Tag Archive | fiction

The Purple Panties…Flash Fiction

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The frilly purple underwear fought the peg that held it to the clothesline as if in protest against being held down. Its vigorous flapping attracted the attention of several eyes’ – it was simply the prettiest thing in sight.

Casting second, third and fourth stealthy glances, imaginary thoughts of its softness encasing and caressing the skin was worth taking the risk.

With no one watching, in a quick flash of hands, the clothes pin was removed, but the gust of wind was faster and the flowery slip sailed over the fence and attached itself to the radio antenna of a van zooming past.

In dismay, he watched the van weave its way down the street with a purple slip of silk waving in mockery.

© 2018 Jacqueline

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The Mission…Flash Fiction

From the confines of the van, they watched as the embers spat, crackled and popped furiously.

‘Do you think they will ever find out?’ 

‘Except someone tells them and I expect you have no such plans,’ the veiled threat in Vladimir’s words barely concealed.

His pale blue eyes shone with satisfaction in the darkly lit van. The mission has been successful. All the evidence has either been eliminated or burnt to cinders.

‘Of course not,’ Helmut quickly replied. He pulled his cloak a bit tighter and took a long sip from a small bottle of Vodka,  the warmth of the fiery liquid unable to stop the frisson of chill he had within. He knew his days were numbered.

©

Jacqueline

Written in response to the FFAW photo prompt above. Thank you, Enisa for the photo and PJ for hosting. 

 

Tomorrow…

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Mama counted the coins carefully and tied them in the old handkerchief which she always tucked into her thick cotton half-slip hidden under several layers of wrapper to keep them safe.

I sprinkled water on the freshly harvested pepper and pumpkin leaves, arranging them in the basket; their luscious healthy colour would attract the eyes of good buyers.

With ease, mama balanced the basket on her head, her headscarf formed a cradle and she set off to Orie Ozuda; she would walk tirelessly for miles and that basket would stay put.

‘Nwamaka my daughter, I hope today’s market day will be a good one and if I sell all my goods, tomorrow I will buy you that shoe for running that you’ve been asking for.’

Thank you, mama,‘ I replied with happiness ringing in my voice. I imagined my feet encased in the white canvas and I could hear the voices of my schoolmates cheering me on as I raced to the finish line; they always say that I run like 440.

Tomorrow never came. Mama never made it back. Her crushed body was brought back to the compound with her coins still carefully tucked under her half-slip. Nwamadi’s 440 car killed mama. I never ran again.

© Jacqueline

Quick Glossary

Run like 440 – a term used to emphasize how fast she ran.

Orie Ozuda – a market day

Nwamaka – an Igbo name for a girl. It means beautiful child.

 

The Charlatan…

She is called many names; the wandering woman, mystery lady, the medicine woman, the mad woman of Katoke or the nuisance.

She always appeared in the neighbourhoods for a couple of weeks before the start of each season bearing numerous pots and bags of exotic plants. Each boiling pot served broths that cured various ailments and all that was required for any to work is faith.

Whenever she visited the poorer quarters, the inhabitant’s welcomed her presence. They would come bearing little gifts in exchange for helpings from her healing condiments, but the experience was the opposite at the more prestigious parts of town where the policing guards did their best to discourage the charlatan ‘as she was called.’

On various occasions, they ran her off the premises with a stern warning of arrest if she kept visiting but at dusk, these uppity members of high society went to the poor side of town to see her secretly.

© Jacqueline

Thank you Yarnspinner for the interesting photo prompt and PJ for hosting.

Running Empty…

The sparse cupboard with the solitary pack of Batchelor soup and canned beans stared back at him as if in mockery. His posh apartment was a sorry mess. Take out boxes and dirty mugs littered the kitchen and George wondered when his life had become so empty.

He was fatigued from months of insufficient sleep and taking work home; the promotion came with more responsibilities than anticipated. He was tired of eating out of paper boxes, he missed having a decent relationship with anyone and would have given a tooth for some helping of the curry flavourful dish that floated down the corridor from his married neighbours’ apartment; his tummy grumbled at the thought.

The ping of the microwave interrupted his thoughts and the cup of overflowing soup that looked more like lava made him swear. With a sigh of resignation, he picked up the phone to call Chinatown. The hum of voices and laughter from next door sharply reminded him that a robust bank balance did not make up for loneliness.

© Jacqueline

Thank you artycaptures for the photo-prompt and my lady P.J. our amiable hostess.

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Stretched Part 2 – Friday Fiction in Five Sentences

Church, Prayer, Story, Fiction

She was almost convinced that the Reverend’s sermon on giving up one’s sins was directed at her; a Church service had never left her literally feeling the heat of the brimstone.

Heaving a sigh of relief at the end of mass she rushed to the bus-stop and boarded the city bus back home, tussling in her mind whether to continue going to Church or to give it a break for a while.

As the bus wove its way through the city, the first message came in.

Beads of sweat popped out on her forehead, her heart accelerated and she developed an urgent need to use the toilet when she stared at the undeniable photo of her finagling money from the Church till.

Every hour that passed was a stab of fear; messages promptly came in from the unknown number at the turn of each hour.

Stretched Part 1

© Jacqueline