Tears of Joy

grayscale photography of woman carrying girl

(Photo: Caroline Hernandez via Unsplash)

 

The stage was merry.
Audience at the ready
The wide eyes showed worry.

“Don’t fret my angel!”
Mamma patted her darling.

“They may frown, I fear!”
The little one panted,
pulling her tie along.

“You will do well!”
Mamma kept telling.

The little one did well.
Mamma cried tears of joy.
Love always wins.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda. )

Syzygy (Fiction-Queasy)

Image result for Blood Moon

(Photo:Huffingtonpost.in)

 

Once again she was seen smiling and everything seemed normal, at times perfect.

She was feeding the baby putting him to sleep, even planting kisses on his tiny adorable face.

Her colorful garden betokened her aesthetic taste and personal style.

The family rejoiced in the strength of medicineHer heart pounded with contentment and gratitude.

Life in a feathered nest!

 

 

Out of the blue, the earth pronounced to align between the sun and the moon.

The blood moon made her queasy. 

Queasy pops gave way to antidepressants, which were equally futile.

The garden was in bad.

Thenceforward the baby was fed formula milk.

{Yeahwrite Fiction 401}

The Wheel of Time

(Photo:© Matthew Kennedy, Google Maps)

The jobless Jack was a veteran job-hunter. Living in the shelter home with his dog, Spider, was awful.

Summer was approaching, and he wanted to vacate the shelter home.

He scanned every piece of paper for job ads.

On a day, while standing idly in front of a bar expecting a coke offer, a torn away paper lying on the roadside caught his eyes.

 
He skimmed through it but noted nothing interesting until he was about to throw it away.
On the torn corner was the call for a fire lookout at Big Sky, Montana.

He sensed a skipped heartbeat.

 Definitely not for it is a seasonal offer that wouldn’t fetch much.

But the reminder of his past self,  a twenty-year-old man, who took money out of grandpa’s pocket to take his girlfriend to the fire lookout at Garnet Mountain, just to gaze the stars at night.

{What Pegman Saw: Garnet Mountain Fire Lookout, Big Sky, Montana}

Monsters at the end of the field

three line tales, week 150: a house peeking through
Photo by Jan Genge via Unsplash

The building at the end of the vast farmland was kept out of sight by the monstrous structures, which terrified me.

The view of enormous fields growing healthy maize that produce bumper yield was amazing.

The knowledge that those gigantic things were nothing but silos, which gathered grains, produced silage, and remained as signs of abundance, gave me comfort. 

 

{Written for Three Line Tales, Week 150}

Memory in the backyard

 

Eighteen year old Andrew was familiar with the upright stone concealed in their bushy backyard, which read “Erected by Cora Kingston in memory of John Yendow.

Everyone in the family was apathetic to his questions on Cora and John.

After many interrogations with the elderly people of the family and the locality, Andrew understood John was one of his forefathers, a spice merchant.

Traces of yellowish parchments in the underground garage, during his thirteen-day investigation, presented him insights.

His forefather was a spy in disguise, who fell in love with a fellow spy Cora, a poetess for the public.

Word Count :99

{Written for Carrotranch December 13: Flash Fiction Challenge}

The Invite

image

Photo Credit: Sunday Photo Fiction

 

“To Mom and Dad…”

Harley started reading his sole son’s much awaited letter.

The phone communications always  ended abruptly on account of “urgent work”.

 “Martha, does our son love us anymore?

Harley’s voice sounded tired while calling out.

“I can’t even see a ‘dear’ expression in his note.

Martha beheld him silently. 

“…We are busy…” 78 years old Harley sighed.

We purchased ourselves a new home at Portland.” 

“Wow!” Harley was seen smiling.

“It’s superbly cosyfully equipped 4 bedroom home, the type our place has ne’er seen. 

“Martha, did  our son really write this? Does he think Seattle is a behindhand place? Between, he hasn’t even asked about us so far.”

“He might be busy, might have scribbled  it in the middle of  work or sleep…For all that,  he wrote us,  right?” There was a comforting tone in her words.

“Hmmm….see, he has left us the address, but no phone number…Our son says

Harley read aloud.

….You are welcome to come over any time. “

Harley and Martha exchanged looks. 

Silence prevailed.

Twelve days later they were seen arriving at the Seattle airport for next flight to Portland.

~~~~

(Word count :189)

(Sunday Photo Fiction – December 9, 2018}

The Wait

(Photo prompt  by Jodi McKinney)

The brief days of the winter made the dusk darker than ever.

The old woman became restless when the clock showed 6.25 pm.

Her grandson was supposed to join her by 5 pm. 

He wanted to enjoy his holidays with grandma at her solitary house in the isolated village.

With each passing minute her heart became heavier.

All the worst fears crossed her mind.

What if the bus, the only conveyance to the village, has broken down?

She was terrified thinking about the hair pin curves to be covered even without a street light?

Her thoughts were disturbed by a shrill sound from away.

At a distance she could see two balls of fire approaching.
Oh, just the front lights of the bus!

It slowed down at a distance, and a boy was seen alighting.
After moments, she was hugging his grandson, like her biggest treasure.

{Written for FFfAW Challenge – 195th}