Posted in Flash Fiction

Progeny of Wings

In response to the Flash Fiction Challenge presented by Jane & Jeren, a short folk tale about left-behind wings.



The heavy-breasted mammatus clouds drifted over suburbia, sagging low in their nurturing way, all grey and worrisome, but the people were so glad the hateful storm had passed that no one noticed the seeds dropping; Dandelion Yellows, Pinkist Clover, Purple-Spike Thistle, cast over the carefully manicured lawns.  No one noticed, at least until the next morning when the weeds began to spring forth with all the joy and vigor infused in their happy little petals by the sensuousness of the sky the night before. Squinting in the first glaring light of morning, Mandevilla backed out of her garage and a mask of sour-milk face leapt instinctively from the center of her brunette head.  They must go, those invasive weeds!  Just one more thing on her Eradicate-This! list for the day.  She slammed her sunglasses on her face and machine-gunned the red SUV toward the highway.  A giggle slipped from the garage in the corner where windshield washer fluid, weed killer and bleach stood in neatly aligned bottles.  Bougainvillea stood still in the ceramic pot along the sidewalk, witness to it all.  As the sun rose higher a breeze came too and she willed her dainty petals of melon softness to fall and blow, like summer drifting snow, across the drive and into the grass.  Oh, the tales of woe they told to the Dandelion Yellows, who sprang forth in white seeds of indignation, whispering in song to the Pinkist Clover who shared the sad news with the Purple-Spike Thistle.  Each joined in the singing with Bougainvillea’s blossoms, propagating seeds, crying out to the mother mammatus, now blown far away, sweet tears shed for a life-time as they swirled and twirled in the breath of the afternoon.  The wings on which they had flown the night before left behind to scatter their progeny across those perfected lawns.

© Jilly’s Silly bit o’ fiction.

Posted in Flash Fiction, Photos

Farewell to Solstice

There was death for the asking in the sweet, saturated air, catalpas in flower and green garden hair of wisteria. Baskets hanging heavy with Love Lies Bleeding, strangling tendrils enfolding themselves around mold and moss covered pillars.  Humid and dank, the air grew headier with each step, the door disappearing in the bottle green light.  A pandemonium sky, clouds sprinting frenetically overhead, but in the garden all was hushed, save for the wasp bouncing against the window, stabbing at the sun, grabbing for the grass, the trees.  This was her dominion; chipped clay pots, bins of compost, decayed to perfection, seedling trays, and toads finding refuge under darkened benches.

Sad, she shot summer until bitter autumn, clothed in rags and finery moved in and set up light housekeeping in her core. The Maples, wretched and angry, reached into her eyes and yanked tears to water their dry and dusty roots, purple veined leaves mirroring the lingering welt on her throat. “If I live like that storm,” she whispered in her evening of despondency, “I will become unvarnished wood.”  She reached for the rotting bench to steady her weakness and longing.  As night fell, she wrapped a wool cloak around her shoulders and walked the stony avenue to his grave and danced lightly upon it in the moonless dark and returning late, she only knew it was raining by the pock marks on the lake.

© Jilly’s 2016

Posted in Flash Fiction

Lila, Liquid Lila

I am a desert.

Lila, liquid Lila.  Everything is drawn to water; the long-horn cattle in the heat of the day wade in the shallows to cool and chase away the biting flies, the egret, blazingly white, sifting the grasses for oysters, backward-knee deep, the lightning of the vibrant storm.  Everything is attracted to water.

I am a desert. No waves, no wake. I am like a leprosy; something to be avoided.  Avert your eyes, which is easy to do, when Lila is in the room.

There is always the ‘pretty one’ in twins.  Lila.

She was stunned when I wanted to live on my own that 2nd year of college.  “You aren’t pledging?” Lila was born to be a sorority girl.  I was born to be a desert; dusty, leaden, prosaic.  And so I took that studio apartment south of campus and adopted a cat named Cloe who clawed my furniture into submission and peed in my dirty laundry. I tried to be more.  The smart girls in Women’s Studies casually discussed the benefits of sleeping nude.  It should be so easy when you live alone.  Slipping off my floor-length flower infused nightgown, I moved quickly from the light switch to the too-cold sheets.  Foreign and uncomfortable in my own skin, should only be this naked in the shower for 10 minutes each morning, pulling the covers under my chin, staring into the semi-darkness.  Bang! Bang! Bang! Someone pounding on my door!  Sprinting for my nightgown and robe, I closed my naked self in the darkness of my closet, crossing the doors closed, praying and promising God I would never do something so bad ever again.  Scrambling into clothes, I put on as many of them as I possibly could, while the pounding subsided.  Not my door. The door across the hall.  I slept in my jeans, socks, slippers, t-shirt and hoodie.  I am a desert.  I am a leprosy.

While I sit, wiping stupid tears on the cramped floor of the closet, I click on the light and slide out the 3-doll case with the iconic fashion form on the front.  Thumbing the clasp, opening like a favorite book, there we are; Lila on the right, me in the middle, Max on the left.  It’s so easy to have twin dolls, just buy two of them.  The Lila doll had been hers, abandoned, and relegated to a distant childhood by the woman she is becoming.  I brought Lila with me in my purse after Thanksgiving break, making sure that I stayed between her and Max in the case.  The problem is that she is just as beautiful and charming as ever.  The clothes are part of it.  I pull a tattered, brown sock from my cat-peed laundry basket.  Perfect sock, it has no mate, lost the other one, don’t know where.  Brown and sand horizontal stripes.  Lila never wears horizontal stripes, ‘makes you look fat;’ she always knows these fashion things. Using curved bladed scissors from my craft box, I cut arm holes and a neck opening in the sock; ugly dress for Lila.  Max does not blink, just gazes serenely in thought.  Sigh. Scissors again, her blonde hair tastelessly hacked, sticking out at odd angles. Ugly dress, ugly hair, Max shifts his eyes for just the slightest moment, a flash of derision blows across his face, a wisp of sand across the desert floor and gone. Ultra-fine point permanent markers supply dark circles under Lila’s eyes and wash out her lips.  ‘Look, Max, she is ugly, isn’t she?’ He nods agreement, a curl of the lip.  Still, I stay between them, just to protect him from her charismatic pull.  Max always was so weak.  I put the backless, high-fashion silver dress on the Me doll and turn Max’s head to face me before closing the case and slipping it behind my baby-pink dresser, hidden in my magic closet.

© Jilly’s 2016

Based on Writing Prompt #1  
 "I am like a leprosy." ~John Steinbeck from The Pearl


Posted in Flash Fiction

Geraniums Grew Among the Weeds

He wore a mask over his mouth, his nose, strings looping over each ear that couldn’t hide the quiet desperation in his soul, could not filter out ash and dust, not the burned-over fields of radish, of asparagus, of peppermint.  The image of the calf, dead in the river bed, flashed across his eyes again as he approached the foundational remains, concrete that looked like that pan of brownies, forgotten in the oven until the screeching smoke-detector served as the un-set kitchen timer.  Burned-brownie cement.  A hollow, howling wind raced over the blackened landscape where, a year before, geraniums had grown among the weeds.  Her image winked into view, bitter as the taste of wet creosote that burned his nostrils, in spite of the humidity in the mask.  How she hated the weeds; they represented all that was disorderly in her neglected childhood.  Each thistle that she pulled was a victory over the stench of unwashed clothes and dirty dishes piled, days old, in the sink. His eyes swept the remains of their carefully tended yard, crumpled shards of pottery and their melted life in this pioneer land.  The sweat of their combined struggles trickled down his temples in spite of the cool March breeze.  He could not, refused to shiver in the face of the finality of all that he beheld.  Like looking through a view-finder, it wasn’t his, it wasn’t real; only a documentary film of someone else’s misfortune.  His ears strained for the sound of the neighbor’s dog, that incessant bark that drove him wild, now silent, like her voice.  He turned and walked the road back.