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A Pearl of Great Price

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PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

{This is in response to a photo prompt from Friday Fictioneers, run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  The task is to write 100 words, inspired by the prompt.  Thanks for the prompt and thanks for reading about my proverbial Pearl.}

 

“Magnificent!” Pearl whispered, resting her head on Owen’s shoulder.

Above the winding deck of Chez Louis, a rainbow string of umbrellas hung, suspended, protecting guests from Seattle’s mist.

“Farm to table!  How did you know?  I’ve always wanted to do this!”

Owen made it his business, to know what Pearl wanted.  Often, before she knew.

Their picnic table was white-draped and seasonally decorated.

Silk purse.  Sow’s ear.

Waving off the waiter–wine could wait– Owen pushed a small box toward Pearl.

“Owen Parker Jamison!  You didn’t!”

Owen, sheepish:  “A diamond for my Pearl.”

Clasping hands.

“Something else I’ve always wanted.”

The Little Match Bear

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Copyright Pixabay, courtesy of Michael Jackson

{This is in response to a prompt from Tuesday Scribes, run by Michael Jackson.  The task is to write a 100-word “fractured fairy tale”, that is, a familiar fairy tale, turned upside down and inside out. 

Mine plays upon “The Little Match Girl,” by Hans Christian Andersen, in which a poverty-stricken girl, trying to sell matches on the street in the dead of winter, is ignored by passers-by .  Having nowhere to go, she continues to stand out in the cold, and tries to keep herself warm, by lighting each match in turn, and having visions, until her soul is carried off to Heaven by a vision of her grandmother, while her body freezes to death.   Mine is but a pale imitation and invocation, of the work of a master.}

 

The shabby room echoed with emptiness.   Outside, and through the cracks around the window, a cold wind blew.

Propped up, facing the mirror, Theodore sat.  He wore a most serious expression.  As the chill and draft penetrated his matted, golden fur, he contemplated the purple bow around his neck.

His very last bow.

All up and down the promenade, below, people paraded.  Engrossed in Yuletide window-shopping.  Lost in their own worlds.

No one looked up to his window.  No one offered to help him decide.

Brow furrowed, the stuffed bear thought.

“I can’t decide!” he chattered, shivering.

“Does it match?”

 

 

Fort Patience

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Photograph of Fort Patience from the 1890’s, found at a  Wikiwand article on Fort Patience, Ghana, West Africa

{This is in response to What Pegman Saw, a weekly prompt challenge.  The task is to write 150 words about the area indicated on Google Maps street view.  In this case, our destination is Bamboi, Ghana, in West Africa.  But I went a little further afield, exploring Ghana, in general, and its colonial years, under Dutch and British rule. And whatever else was going on, in the world, at the time [1697-1782.]  I came upon this aptly-named fort, and composed the following. }

 

Just a small fort.

A stone trading lodge, at first.  Barely a two-story house.

Then, the Dutch West India Company agreed to fortify it.  Helping the King of Acron: pinned in, flanked on either side, by British forts.

In those heady days of trading–gold and ivory, yes, and slaves–you’d think the Dutch would have been more willing to part with their coin.

Instead, we waited.

Five long years.

Eighty more, and the British took over.  Ours was one fort, out of many.

Shirley’s Leander, with fifty guns, easily overcame our twenty.  His sloop, the Alligator, had nearly that many, on board!

Meanwhile, back in Amsterdam, a pudgy man, named Adams, cajoled the Dutch to recognize his new-born, New World state.

The Dutch took their time.

Yet, consider our brothers, chained and bound for newly-recognized shores.  Who could fathom their long wait, to once again, be recognized as men?

 

 

The Black Forest

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PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

 

{This is in response to a photo prompt from Friday Fictioneers, run by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.    I went a bit over: 17 words over, to be precise.  The rhyme scheme made it difficult to cut much, without losing something crucial,  Hope you will forgive me this once.  🙂

A few words may need explaining:  Fraktur is a typeface used in printed books in German from the 1500’s to the  1940’s.  The link above has a fascinating history of the typeface, including a mention that Hitler actually outlawed the typeface in 1941, but it nevertheless continued to be used.  So, ironically, after WWII, it was almost exclusively associated with the Third Reich. 

The name Struwwelpeter may not be familiar to those of you without German ancestry.  It was an 1845 illustrated book of morality tales, in the form of poems, by Heinrich Hoffmann.  The link above is to a Wikipedia page on it, which includes the classic picture of Struwwelpeter.  The book was read to young children to prevent them from doing naughty things, which, in these poems, invariably brings the young hellions to  a very bad end.  Not exactly happily- ever-after stuff.

Thank you for the prompt and as always, for reading. }

 

With Hansel and Gretel

And Red Riding Hood,

Who else remains hidden,

In this lone wood?

 

In hectares of darkness,

For decades of age,

What grim tales in Fraktur

Appear on the page?

 

There’s wolves in these shadows.

There’s witches and trolls.

And one Rumpelstiltskin

Trades babies for gold.

 

And wild Struwwelpeter,

With tangles and claws,

Will cut off your thumbkins,

And burn down your house!

 

These fables, obnoxious

To delicate ears:

Why listen, when, noxious,

They play on our fears?

 

What right have they,

Stirring our anger and dread,

When all that we want

Is our warm, cozy bed?

 

Once, Hamelin’s rat catcher

Piped kids to the bay.

What fairy tales should we

Be telling, today?

 

 

Copyright 2018 Andrea LeDew