Friday Fictioneers-Frank Lloyd Wright and the Rebel

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Copyright-Roger Bultot

Genre: General fiction mixed with a memory

The walls are curved and so stark you’d think they were white washed. I’m touring with teenagers that are acting like surly children. Finally, I’ve had enough and I plod back to the main floor past works of art the children do not care to see.

The artwork begs for my attention, yet I’m too exhausted to look. I just want two minutes to myself.  I lift my eyes upward and become entranced.

The lobby docent utters, “no photos are to be taken here”.  Standing in the center of the room, I smile and click the camera on my phone.

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. I know I haven’t written anything in awhile, but I’m working everyday to change that. I’m always glad to hear your feedback and have your support.

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Somewhere Only We Know

I walked across an empty land

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand I felt the earth beneath my feet

Sat by the river, and it made me complete

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting tired, and I need someone to rely on

I came across a fallen tree

I felt the branches of it looking at me

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go

Somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know.

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need someone to rely on So tell me when you’re gonna let me in

I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go?

Somewhere only we know

Somewhere only we know

Watch Your Fucking Language and 5 Minutes to Change the Next 50 Years of Your Life

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When we were little girls we were told to be ladylike. Don’t talk too loud. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Let the boy come to you. When we were grown, we were told to find a man to take care of you. Be a delicate flower. Be thin. Be anything but yourself. Don’t eat on a date. Don’t drink too much. Blend in. Be the wallflower. Be demure. Be, be, be, but don’t be you.

I was never the quiet girl. I was never the one to follow the crowd. I was the unicorn. The girl with the big boobs that weighed 150 lbs. and was thought of as fat. The one that decided rebellion was a good thing. I laughed too loud. I swore a lot. I drank, smoked cigarettes and weed, but I was the good girl too. And did I LOVE boys! I wore clothes to reflect my mood for the day. I didn’t belong to any group or clique. Just flitted from clique to clique like a butterfly lighting on the blooms in a garden. I belonged everywhere and nowhere, and that was okay.

As I get older, the butterfly that flitted from group to group is tired and looking for a home. I still belong everywhere and nowhere. I think part of it is because I was adopted and might still be feeling lost from that. It’s not healthy to be feeling abandoned at this age. I know that this thought is of my own making, and I have to be the one that steps away from that sorry and into the light.

So today I say fuck the fuckers, and use my loud voice. I’m the girl with the big boobs. I’m the girl that is not the typical beauty. I’m not a delicate flower, nor do I want to be. I want to be the girl that rages against the dying of the light. It’s time for me to be, be, be and to the real me. I am a goddess rising, a butterfly and a unicorn. I’m not just a manic pixie dream girl, hell bent on being the sidekick.

I’m the dreamer and the dream, in charge of my own destiny. So what if I say fuck, a lot!?

Friday Fictioneers-Serenity

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When he left her, Emily retreated to the woods in a ramshackle hut without running water or electricity. She hoped the solitude would kill her, or that the lack of sound would at least deafen her. However, it only made her instincts keener and her will stronger.

For sustenance, she hunted the woods and fished the lake. She wrote her manuscript by the light of day, and continued writing by firelight until long after the sun set. The mewling of the coyotes sang her to sleep each night.

Emily thought she had found serenity, but then he reappeared.

98 words

Genre: General Fiction

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. I don’t write much anymore but when the stories come, they come quickly and I have to reach out and grab them before they get away.

I’m unsure of the cadence of this story, or if it even makes sense. I take any and all criticism or kudos.

 

 

Friday Fictioneers-Garden of Stone

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I stand in the garden of stone at the south end of our estate, home to the ancestors that came before. An array of gray monuments stand tall around me, stained by years of harsh winters; baked by summer sun.

The air contains the tang of autumn, and the ground beneath me is freshly turned. The heels of my shoes sink into the earth as I remember your struggle to stay alive.

You said you’d fight, and you did. You said you’d beat it, but you didn’t.

My task now is to grieve, and find a way to carry on.

Genre: Romantic Tragedy (?)

Word count: 100!!!!

Thank you Ms. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting this wonderful photo prompt called Friday Fictioneers. I just love when a story rolls out of my head in a matter of minutes. Not sure if you’ll like it, but at least I tried.

Please go to Ms. Wisoff-Fields page to read the multitude of other flash fiction posted by her and other WordPress writers.

 

 

Kiss Your Own Fingertips

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I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love myself.

To look at myself in the mirror and see beauty instead of flaws.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To touch my flabby and cellulite covered skin and not hate it.

To rub my own feet with thick lotion and not wish that the heels were softer.

To hold my hips and wish I could remove all of the fat inside of them.

To trace my wrinkled hands across my ample breasts and hope that someday a man will behold their beauty again.

To gaze at my face in the mirror and not see wrinkles, but amaze at the brightness of my blue eyes and the perfect symmetry of my lips.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To find that little girl that resides inside and tell her that she’s going to be okay.

That she is loved.

That she is free.

That she is important.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself, but I do hope in time I’ll be able to again.

Friday Fictioneers-Crickets and the Chill of Fall

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It’s where I thought we’d sit at night, to hear the crickets till they were silenced by the chill of fall. We’d sit together fireside, while your fingertip traced lazy circles in my palm.

I’m not an outdoorsy girl, but the fire sounded nice, while seated on a bench fashioned from a felled oak in the backyard. All that’s left of us now are the stump and a few fleeting memories of the plans we had.

With my coat buttoned against the cold, I head out to meet the handyman that will finish the work that your leaving left behind.

Genre: Romance, I think

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. The stories don’t come too often for me, but when they do they come quickly and I just have to grab them! Please feel free to critique my work as I’m always open to suggestions for writing better stories.

I No Longer Hunger

I knew I was depressed the day food no longer held any allure.

He told me that he’d met someone and of course I was jealous, but what struck me was when he said that she didn’t eat much, like him. That they both never ate much so he asked her to have dinner at his place.

Of course my mouth got the best of me, and I spouted off, ‘well fuck, she must be skinny, how lucky for you!’

He responded, ‘it doesn’t fucking matter if she’s young or old, skinny or fat, I just wanted to have dinner with a friend.’

I knew she was more than a friend. That it was a date, and he had moved on.

I lost my appetite and became an empty vessel. I felt nothing, except the iciness of anxiety as it crept into my heart and made a home where my sparkle used to be. Something inside of me broke and I shut down. I hadn’t felt like this in ages, but I knew what it was.

My old friend depression had returned, and it had put its cold, dead hand in mine.

I finally admitted it to myself, and then my daughter this weekend.

‘Mom, I don’t think your anti-depressant is working.’

‘Honey, I know it isn’t, but I don’t know what to do.’

I sobbed while we talked, and I think I used about 25 tissues in about ten minutes. Meg kept reassuring me that I was going to be okay, but all I could say was I knew that I would be without a partner for the rest of my life.

The whole thing with K had devastated me. Here was this man that I was sure I loved already moving on.

Sure, he has his demons, but so do I.

There’s addiction, of food and alcohol that continually sing their siren song into my ear. There’s the nagging feeling that I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. That I’ll leave no mark. That I’ll have been brave enough to save myself from insanity, to only die alone in some hospital bed while machines whir and measure my heartbeat till I’m no more.

The pit of depression is a deep one and I’m at the bottom of it.

To begin clawing my way out, I sent a text to my therapist. I’ve contacted my closest friends and I’ve told my sponsor the work I need to do. I think I need to make a call to my addiction psychiatrist, because I think I need a stronger medication to battle this. Meditation is great and prayer even better, but I know that I need it like a diabetic needs insulin.

I want out of this abyss, and I want to be loved. I want to love myself first, but that may never happen. There are women like me that feel love for those around them, but will never feel their worth until they are loved by someone else.

Tomorrow, I will get up early, and prepare for work. I’ll go through the motions of life and I will take time for self care and meditation. I’ll force myself to take care of myself, until it is no longer a battle, and I can do it with ease. And even if I’m never held in the arms of man again, I will find something in this life worth living for.