She appeared in the music shop window. An enigmatic child before Christmas breathing slow circles of lust across the glass. Day after day she faded in and out, inching closer to the gold plated door handles. Her rats nest hair, highlighted by shimmering grey, and clanging camping pots scared patrons away.
The day she finally slid her dirty fingers across the grand piano keys we knew. Whatever she unleashed, it was beauty the world wouldn’t be ready for.
People looked on. Phones took video. It wasn’t long before every mind became captivated.
My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war. His father watered it, the seed which came before. My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber. This tree grew ever higher. Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me. She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down, Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground. It falls to me, as this tree must be fed; A living sacrifice of a life never lead. I toss my children as far as I can; Mutter the same empty words my mother offered Over knotted hands.
Word Count: 100
A write for Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.
The girls stared across the table at each other. Each clutched a brightly colored piece of paper in dirty fingers. The warden tapped his watch. “Which one’s it gonna be?” Hana watched as her younger sister slowly unfolded her small pink slip. Janey’s face contorted into a silent victorious howl as she shot up from her old chair to take a lap around the room. Hana slumped, defeated. “Ok Hana, let’s go.” “No!” Without thinking, Hana was up and running towards the muddy grass outside. “You’ll never take me alive!”
Her father groaned towards the sky, “It’s just a bath.”
“It’s soldiers; marching …” Liza stomped in place. “I don’t know. What about a mass influx of downtrodden people?” “Hannibal’s army rumbling over the Alps?” “Liza, you’re always thinking war. What about the devastation left behind?” “Bea, those rocks are strong! Why shouldn’t they be troops marching to victory?” “One good quake and they’d fall.” “One good rebellion from your influx?”
A group of high-pitched voices chimed in, “There they are! Ready or not here we come!” Liza tried to run but found herself face down in the dirt thanks to a stray rock. “One good rebellion.” Bea laughed.