Our BetterMost Community > Creative Writer's Corner
The BM Non-BBM Drabble Party: Please Join In!
Cameron:
Marie,
Thanks,
I've been trying to do this, and M has joined me,
Hopefully, more will come here from time to time.
So glad you stopped by.
Marl
Cameron:
(Today's prompts: silk scarf, black and tan, profound)
The Silk Scarf
She touched the silk scarf. It was tan colored with black flowers. Her mother gave it to her today. She said “your old enough now, I want you to have this.” Rachel didn’t understand. It was just an old scarf. It might have once been pretty, but now it just looked old. It was threadbare and worn in places, and there were a few little holes. Some of the stitches on the hem had come undone. The threads were hanging.
Rachel held it in her hands, but she didn’t understand. “Why are you giving me this?” she had asked her mother. Couldn’t you have given me something new?” Her mother looked at her with an exasperated, tired face.
“Maybe this was a mistake” her mother said. But then the phone rang and she left the room. Rachel was left standing there with the old thing in her hands. It just never worked. No matter what ever she said or did, it always was wrong. Rachel held the scarf up to look. It must have been pretty when it was new. She put it around her shoulders. She tried to ignore the not so faint odor of the mothballs that it must have been kept in for a long, long time. She went over to the mirror. She took off her pony tail holder and she let her long shiny hair fall across the black flowers that were all over the scarf. She looked in the mirror. She took a deep breath. She turned from side to side. She kept looking in the mirror. It was somebody else looking back at her.
Her mother came back to her room. Rachel quickly pulled the scarf off and started to fold it up. But her mother took it from her. “I don’t know if you can understand. You probably can’t.”
Rachel wanted to say something profound. She always wanted to, but she never did. “Maybe I will understand” was all she was able to say.
Her mother held out the scarf. “It was your grandmother’s scarf. She got it from her mother for her sixteenth birthday. She used to say it was the only present she ever got in the old country.” Her mother hugged the scarf to herself. “It was all she had when they had to leave, the scarf and the dress she was wearing that day. You know she was the only one who ever made it here. She managed to keep this scarf.”
The phone rang again. Her mother put the scarf on the bed and hurried away. Rachel picked it up and carefully put around herself again. She went back to the mirror. She turned from side to side. This time she was not startled when she looked at the mirror. The face she saw was not her own. The face she saw was that of another sixteen year old girl looking back at her.
Lumière:
Waking up this thread with a dabble .. :)
Today's prompts:
71, jar, smolder
The Beggar’s Hand
Summer 1980
He dropped a few red cents into the dirty jar sitting between the beggar’s knees. He’d only walked a couple of meters when he turned around and looked back at the bearded old man. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt the burning urge to go back and talk to him.
“Pardon me .. sir?” he asked, watching as the old man slowly lifted his head. “You had something to eat today?” he asked, taking in the offensive odor emanating from the ragged clothing.
The bloodshot eyes held his for a moment. His heart leapt; he recognized something behind the cloudy blue eyes. The old man emptied the contents of his glass jar onto the cobblestone. He counted the coins, and then cleared his throat, “There ain’t much I can git for 71 cents, mister..” he mumbled.
There was no way he could walk away now. “I’ll get you a sandwich, wait here..”
“Ain’t going no where, mister..” he replied, scratching his scruffy beard.
He hurried over to the sandwich shop less than half a block away. Five minutes later, he returned to find the old man recounting his pennies.
“Here, I got you a roast beef sandwich and some coffee..” The tired eyes lit up for a brief moment. The old man reached out his hand to take the food; that’s when he saw the tattoo. He nearly dropped the large cup of hot coffee; his hands were shaking so badly. The old man started eagerly on his sandwich, now oblivious to everything else..
His hands were still trembling when he got home. A wave of nausea hit and he ran to the bathroom sink and parted with his lunch. It couldn’t be ... the odds were one in a billion ... Yet he’d seen something familiar in those blue eyes. He pulled off his shirt, lifted his left arm and looked at the numbers tattooed on the inner side of his own forearm. He’d thought him dead, gassed in Auschwitz with the others … Another wave of nausea gripped him and he retched; tears falling into the toilet bowl..
(~350 words)
Cameron:
M,
That was really special.
So glad that you are keeping this going,
I'll try to again, real soon.
Marl
Cameron:
It's been quite a while since I have done this, okay, I may as well try again...I guess.
Todays promts: cap and gown, alma mater, diploma.
The Graduation
She never got a high school diploma. She never wore a cap and gown and she never marched down the line. She never got to try to hold on to the cap, and throw it with all the others like so many birds taking flight.
She never got to count down to the big day, and sit there trying hard not to be bored. She never got to see everyone smile and wave. She never got to say goodbye one last time.
Whenever she reads about her alma mater she quickly turns the page, even all these years later. Not getting a high school diploma was usually a bad thing, but for her it was supposed to be good. It was because she was always so smart and so good and everyone said it was better to just go on ahead.
But even all these years later. she still regrets the day. There were other graduations and real diplomas, but it never was the same.
Navigation
[0] Message Index
[#] Next page
[*] Previous page
Go to full version