Wreckage

There was recently a rather large storm in my area, which took out a lot of trees, and a few houses, which is what inspired this weeks response to the Friday Picture Prompt Challenge on the Writer’s Mess. That and apparently a preoccupation about getting what you deserve, that will return again later in the week. This is the story of a woman whose life has fallen apart, but in the end things might not be quite so bad as she thought.


She sat in the car, in the pouring rain, looked out at the remains of her house and started to laugh. Wasn’t just the perfect representation of her life right now?

Her husband of 15 years had left her, having knocked up the secretary, and he had the gall to blame her for it.

He had tried to claim infidelity on her part, and that was what had hit her the hardest. She had always thought that he understood what he was signing up for when he married an openly ace woman, but it turned out he was just waiting for her to change her mind.

When she hadn’t, he assumed that she she was seeing someone else, and that it was only fair that he get his own action. He said he wanted kids that were actually his, and not her lover, and the blows kept raining down.

He said he knew that she would want kids eventually, and had completely ignored her warnings that she had no intention of reproducing. She had finished out the day staring across the room at a stranger, and let him win.

She signed away the house, she got her stuff, some money, and her dahlia’s from the front garden. As she sat there staring at the wreckage from the storm, that used to be their house, she couldn’t help but laugh.

The only thing untouched, her front garden, where a single red dahlia bloomed. It seemed she had won after all.

Suspicion

So this one is from the prompt “A man walked into a bar” and the image below. It is the answer to a few prompts, and a story idea that has been bouncing around in my head for a while now. You watch TV, and people can’t remember an event and people tell them the story, and they just accept it, but what if you can’t. What if it feels like there is more to the story than you are being told?


There comes a moment where you feel like your life is a joke, and it feels like the ultimate punchline then when your story starts “A man walked into a bar”.

It’s kind of where my life fell apart actually, before that everything was great. I was probably the most boring guy on the planet. I had a 9-5 job in middle management, that I don’t want to bore you with the details of, a lovely husband, Dylan, a nice little one bedroom apartment that we could only afford because of rent control, and a tiny dog named Lucy.

Then I walked into a bar, a literal bar, like ouch, he should have seen it bar, and everything changed. I don’t remember the bar, all I remember from that day is a picture of of an umbrella tree, I don’t even know where it was, and then nothing.

I wanted to brush is off, but when Dylan told the story, the smile never matched the look in his eyes, and it gave me the tiniest niggling doubt of what had really happened.

I pulled away little by little, and he let me. Six months after the accident we were divorced, and 12 years of marriage effectively ended the day I walked into a bar, or the day they say I did.

Now here I am, sitting in a bar, divorced, homeless, dogless, telling a complete stranger how my marriage fell apart, like a complete schmuck. How’s that for a punchline?

In Good Company

This is for The Writer’s Mess Weekly Friday Picture Prompt Challenge, based on the picture below, and that the last prompt for the The Writer’s Mess Poetic June, where we are doing Haiku poetry. Oh, and of course Pride Month!


Kennedy sat on the bus that was taking her from the only home she had ever known, and while she should be anxious, all she felt was relief.

She wasn’t sure if she really wanted to be a lawyer, but she knew that she had to get out of that town, and a full ride for the pre-law program on the other side of the country was her best chance of leaving.

She could never be herself back in that place, it was too small, too stifling, and there were too many eyes watching her every move, preventing her from being who she wanted, no who she needed to be.

Twelve hours later she had arrived, stepping off the bus with a smile, as she looked up at the glowing sign that let her know that she had made the right choice.

Inspired she pulled a notebook from her bag, and jotted down the poem that came to mind, the first in this place, but definitely not the last.

A light in the dark

Seven colors shining bright

You are not alone

Forget-Me-Not

Sorry for the delay, I thought I had scheduled this for release….but apparently not. The response to this weeks six-sentence story prompt and a continuation of last weeks story, this was written for the word prompt of CANVAS. I worked it a few times, but it still isn’t quite what I wanted. Tell me what you think?


She hadn’t lost hope, but it was starting to stretch a little, wear thin in places, as she had given her book to a contact heading to the city a month prior, and she hadn’t heard a word since.

She feared the worst had come to pass, not that the book had been seized, or hadn’t made it’s way to the clothier, or even that someone else had bought the fated garment, but that Elsa had not received her message, because Elsa was no longer alive to receive it.

It was improbable, as Elsa was quite well placed due to her family and job, but in these times it was alway a possibility, one far more likely than Elsa getting her message and choosing to ignore it, or of course, having moved on from a wretch like her.

It was another six weeks before the courier arrived again, and Jocelyn’s heart sank when the bag of ill gotten goods was finally emptied and not a single thing had come her way. She turned to leave, drown her sorrows in the near lethal rotgut that passed for a drink here, but before she made it to the door she was stopped by a hand on her arm, and was confused as the couriers empty bag was pushed into her hands.

Jocelyn’s heart leapt as she rushed back to her room with her prize, which she had to turn almost inside out before she found it, the small scrap of canvas bearing an oil painting of a pair of forget-me-nots, done in Elsa’s style, and she began to weep with the relief of it, Elsa still loved her.


Part 1