Mommy used to sing this song to me when I was a child. There were so many nights when I couldn’t sleep,because I was scared of the dark, and I was scared of the quiet. I was scared of the next day at school, and the struggles I would face there. Mom did her best to ease my fears with singing before we’d go to sleep. Of course I didn’t go to sleep. I sweated about sharks, and things that go bump in the night. I sweated over bullies and the fact that I couldn’t do math. Mom had no idea how scared I was because I was never able to tell her. So instead we sang to each other.
I hated that everything scared me and would continue to until I was in my late 20’s. I hated that I was afraid of the dark and used a nightlight until I was 30. I hate that now that I live alone, I’m afraid of the dark again, even though I live in an apartment building that is relatively safe. I hate being afraid and I hate who I am. But then I think about Mom and the way we sang to each other when I was a child. I remember the comfort I felt for those few moments in time, and how safe I was.
When I was young Mommy and I sang together, and even when we do now I continue to feel safe. She did the best she could to help me and continues to do so to this day. She doesn’t understand me but that’s okay, I know now she does the best she can for me.
Sunlight shines like glitter on choppy water while gulls sound calls to their mates. Tabitha stands with little Andrew at the railing. He points to the urn she carries in her left hand.
“Is Daddy in there?”
“They all are, Baby.”
He gives her a pensive look and begins to cry. How does a mother explain the origin of dust from Ground Zero?
As the motor idles, Tabitha lifts the lid from the urn and places it on the deck.
“May I help Mommy?”
“Of course, Love.”
Together, they pour the contents into the bay and say a silent prayer.
100 words/Genre: Hell, I don’t know
Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Please be sure to go to her page and read the stories from other writers. We are a rather eclectic group. I welcome kudos and criticism. Bring it on!
Mommy coated my arm with baking soda and water to temper the fierce itch of the wasp’s sting. My heart raced as we saw the skin expand before our eyes. Mommy did what she could, but nothing prepared her for the closing of my throat and bluing of my already pale skin.
“Breathe Rachel, breathe!”
I did not respond. My breathing ceased and rapid heartbeat slowed. There was no fear for me, merely resignation to my fate. Death from a simple sting upon my young flesh.
Head bent, mommy wept.
100 words (genre: general fiction)
For anyone unfamiliar with Friday Fictioneers, we write 100-word stories. Stories based on a photo prompt, posted weekly on Wednesdays, on our master site: https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/. The stories run the gamut and the authors come from all over. Stop by Rochelle’s page to find out more. I promise, you won’t be sorry.
As I state every week, please criticize the hell out of my work. Either a red pen, or riding crop will suffice.