Unnoticed by those around her, Julie escaped quietly out the window and soared high above the trees to a place where time and space mean nothing, and everything that can be imagined becomes real.
“Julie!” The shrill voice of Mrs. Thompson startled Julie in her reverie and commanded that she return to occupancy of her body sitting in the Fourth Grade classroom.
She really didn’t mean to be inattentive, but it was all so dull and repetitious compared to the wonders that awaited her in that other realm. If only she could fly away and never return; but Julie knew that she would have to endure captivity in her physical form until it was at last her appointed time to be set free.
“I just don’t know what we are going to do with your daughter, Mrs. Brown, Julie is always daydreaming in class; it doesn’t seem like she hears anything I say, and yet somehow she always manages to know the answers.”
This has been a Six Sentence Story, written for Denise’s blog hop at GirlieOnTheEdge. The prompt word we needed to use this week was “escape.” Click on the link to read some other great stories, and maybe add one of your own!
“I’m sorry Ma’am, but you can’t just come in here and demand that we remove your husband from your home; there is a process for filing complaints, and we have to follow the proper procedures.”
Exasperated and near tears, the disheveled woman stared at the officer in disbelief and shouted “You’re telling me that I can’t have him thrown out if I don’t want to live with him anymore?”
“There has to be just cause, Ma’am; he owns the house too, and he has the right to reside there unless he’s causing some kind of unlawful disturbance.”
“But he is causing a disturbance, Officer, he’s fussing and fuming and says that either our cats have to go or he goes… and I’m not getting rid of my cats!!!”
“How many cats do you have, Ma’am?”
“Only a dozen, thirteen would be unlucky you know; never-mind, I’ll take care of him myself!”
This has been a Six Sentence Story, written for Denise’s blog hop at GirlieOnTheEdge. The prompt word we needed to use this week was “process.” Click on the link to read some other great stories, and maybe add one of your own!
“I asked you to do one thing, just one simple thing, and you screwed it up,” Jamie’s mother scolded her, standing with her hands on her hips and glowering. “All you had to do was take the loaf of warm banana bread over to Mr. Brown across the street. But no, missy, you couldn’t ring the doorbell and wait for him; you just set it on the porch and ran, and his dog found it before he did.”
Nine-year-old Jamie looked sadly at her feet, trembling and holding back tears. She mumbled a feeble apology, but couldn’t explain to her angry mother why it was that she didn’t want to see Mr. Brown or be asked to come inside his house. Mr. Brown had made it very clear that she was never to tell anyone.
This has been a Six Sentence Story, written for Denise’s blog hop at GirlieOnTheEdge. The prompt word we needed to use this week was “simple.” Click on the link to read some other great stories, and maybe add one of your own!
Seventy-five days of confinement didn’t seem that long in retrospect, but for her it had felt like an eternity of not knowing when, or if, release would come.
It hadn’t taken her long to learn how to play the game, spout the psychobabble required for freedom; the risks of rebellion were incredibly high. She’d seen what happened to those who dared to argue the course of their treatment plan, shock-therapy was still popular in those days.
Paste on a smile, say all is well, agree to every parental desire; nod in pretended understanding of the imported therapist whose command of English was barely enough for basic communication; and whatever you do, don’t be real, don’t tell them how you really think or feel. Bide your time.
Better at their game than they were, her strategy worked, and on the 75th day she won her freedom; at last the healing that would take a lifetime could begin.
This has been a Six Sentence Story, written for Denise’s blog hop at GirlieOnTheEdge. The prompt word we needed to use this week was “release.” Click on the link to read some other great stories, and maybe add one of your own!
“Time’s up, let’s go!” stated the shadowy figure matter-of-factly as he loomed over George, who lay in bed trembling, startled to be awakened in the middle of the night by this intruder.
“But I can’t go now, I’m not ready yet,” George stuttered. “I need an extension or something… there’s so much I have to do!”
“You’ve had sixty years George, plenty of time to get your affairs in order.”
“But I always thought I’d have more time, you know… to get my life straightened out and make amends, and… and tell people I love them.”
“Everyone always thinks they’ll have more time George; sorry, bud, game over.”
This has been a Six Sentence Story, written for Denise’s blog hop at GirlieOnTheEdge. The prompt word we needed to use this week was “extension“. Click on the link to read some other great stories, and maybe add one of your own!
Another lunch hour delayed by my coworker who hadn’t returned on time and I was steaming; I was already required to take the last lunch break and my stomach was growling in accompaniment to my mounting agitation.
It was an everyday thing, she’d return from lunch five to ten minutes late, and then take another ten to fifteen minutes in the restroom before returning to her desk so I could leave; never an apology, no response to my request for more timely returns, and obviously no concern for my desire to eat lunch too.
Finally I’d had enough and approached my supervisor to request some assistance in having “Miss Thing” either trade lunch schedules with me or return to her desk at the scheduled time.
“Well you know that our boss requires Admin Assistants to be present from twelve to one o’clock so I can’t switch your schedules,” she said impatiently, “you’re just going to have to learn to be more flexible and not let it bother you.”
Payback time came when said supervisor was throwing a fit because the boss was requiring her to give up her large corner office for a new young attorney that he’d hired.
I couldn’t help myself; popping my head in her doorway I said with a sweet smile, “I guess you’re just going to have to learn to be more flexible.”
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where the cue this week is “flexible“
~Photograph by Garry Gay~
Sam watched her from behind the lace curtain of his window as she walked slowly by with her schnauzer each day, always stopping to take a look at his flower garden near the fence. He knew her as Agnes from the house at the end of the street, a widow whose husband had died a year or so ago. He could remember a time when her yard also bloomed with flowers, and she and her husband would sit out on their porch swing with the dog, greeting those who passed by.
She always seemed so sad now, never stopping to visit with anyone, just accompanying her dog on his daily walk, and then retreating back into the seclusion of her home; Sam had been a widower for almost five years now, and he knew loneliness of being single all too well.
On impulse one morning, he picked the most beautiful tulip from his garden, put it in a matching yellow vase, and set it outside her front door where she was sure to find it; he hoped it would brighten her day.
Little was he prepared for what greeted him when he went out to collect his newspaper that evening… there on his doorstep sat a fresh loaf of banana bread wrapped up in cellophane and tied with a yellow ribbon, with a small note attached that read simply “Thank You!”
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where the cue this week is “single“
He shoved her hard and she stumbled backward, nearly falling; standing inches from here face, he dared her to push him back. But she knew how quickly things would escalate, so she spoke to him in quiet tones as she always did to calm his raging fury, while deep inside her heart told her that he’d crossed the line and there could be no turning back; it was time to hatch a plan for her survival.
As soon as he left the house to set up for his band gig that night she began making calls, first to her daughter in a nearby state to ask if she could come and stay with her for awhile, then to her boss to ask for time off to take care of personal business.
Quickly she put her plan into action, packing a suitcase and stowing it in trunk of her car, and putting a few personal treasures in a box in the back of a closet under quilts where they would be safe if he started smashing things when he discovered she was gone.
She played it cool when he came home to shower and dress before returning to the club where he would be playing, pretending to read a book though the words escaped her; she knew she needed to wait until the gig began so she would have enough time to get many miles away.
No sooner was he gone than he was back for a piece of sound equipment he’d forgotten, and she trembled inside to realize how easily he might have caught her; as his tail lights disappeared once again into the darkness she left a note for him on the counter, tossed her cats into their carriers, and drove away into the night.
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where the cue this week is “hatch“
My mother was terrified of tornadoes; my sisters and I spent many stormy summer nights huddled with her under the laundry table in our basement as my father, refusing to be stirred, slept soundly in his bed.
She told a story of seeing the devastation left in a tornado’s wake as a young child on the South Dakota prairie. A big farmhouse down the road from theirs had one wall completely missing, as if it had been neatly sliced off with a butcher’s knife, furniture still in place on the opposite side of the open rooms, curtains still hanging in the windows.
I never thought to ask about the family who lived there, but now I can envision them, probably hunkered down in the root cellar hoping that the old wooden door would hold, hearing the roar like a freight rain above them and praying for their lives.
Imagine the terror of a little girl huddled there in the darkness with her brother and her parents in the deafening noise of the wind, things being torn apart, and debris being hurled against the cellar door.
An eerie silence follows, and they slowly climb the stairs and push aside the door to find an alien landscape – trees uprooted, barn flattened, smashed truck that had apparently been picked up and dropped beside what remained of the smokehouse, and their big two-story farmhouse sitting there with one side wide open like a dollhouse; nothing would ever be the same.
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where the cue this week is “wake“
I will spare you the actual images, you can search for them on Google if you want. I think that the above monument at the Dachau Concentration Camp Memorial Site speaks for itself; I don’t need to tell you what it represents.
In 1977, while living as a military family in what was then West Germany, we decided to tour the Dachau Concentration Camp; something we felt we needed to do. It left an impression that I will never forget as long as I live; the epitome of evil, the embodiment of man’s inhumanity to man.
While the grounds and remaining buildings, including the crematorium, have been sanitized and made presentable for public viewing, the horror of what happened there has not been whitewashed or lost.
The museum contains many haunting photos, but the ones that remain burned into my heart and mind are the piles of twisted limbs, emaciated corpses awaiting cremation… men, women, and children treated worse than any animal, their only “crime” being born a Jew.
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where the cue this week is “limb“