Manillow

I wrote the following for Trifextra Week Seventy-Eight. It's a mere 33 words, as the challenge demands.

Manillow

We argue about color. Men have fewer cones, don't they? Our first house, we decided, was manillow, yellow and manilla (and maybe vanilla) to keep the peace. A joke, and a necessary one.

Promise of Plums

The following is 246 words written in about 30 minutes. I fell in love with this image a few weeks ago, so I decided to use it as a prompt. Happy Saturday to all!


Promise of Plums

The bear wasn't fuzzy as her mother had said. The bear's fur was thick, almost wooly, and even though it left an unpleasant residue on her small, plump hands, she kept patting the huge forehead. 

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"Mother will want you to have a bath," she said with certainty. "Oh, yes. And you will have to use a whole bar of soap." She paused. "Yes, two whole bars of Ivory. And then you will be a polar bear, all nice and white!" She squealed and rubbed the bear's head excitedly. 

Always one to savor a scratch, she leaned into the girl a bit. Not being particularly hungry or violent beyond necessity, the bear was happy to observe this grabby pink creature for while. She pitied it a little, in her own way--its obvious frailty and misfortune of being both oblivious to predators and having no natural camouflage. The bear raised her snout and sniffed. The creature smelled vaguely like wild autumn plums, which made the beast salivate. A long, syrupy string of spit fell from her mouth and landed on the girl's shoe. Giggling, the girl clapped her hands and hopped on the muddy ground.

"Come on, now! It's almost dinner time and you must have your bath first!" She began skipping down the path and glanced over her shoulder. "Come on!" she called insistently. The bear sniffed the air and loped after her, hoping the little animal would lead her to a large pile of plums. 

Raw Material

I scribbled the following for this week's Five-Sentence Fiction prompt, Limitless. 

Raw Material

Magazine Alley, as she thought of it, was now mid-thigh deep and bordered by heaps of clothes which, when they had been piled there, had been clean. The table beside her best chair was covered in layers of useful things: scraps of paper with notes and recipes, stalled knitting projects, forgotten cups of tea with fuzzy tea bags attached, empty yogurt containers, and bits of fabric. The house, being so full, was quiet and comforting--a perfect setting for creativity. Raw material for making art surrounded her, but she wandered, sometimes stumbling on an abandoned shoe or dog toy, trying to figure out where to begin. She sighed to herself, thinking for the millionth time, The possibilities are limitless.

If you have a second, please leave me a comment and/or follow me on Twitter @gardenofedits. It's always nice to know someone is reading.

A Discussion on Bronze

The following was written for Anonymous Legacy's VisDare #30: Basking. It is 137 words, done very quickly (about 20 minutes) because I need to get to sleep. As always, please leave me comments. I enjoy reading them.

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A Discussion on Bronze

For decades, he dreamed of having a friend who would linger with him as others bustled by.  The constant stream of passersby made him feel both gawky and invisible. One day, a man walked near. The bronze lion, having poor peripheral vision, only caught a glimpse of the slightly hunched man before this stranger began to climb up his tail. Even though the lion was quite old, the pressure of footsteps didn’t bother him a bit. In fact, he thought to himself, I might purr, if I could. As the man sat on top of his cool, flowing mane, his shoes rested lightly on the lion's proud brow. They sat in silence, but to the lion it seemed like a much-longed-for conversation. He managed a quiet rumble deep within. The man glanced in the direction of the train.

Rivulets

The following was written in response to Anonymous Legacy's Visual Dare #26. It is 124 words and took me roughly 40 minutes in five-minute bursts because of my reluctant sleeper. I hope it's coherent. I am an eager sleeper with too few opportunities.

Rivulets

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The sunrise crept up her nose and tickled her eyelids too early in the summer. After so many mornings staring at the ceiling, she had identified a dog, a tree, a face, and a pigeon in the plaster’s rough texture. The face was old with deep ditches for wrinkles. If a person like that cried, would the tears dry up as they followed that winding valley? she wondered. Her eyes relaxed and blurred, making the images seem clearer and more detailed. She yawned deeply and closed her eyes. If she fell back asleep, sometimes she dreamed that the face was telling her about hard work and the sorrow of missing teeth. A tiny drop of water, almost imperceptible, landed just above her left eyebrow. 







I love comments. If you have a second, I'd love to know what you thought of this bit of flash fiction, whether or not you enjoy Neopolitan ice cream, or what your favorite Calypso song is.

Unblinking

Here's another response to VisDare from Anonymous Legacy. It's a simple 85 words to make up for my recent overages.

Unblinking

The last thing he remembered was his wife--upon noting his missing belt and smelling the gin and unfamiliar cologne emanating from his skin—rushing toward him roaring, “You will never be late again!”  

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It was an odd feeling, to be awake but not blinking. His fingers found the place where his eyelids had been and where now there were two clock faces with raised lines and four little hands that clicked. Ten minutes after ten o’clock. Or was it ten minutes till two o’clock?

Another Time, Maybe

Another Visual Dare from Anonymous Legacy. This one came in at 177. That's twenty-seven words over the limit. I'm fixin' to get a flash fiction ticket! Someone take away my creative license!

...But seriously, I'm working on very little sleep (isn't that obvious?) and I just don't have the whittling skills or time this week to get it down to 150. I hope you like it anyway. Feel free to skip over 27 words.

Another Time, Maybe

photo credit

She preferred the ones with people--boys wearing short pants outside a church, men in t-shirts leaning against cars, or babies in layers of lace. This one was just an ornate room with long tables and benches under chandeliers and elaborate carvings. No people at all. On the back, "Another time, maybe" was written without ending punctuation on the left. No stamp. No postmark. A small water stain. She pressed it discreetly to her nose. Musty with a hint of artificial gardenia.

"We found the creamer that matches the sugar bowl you bought a while back."

Ina turned toward the shopkeeper and said sheepishly, "I dropped it. Arthritis.”

"In that case, you'd better stick to paper," he muttered.

"Just this, then." She held up the postcard.

"Damaged," he said squinting. "And sort of boring." 

"It’s perfect," She smiled.

He rolled his eyes. "Take it."

She nodded her gratitude and exited the shop. Outside, she reached into her purse and touched the creamer, nestled safely in an embroidered napkin, as she dropped the card carelessly onto the sidewalk.

As always, I can be found on Twitter @gardenofedits or Facebook (Garden of Edits). I love comments,    
knock-knock jokes, and pictures of bears.