“Tom! I thought I told you to do your homework? Give me those. Now!”
Tom moaned, handing Theresa his headphones together with his smartphone. Ignoring him, she returned to the kitchen. She was rushing to prepare dinner with minced meat that wasn’t fully defrosted yet.
She must have touched the screen by mistake because it started to play a song. The familiar lilts and mournful notes made her breath catch in her throat. Yet it was all wrong. The artist didn’t know how to capture the emotion in the song.
She would know. She wrote it. Ten years ago.
As soon as I saw the image I heard the song in my head. I sang Killing me softly at my school concert too – the Roberta Flack version. Embarassingly, I’d been singing it since before the Fugees version thanks to my mom’s karoake videos, which I hoarded. So of course, I had to write this story.
UPDATE 23 May 2020: When I wrote the story I had no idea of the true origins of the song. A youtube recommendation today revealed to me that Lori Lieberman wrote a poem about the way she felt at a Don McLean concert. The poem became lyrics to the song Killing Me Softly made popular by Roberta Flack. Lieberman was cheated out of the royalties. In my story, Theresa is taken aback hearing a song she wrote years ago being sung by someone else. In my imagination, she too was cheated out of the rights of the song that was close to her heart. Knowing Lieberman’s true story (and it being goosebumping-ly close to my flash fiction) I really wanted to credit her as the original artist and lyricist of the enduring song.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Click the frog to submit your flash fiction and read others’ stories too.
Every day people came to his stall, picked out their vegetables and went on their way. From their purchases, he could surmise dozens of dinner table spreads. Beef stew, tomato bredie, potato bake. Why else would one person buy a bag of potatoes two days in a row?
Local culinary tastes weren’t the only thing he noted. Gossip proved juicier than any of his wares. His trained ear weeded out keywords. Names were particularly valuable. He never tired of figuring out daily habits, work routes or any decipherable pattern that might prove insightful later on in the investigation.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The challenge is to write a story in 100 words or less. Click the blue frog to submit your flash fiction and read others’.
Ameeruddin didn’t like movies. Newspapers, religious and political chatter entertained him enough. For Aisha, wash day blues took on a jealousy-fueled meaning when she discovered the ticket stubs in his jean’s pocket. Double tickets.
At dinner she suggested they go to watch the very same movie. He declined, feigning distinterest in superhero nonsense. “Besides, I’d rather take you to a romantic dinner at The Moghul.”
She smiled. Received his kiss. And later, cocooned in his post-coital embrace, willingly cast aside the mysterious movie companion in favour of hope and affection that was far easier for her tired heart to grasp.
Written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted by the inspiring Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit to the link below and join this fun community of writers.
As soon as Amy Leigh saw the blindfold, she panicked. Voices collided around her and those tiny bells reverberated in her ear. Yet she allowed her teenage children to tie it around her head. They didn’t mean any harm. She tried focusing on the celebratory voices around her. But all she could hear was his voice. Husky. With bruised lust. Her jaw ached from gritting her teeth against the blood rushing through her body.
Finally, it loosened. Bright sunlight pierced her eyes. She blinked hard and found herself sat in front of a homemade chocolate cake.
“Happy Birthday, Mum!”
I have not been on the blogging scene for a few weeks. One of those times where life takes you for a spin in its new G-force machine. Looking forward to reconnecting with you all this week!
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit to the link below and join in the literary fun.
The waves crashed over one another, sounding like the distant rumbling roars of fifty lions. Boikanyo had never seen the sea.
“Bring me back some sea water in a bottle.” instructed his mother as she put him on the bus filled with his classmates. He barely heard her above the excited chatter.
Now, the teachers encouraged the children to sit in the shallows. Braver ones practiced their swimming strokes in deeper water. He inched closer to the water and yelped at the cold as it lapped over his feet. He couldn’t remember feeling so exhilarated ever before.
Having spent some of my childhood in a seaside town, I take it for granted that many people have never seen the sea. Sometimes cross-border school trips are the first encounters with the sea that children from landlocked countries such as Botswana, experience. Many first-timers say that it is the seemingly endless nature of the sea that captivates them. The way it seems to stretch on further than they can see. And I have to agree. More than any other body of water, the sea has a magic and a call like no other.
It is a popular belief that sea water cures many ailments. Often people collect it bottles to take back home.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Join in by cicking the frog below!
He came to escape. Refresh. Clear his mind. Where better than a lodge out in the Botswana bush? Archer checked his phone for the fiftieth time. Only her screen-lock picture smiled back at him.
Outside, a masked weaver bird worked diligently on his nest. A female fluttered by and slipped inside the hanging nest. Archer knew if she liked it she would stay. Within seconds she popped out and flew off. Just like that. No warning. No goodbye. Leaving the weaver bird staring after her wondering what he did wrong.
“Chin up, buddy. The right one will stay.”
The prompt reminded me of the bright yellow weaver birds that are prominent in Botswana. There’s one that tears the leaves off of my palm tree into thin strips to weave his nest. They are such clever little things.
Honestly, I’m not sure if the females inspect the nest to their liking. Some bird species in the world build elaborate nests, complete with fancy bottle caps or shiny pieces of litter, and the female arrives to inspect it all. If she approves she simply settles right in. If not, she continues on her way.
“Remember this place?” Andy said, spreading his arms out over the cobblestone streets.
Delilah marveled at his crinkle-free eyes. As hazel as the day they met forty years ago. A pair of women in strappy dresses smiled brazenly at Andy. Boldly flirtatious. So different from her day. She wasn’t mad. They assumed she was his mother. How were they to know Andy stopped aging at twenty-five?
Miraculous, the doctors had said.
“How could I forget? This is where we first met.”
“You mean when you almost bumped me over with your scooter!” Together they laughed, eyes shining and hearts fluttering.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Join the group and submit your story through the link below.