FF – What Dreams May Come

Well, last week’s story seems to have cased more confusion than fun … including for me; I have literally no idea what some of you read there, because your comments most definitely didn’t correspond to what I meant. But this isn’t a complaint; I love seeing how my writing acts on people in unexpected ways!

This week hopefully less subtle, but I await your comments as ever! Thank you for Rochelle for prompt and leadership.

What Dreams May Come

Mick had dreamed of boys playing on his old swing set and climbing the fruit trees. One after the other, his boys came and went, two before they took breath, another without taking a step. He grieved as much for the dream as the babies, although he’d never admit that to Brenda.

Then the real kicker: twin girls, and all the children they could afford.

Mick took down the swings and built a pink playhouse under the apples. It rested unused until one day Mick noticed Sally stretching up from the roof and Ellie perched above her on a branch.

FF – Release

Thanks to Rochelle’s leadership and Luther Siler’s bizarre photograph, here we are again pretending it’s Friday on a Wednesday. I’m part of the concrit subgroup and your feedback is always welcome whether you are or not.

Release

Elsa pulled at strings and tassels, marvelling at how so little could take so long to remove. Then she showered until the water ran cold.
Her eye fell on the Mail as she dried her hair: “Sex Sells – former prostitutes’ stories”.
She considered reading it, but instead flicked to the entertainment section. There she was: the cartoon princess who’d stolen Elsa’s name and the last shreds of her self-respect.
“Sing for us, Auntie Elsa,” the girls had said after that stupid movie came out.
Elsa threw the paper into the fireplace and did her best to let it go.

FF – Retards

I haven’t really got time to join in F this week, but I’ve been away a couple of weeks and I miss it, so here’s my (slightly rushed) response to the prompt. I would love your feedback and I will make sure I get to a few other stories over the course of the week.

Thanks to Roger Bultot for the picture. If you’re wondering how it links to the photo, the fear that many of the stories would prominently feature the door thing in the centre as a tardis or portal sent me spinning off into a daydream about reading the same old thing over and over again, which in turn led me onto a political path about history repeating itself as the UK government prepares to plunge into yet another military intervention of questionable merit, which all led me to Chrissie, and her mother, and eventually Simon. I’m not looking for political discourse; I’m just giving you the short version of what Roger’s intriguing photo has to do with this story.

I am aware that the title and the use of this word in the story could upset some people. I hope you will read to the end for Chrissie’s (and therefore the author’s) justification for its use.

Retards

“Oh pur-lease,” sighed Chrissie.
“What?”
“That,” My daughter indicated something on her phone and I pondered the return of single word + pointing. Thirteen years ago, I was desperate for her to speak in sentences and she did. Until recently. “Retards.”
“Chrissie!” I warned, relieved that her brother was upstairs.
“Proper ones, Mum. No condition, no excuse, just idiots.”
“I’d still rather you didn’t use that word.”
She saw my glance at the ceiling. “Simon’s not a retard, Mum. His brain didn’t develop like theirs and he’s still smarter. They should be pleased to be compared to my big brother.”