Janey’s Future

Time for another Friday Fictioneers tale and as usual, I can’t resist putting in my hundred words worth. In spite of the fact that Sandra Crook has donated the photo of a friendly looking old tree, there’s been murder and mayhem, death and accident in a number of tales this week. (Oh, and one hugging tree. Trust Eric to squeeze his alien in somehow. 😉 )

This Charge of the Write Brigade is being commanded as usual by Major Wisoff-Fields, DFFA, ATP. If you’d like to contribute your own tale hop over to her blog and click the Blue Frog, which will morph into a trusty charger on which you can ride into the fray.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

JANEY’S FUTURE

“Wish he’d listened. Ditched that rotten ladder!”

Janey stared at the tree. “Chan never was one for taking advice.”

I looked around. “Can you run this place alone?” With two tykes and another due soon? Dumb, but what do you say?

She shook her head, overwhelmed. “I should sell.”

I reached for her arm. “I got an idea… You been a good wife to Chan, Janey…and a good mom. He was so lucky. I know I’m some younger than you, but…do you think…”

She considered me awhile; my heart pounded something awful.

Her eyes sparkled. “Yeah. I think.”

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Historical fact:
It wasn’t a park but a prairie homestead, and the suddenly widowed Mary was riding home from her husband’s funeral with her single brother-in-law, who also lived on the farm. Seeing her desperate situation, he proposed marriage. She saw the wisdom in this; in those days he couldn’t stay helping her on the farm without raising a LOT of gossip. So they turned the team around, headed back to town, and found the preacher. Tough times call for some quick decisions.

Personal note:
I’m putting the finishing touches on a pdf of my book, Silver Morning Song, and would like to give some away in exchange for some honest feedback. (And hopefully generate a few reviews on Amazon or Kobo.) If you’re interested and have the time, please let me know. I can send pdf, mobi, or epub.

Silver Morning Song is a collection of poems and short stories that consider the delightful world around us and the trials of home and family as well as Christian life. In a voice sometimes humorous, sometimes serious, in short stories and parables, the writer tells of folks facing issues, decisions and temptations. These are interspersed with accessible poetic descriptions of the natural world and the changing seasons.

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Finding Closure

A writer went forth to sow and as she sowed, some of her words fell among thorns…and sprang up into a 100-word story dealing with some harsh realities of life. I don’t know why such a peaceful scene should rake up such a memory, but here’s my thorny tale for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. This dialogue is based on an extremely sad but true incident.

My thanks to our Prompt (in both senses) Chief Planter, Rochelle, for hosting our group, and to Jan Fields for the prompt photo. I really appreciate this opportunity to slice, chop, whittle and otherwise abbreviate until I (hopefully) have absolutely chaff-less grain to present at the FF Global Fair.

My apologies if I’m really slow getting around to checking out offerings at the other booths. I’m in final-revision mode for my first book and assembling another.

Photo © Jan Wayne Fields

Finding Closure

“So who found the remains?”

“Some teens on a camping trip, scrounging firewood,” Corporal Patel replied.

“Poor kids. They’ll need some strong knock-out drops tonight.”

“We figured he’d been offed. Anonymous tip got us his car. No contact, no bank withdrawals or credit card used since he disappeared.”

“Possible motives?” Sgt Zelinski hated cold cases.

“Friends say he was dealing. So… Couldn’t pay up? Turf war? Disgruntled buyer? We’ll likely never know unless we get somebody’s deathbed confession. His family’s been through seven months of hell; at least they have closure now.”

Zelinski nodded. “At this point that’s what’s really important.”

My Friends 

If you ever wonder what to say to someone who’s grieving, this post is a must-read. While it specifically addresses the death of a child, I think the wisdom here is useful for anyone who’s lost a loved one.

kathleenbduncan

I have friends who have had miscarriages.

I have friends who have had stillbirths.

I have friends who lost a baby to SIDS.

I have friends whose child drowned.

I have friends whose child died from cancer.

I have friends whose child died in a tornado.

I have friends whose child died from suicide.

I have friends whose child was murdered.

I have friends whose child died in a motorcycle wreck.

I have friends whose child died after a skateboard accident.

I have friends whose child died in a freak accident.

I have friends whose child died from heart disease or asthma or diabetes.

I have friends whose child died from drug overdose.

I have friends whose child died in a car wreck.

None of them like to take about the details of their child’s death.

They all love to speak of how their child lived.

When you meet a…

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Since Jessie Died

by Edgar A. Guest

We understand a lot of things we never did before
and it seems that to each other Ma and I are meaning more.
I don’t know how to say it, but since little Jessie died
we have learned that to be happy we must travel side by side.
You can share your joys and pleasures, but you never come to know
the depth there is in loving ‘til you’ve got a common woe.

We’re past the hurt of fretting — we can talk about it now:
she slipped away so gently and the fever left her brow
so softly that we didn’t know we’d lost her, but instead
we thought her only sleeping as we watched beside her bed.
Then the doctor, I remember, raised his head as if to say
what his eyes had told already, and Ma fainted dead away.

Up to then I thought that money was the thing I ought to get
and I fancied, once I had it, I should never have to fret.
But I saw that I had wasted precious hours in seeking wealth;
I had made a tidy fortune, but I couldn’t buy her health.
And I saw this truth much clearer than I’d ever seen before:
that the rich man and the poor man have to let death through the door.

We’re not half so keen for money as one time we used to be;
I am thinking more of mother and she’s thinking more of me.
Now we spend more time together and I know we’re meaning more
to each other on life’s journey than we ever meant before.
It was hard to understand it! Oh the dreary nights we’ve cried!
But we’ve found the depth of loving since the day that Jessie died.

From his book, Just Folks
©1917 by the Reilly & Britton Co.

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I’m doing something unusual today: publishing two posts back to back. I read an excellent post by fellow blogger Kathleen Duncan about what to say to someone who has lost a child, be it through a miscarriage, stillbirth, accident, disease, suicide, or crime. She’s given me permission to Reblog her post so I’ll do that next. I think it goes together well with this poem. one of my favorites from Edgar Guest.

Victims of Peace

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the gentle and long-suffering Rochelle-Wisoff Fields. And today Sandra Cook, who blogs at castellsarrasin has offered the photo prompt, hoping it will get our creative juices flowing.

My response this week comes from a rather unusual source. Lately I’ve been contemplating one line from a 60’s song:  (House of the Rising Sun)
“I’ve got one foot on the Platform and one foot on the train…”

So which way will this person go? There’s probably a zillion ways a writer could portray this “point of decision” scenario, but I’ve come up with this one. Sorry, no chuckles today.

Ilisius tightened the backpack straps and showed Nakala the cord. “A good hard tug will set off the charge. Mix with the tourists; get into the Council chamber if possible. Take out as many as you can.”

Nakala’s voice trembled. “They say they want peace.”

Ilisuis snorted. “Peace! Never peace nor justice while these fiends rule. We must destroy them. Whenever, wherever.”

Later on the balcony with other tourists Nakala watched the councillors below discussing funding for a zoo. Two children nearby grinned at her, their eyes sparkling.

“The victims of peace,” she acknowledged as her fingers worried the fraying cord.