the porch, a rocking chair nearby where she could rest in the sun and work on her needlepoint.
“Virginia, I’ve been waiting for you“
Opening her eyes, Virginia asked her mother to repeat what she just said, but Maria assured her she had said nothing. Again Virginia closed her eyes and again she heard the gentle voice in her ear.
“Virginia, welcome home”
An unusual peace came over Virginia as she realized it was the cottage whispering to her. “My lovely forever home”, she thought.
They moved in on a beautiful day in May of 1846 and they were happy there. In the evenings after eating a modest meal prepared by Maria, Edgar worked on his poem “Eulalie” while the family cat sprawled across his shoulders and Virginia dozed by the fireplace.
How Virginia glowed with happiness that gloriously sunny day as Edgar proudly displayed the etched wooden signpost which read “POE COTTAGE”.
But even with constant care, sunshine and fresh air, Virginia’s consumption became worse, her waif-like body wracked with fits of coughing.
In January Virginia’s health began to fail rapidly. Edgar stayed by her side day and night, reading to her, until at last on January 30, Virginia heard the whispering cottage beckoning her.
She died peacefully that night in Edgar’s warm embrace as he softly recited –
“This maiden she lived with no other thought
than to love and be loved by me.”
NAR © 2023
Author’s Note: The Poe Cottage is the former home of American writer Edgar Allan Poe. It is located on Kingsbridge Road and the Grand Concourse in the Fordham neighborhood of The Bronx, New York, a short distance from its original location and about 20 minutes from the house where I grew up. I was privileged to visit Poe’s house many times. The cottage is now located in the northern part of Poe Park and is part of the Historic House Trust, listed on the National Register Of Historic Places, administered by The Bronx County Historical Society since 1975. It is believed to have been built in 1797.
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Just wall-to-wall music!
Stop by and check it out!
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https://rhythmsection.blog/
THE CIRCUS WAGON
Going through some old posts and I came across this one.
I don’t usually write poems but I always thought
this was pretty good;
hope you think so, too.
Rumors the Clown is coming to town.
He’ll take your frown, turn it upside down.
Saturday night at Monument Park West.
Come see the joker who’s the best of the best.
Yes, Rumors the Clown is coming to visit
So run children, run, or you surely will miss it
The circus wagon chugged through the streets
Extolling Rumors the Clown’s incredible feats.
The star of tv, the stage and the screen
Would roll into town, a sight to be seen,
This violet-haired, bumbling, zoot-suited jester,
The idol of Harold and Mary and Lester
The kids scampered home to ask mom and ask dad
“Can we go? Can we see him? We haven’t been bad.
It’s true! It’s true! We heard and we saw
Go look it up at the newspaper store!”
Nothing this special has happened before.
Rumors the Clown will be here for sure!
The next day the newspaper store was a-buzz
As people poured in to make sure it was just
As their children had told them, their faces a-glow
Like the bright flaming torches at the juggling show.
Could it be? Was it true? Were their children mistaken?
Were dreams fed to them by somebody faking?
The storekeeper shouted “You all think you’re so clever!
Stop pushing and shoving! Such discourtesy – I never!
You’re all here in my store for the very same reason –
Are the Rumors rumors true or is somebody teasing?”
The children stood round with their eyes all a-gape
When a shout rang out “Here it is, right here on page eight!”
“Make way! Let me through” the town librarian barked.
“I’ll take a close look with my assistant, Miss Lark.”
They put on their glasses and read every word.
Was the news printed here what the children had heard?
“Now quiet everyone while I read the whole story;
If you dare interrupt me you will surely be sorry!”
Come one and come all to the best show in town!
We’re speaking of course of Rumors the Clown.
At Monument Park West on Saturday night.
The most splendid performance will thrill and delight!
Rumors will juggle, ride bareback and walk the high wire
And perhaps – if you’re lucky – swallow a sword blazing with fire!
The extravaganza is free of charge to all who attend,
Sponsored by philanthropists and the hospital band
For the benefit of sick children and orphans here and there
Who desperately need fun from some people who care.
Saturday at eight – write it down and be there!
Monument Park at the west wall – that’s where!
“That’s tonight!” someone yelled and they ran home to dress
In their dandiest clothes so they’d all look their finest.
In dresses and new shoes and even a vest
They headed out laughing, not stopping to rest
They ran all the way to Monument Park West.
But when they arrived at the end of their quest
The west wall was locked, closed to all guests.
“There’s nobody here! Where’s Rumors the Clown?
The newspaper ad said the west side of town!”
And everyone cried, even mean Mr. Brown.
In his shop the printer wore a terrible frown.
He’d made a mistake – he deserves a fool’s crown
For the “WEST” – not the “EAST”– is what he wrote down.
At Monument Park East Rumors sat crying alone
The east side was empty for no one had shown.
“My days as a great clown are over and done;
It’s time to retire, go live in the clown home.”
Blowing his nose Rumors pulled out his phone.
“Bozo? It’s Rumors. And I’m so very alone.”
NAR © 2023
Originally published 2020
THE EIGHTH OF DECEMBER
While cradling my year old son in his bed after a bad dream, I sang softly to him my favorite Beatles song, In My Life. He stared up at me, his blue eyes moist with tears. Slowly his breathing became calm and his eyelids began to flutter. At last he was asleep and I kissed his eyes, removing the last traces of salty droplets as I pulled up his covers.
Closing the door gently behind me, I went back downstairs where my husband Bill was watching Monday Night Football. One look at Bill as he sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, told me his team was playing badly. I kidded him about being so serious about a game but he didn’t react. I softly called his name and when he looked up at me there were tears running down his face.
As I sat next to him he turned to me, took my hands and told me that John Lennon was dead, shot on the doorsteps of his home, The Dakota. I stared at him in shock. Why would he say such a horrible thing? Who would ever want to hurt John?
He turned the tv volume back on; the game had been interrupted by the report of an incident involving John. I fell to the floor sobbing as the reporter droned on about ‘rapid gun shots’ .. ‘police/John/hospital’ .. ‘dead on arrival’.
I cried uncontrollably and kept repeating no! no! no! as my husband held me in his arms and I sobbed in sorrow and disbelief. We sat on the floor for a long time, clinging to each other, unable to stop my tears or un-hear the words coming from the tv.
At one point my three year old son crept down the stairs, frightened and wondering “what was wrong with mommy”. My husband quickly scooped him up and returned him to his room, whispering that “mommy was very sad about something she saw on tv and she would be ok tomorrow.“
But I was not ok the next day. I was not ok the next week. I was never truly ok after that night. No living, loving soul in the world was ever ok again.
These days, almost 38 years later, as I cradle my son’s babies in my arms and rock them to sleep, I sing In My Life and I remember John.
NAR © 2018
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