Morgana

Morgana had just unearthed the final damning piece of evidence, proving the cave-in that sealed her husband and thirty other miners miles beneath the earth’s crust, was caused by blatant negligence on the part of the mine owners- when they came for her.

Though the incident itself had taken place months ago, the financial and emotional repercussions within their small mining community continued to claim casualties, as two devastated widows faced with no imaginable way to provide for their hungry children, chose death rather than face being tossed out of their homes by the mines greedy overseers, anxious to fill the numerous vacancies in personnel that were causing production to lag.

Rather than just accept these great injustices as the hand of fate, Morgana, one of the only book schooled widows, took the pittance offered her by the mine owners in exchange for her husband’s life, boarded a bus to Charleston and enlisted the researching prowess of a starving young college student.

Together they unearthed decades of penny pinching neglect ranging from the purchasing of inferior safety equipment from overseas, to a list of names of convicted safety inspectors, all of whom the courts had proven were only too happy to look the other way, when it put a few extra dollars in their pockets.

She had just completed a meeting with the one crooked inspector that held the key, the very man that had informed the mine owners only weeks before the cave-in, that imminent collapse of the ancient timbers fortifying the walls along that vein of the mine, was no longer a speculative question of ‘if’, but rather a resounding chorus, of ‘when’- before signing off in the affirmative in exchange for what could now be referred to as blood money.

If they thought the bullet that pierced her heart would silence her, it was only because they underestimated the amount of data that could be absorbed by a dirt poor miners wife- as Morgana had swallowed the USB drive containing all the evidence necessary to, not only win her case, but ensure even in death, (if it should come to that) the earthly vessel she left behind could be relied upon to provide the courts with the documentation they would need to convict the mine owners, and thus insure an atrocity such as this would not happen again.

Written for Girlie on the Edge’s Six Sentence Story cue word: Vessel

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Firenza

Photo Courtesy of Anshu Bhojnagarwala

It would have been impossible to have overlooked Firenza. Her blazing red hair and that incendiary smile. A beauty, full of fire and smoking sensuality.  When she made her entrance into a room, sparks flew. Men of all ages became the tinder to her well tended flame. Ah yes, the incandescence that was Firenza….

And had you witnessed the scorching heat that evening she and Diesel were introduced, you would know first hand the meaning of the word combustible. Two people, melded together by loves eternal flame. Well, that and one clumsily misplaced ember from a half smoked cigarette…

Word Count: 99

Written for Friday Fictioneers

Attention to detail

Photo Courtesy of C E Ayer

Hector showed up at work today out of uniform. The tike sized salmon polo he chose to wear instead instantly made him the victim of some harsh ridicule at the hands of his fellow employees. (ie. Who you supposed to be? Little Jackie Paper looking for his Puff??)

Not unaccustomed to a bit of abuse at the hands of his coworkers, Hector did his best to take it in stride. That is of course before his little dress code infraction was noticed by the big boss.

“Reverendez!” Mr. Merlin boomed from across the theme park the moment he noticed the not so smiling face protruding from the the up end of the pint sized near pink polo belonged to one of his least favorite employees. “Have I got a job for you!”

He sentenced Hector to take up the least favored position in all of Dragon’s Lair. Rear Emissions Monitor at the Fire Breathers exhibit.

“That, ought to teach him to pay attention to de-tail.”

Word Count: 165

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction

Little tamatas

“Mama, tell us again about 48th St.”

“There was a war on. Gramma was making bomb casings for 27 cents an hour, and our rent was $9 a month. We had to walk up three flights of stairs, and we had no hot water. We boiled water for baths and washing clothes and hung them in the kitchen to dry.”

“We had paper curtains in the kitchen. One day me and Judy were playing with matches. Judy caught the dishrag on fire, and when we tried to throw it out the window- the curtains went up. Well, Gramma like to have killed us. She was so mad! She grabbed me and Judy by the back of our undershirts and hung us both out the third floor window.

“Was she gonna drop you?”

“I don’t think so. But thank god for old Missus Leet. She saw us hanging there and yelled up, “Dorothy, don’t hurt the little tamatas!”

This was written for What Pegman Saw. Today we are on Manhattan Island N.Y.

Trunk it.

She had developed a penchant for falling head over heals into obsession with men that would do little more than introduce utter chaos into her otherwise mundane existence.

As if on cue, each time she felt the chaotic life they had created together, spiraling out of control, her thoughts would become eschewed and she would find herself frantically searching for a way out..

It always ended up a fight or flight ultimatum and up until today- she had always chosen flight- tucked her proverbial tail between her legs, and run in the opposite direction…

Why on earth this time was any different, was anybody’s guess- perhaps she had grown up, or learned something, or was just plain tired of making bad decisions- but in the end, it mattered very little…

“You can think about that later, ” she admonished herself sharply, intellectually boxing up the entire exhausting equation and placing it on an fabricated shelf- at the moment, she had more important things to think about…

Like what the hell she was planning on doing with the body….

Posted as part of Girlie on the Edge’s Six Sentence Story Prompt. Cue word: Trunk