Although she openly attributed little good to her upbringing, there was no denying she had been taught the difference between right and wrong.
Many times over the course of her life she had found it necessary to humble herself. To return to the firm foundation which had been instilled upon her as a child. But she never stayed long.
Invariable the wounds that had driven her there would heal. And bolstered by the callus of scar tissue that inevitably formed where those wounds had once been, she would venture out again.
Every time further. And further…
Until eventually it became necessary to erode every shred of what she knew to be decency before she was humbled enough to admit she had been wrong yet again. Before she could bring herself to return.
And when she finally did, she found the foundation that she had always known to be firm and strong- cracked and fissured.
Years of neglect and abuse, alas having taken their toll.
This is my response to the photo prompt offered on Crimson’s Creative Challenge #70.
Photo Courtesy of C E Ayr
We gathered at Auntie’s deathbed to share memories..
Gramma reminded Auntie of the day she sold their mother’s spaghetti pot to the “Paper! Rags!” man to buy ice cream.
Mama reminded Auntie of the day she tried to teach us all to make potica, and every one but hers came out like a lead sinker.
Finally, it was my turn.
“Remember at family reunions how all us kids would sneak down the basement to play with Uncle Louie’s whisky decanter? The little boy that pissed whisky?”
Auntie struggled to smile, then whispered, “My Louie, such a filthy sense of humor.”
This is my 100 word response to this weeks photo prompt provided by Rochelle on this weeks Friday Fictioneers
Magda presses her fingertips to the glass. She can almost feel the rain as it spitters and spatters against each pane. “Take me with you.” She whispers at the window, but the thick leaded glass only becomes opaque under the brume of her warm breath and refracts her heartfelt plea.
“‘Take me with you’, my ars!” Mrs. Helmsley mocks from her warm seat nearest the hearth. “Get ye from afore the window ye whinin’ bastard! Back to the shed with ye now and mind that frock be proper hung. I’ll strip yer back a hide if’n a crease be found.”
Magda silently curses the two opposing spirits that she knows to inhabit Mrs. Helmsley’s ample frame. The one, overflowing with brightness, cheer and benevolence, that shows its face when Father visits. And the other- devoid of all human kindness- that rears its ugly head- whenever they are behind closed doors.
This piece, written in 50 word increments, is my response to both the photo prompt and the literary quote offered on this weeks 50 Word Thursday.
The literary quote was: “Take me with you,” She whispers at the window.’ – Kate Racculia – Bellweather Rhapsody
A numerical word puzzle- of sorts. Just insert the correct numerical word and you’ve got a nursery rhyme. But can you make sense of all of them? That’s where the puzzle part comes in…
2 trolls went a gnoming
4 new garden statuaries
1 laid a trap with mushrooms
1 a snare of plump ripe berries
2 gnomes went a trolling
4 what? neither 1 would say
8 berries, shrooms and- fishing nets?
9! from those- they 0’ve stayed away..
Forgive me if I fancy myself clever in this. I’m old and easily entertained…
This is my response to the photo prompt supplied by Crimson’s Creative Challenge this week.
“Have now been 24 hours on this ghastly boat,” Daddy slurs, as he labors to lift his drink beleaguered head. A single stand of spittle still connecting his lips to a wet spot on his pant leg, glistening in the phosphorescent glow of the street lamps as we passed under them.
“If it isn’t a dream.” He adds cautiously, as he stares blankly out the passenger door window, probably trying to make sense of the host of stationary objects whirring past us as I guide my little car though streets unknown. All the while doing my best to hold my tongue.
There is a fracas in the street ahead. Traffic slows to a stop. I keep both hands on the wheel. My eyes straight ahead. “Breathe.” I admonish myself in effort to assuage the escalating rage that is quickly taking me over in proportion equal to the level of Daddy’s consciousness.
“Mavie-girl.” He speaks my childhood name with such innocence and tenderness, that it plucks painfully the single remaining heart string that runs between us. I steel myself against the encroaching emotion. Tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “Just missing yer old dad were ya? Stopped round to say hello?”
“Stop it!” I shout, no longer able to contain myself. My angered fists pounding rigorously against the steering wheel. “You can’t just do that! You can’t just act as if I should be thrilled to see you every time I am called out to scrape you off a sidewalk somewhere!”
As the floodgates open, I feel myself melting forward, my head coming to rest on the very wheel which steeled me against him just moments before. I feel the warmth of his hand tentatively coming to rest on the trembling small of my back. And- my heart ceases to race.
This piece, written in 50 word increments, combines the literary quote “Have now been 24 hours on this ghastly boat if it isn’t a dream.” – Voyage of the Dawn Treader by C.S. Lewis supplied by 50 Word Thursday and the photo prompt offered by LRose.