|Image courtesy of Digital Blasphemy|
Were you good this year? Did Santa bring you everything you wanted for Christmas? Was there one special gift you were hoping for? Write a little Flashy Fiction about whether you got that special gift or not, and, if not, why not.
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We named her Philomina. We called her Philly, she had a wild side. For all the years she lived with us, she never spoke a word. Though the docs we took her to said they could find no evidence of anything wrong with her vocal cords. She came to us at the farm one mild winter. And well, we just kept her. A swaddled little girl with a dirty face - she was wrapped up in old blankets barely moving but her wide eyes looked with a haunted longing. We guessed she was about five. But we were never quite sure. She could have been small for her age. The scrawled note just said; “Please take care of her.”
And we did. Until we just couldn’t anymore. It was because of that wild side. We couldn’t leave her alone. When we did, we would discover that things were destroyed. Not just married, but broken beyond repair. Nothing of real value. A book torn to shreds. Or a pillow emptied, all it’s feathers - each piece of down removed from the quill. We all blamed her broken heart. We thought we could repair her soul. And she did whatever she was told without complaint. Did her chores. Sat in on our home school lessons. But Ma just couldn’t be everywhere at once with all of us, and everything that needed to be done around a farm.
Pa regretfully called Social Services one afternoon when the rest of us were a few farmsteads over watching the birthing of a calf. I’m not sure what he ever did tell them. But after ten years of trying we collectively felt we couldn’t do any more. So that year two days after Thanksgiving, a big black car came up our drive. A man and a woman came to the door and Pa took Philly by the hand, Ma went up to collect some of the clothes and a cloth doll and put them in a store bag that had cord string handles. Pa took the bag in his other hand. While some of us had a few tears leak from our eyes, no one spoke. Out the door Pa and Philly went. The lady took Philly’s hand and sat in the back seat. The man got in the front, started the car, turned it around, drove down the drive and out of sight. And that was that.
I wonder from time to time if Philly might be in a padded room somewhere. Did she ever get what she wanted, for any day of her life...much less Christmas?
Perhaps not exactly what was expected. But sometimes prompts take you places you didn't think you'd be going.
Wow! I'm not really sure what to say. Powerful. It is surely amazing how stories often need us only as the means to tap the words out on the keyboard or put pen to paper.Delete
It is I who must thank you. I continued this bit of Flash into two more pieces of Fiction and they are;
Absent (for Dec 28) and Obsession (for Dec 29)
in the comment sections for those days here at FF. I'm really more of a poet...just started playing here at Flashy Fiction. But then I am writing a continuing verse story for The Sunday Whirl using word lists...that's over 30 pages which if you ever have time to gander is located now at:
Really? And you think mine is amazing? Well done, well done! And I agree Rob, sometimes i look back on what I wrote few days later and think, 'Wait-what?! A 13 year old girl wrote ths?!"Delete
"But Mother, please?" begged Ella. It was Christmas again, and all she wanted was the leather-covered parchment notebook with a pewter ink pen. They each cost fourpence, and her mother, a maid at the rich William's household, made jsut enough money to buy her only daughter (only child that is) something for the festive holiday.ReplyDelete
"Ella, stop bothering me with your nonsense! I barely make enough money to pay the bills each month. We will see in good time what may happen."
Ella, age eight, works as a daycare provider for the young ones at the nearest privete school for girls. At a mile and a quarter away, Ella always passed Robinson's Staionary, where her leather-covered parchment notebook and pewter ink pen lie. She would always stay lingering for a few moments, looking in the store's window, enjoying the thought of all she could write on those pages.
On the way back home, Ella's mother, a widow at age 41, took the long way back, stopping at Robinson's Stationary. As she walked in, Mr.Robinson reconized her same golden blonde hair and chocolate eyes that got passed down to Ella.
"Miss? Are you that little girls mother that looks through my store window every day?"
"Why, yes, I am." She replied.
Mr.Robinson grabbed the leather-covered parchment notebook and pewter ink pen. He knew her state of being finance wise from the word on the street. It was a small town in England, so everyone knew everyone.
"That will be fourpence, Miss." said Mr. Robinson.
"Oh, I am so grateful, sir. Thank you." She handed him the fourpence wile he wrapped the two gifts in smooth brown paper.
"Tell your daughter I said Merry Christmas."
She hurried off home to hide the gift under her bed. She knew Emma would be so happy to find out she could finally have her leather- covered notebook and pewter ink pen.
Very much in tune with the Christmas spirit. Ella will, indeed, be surprised.Delete
Thank you so much! I'm sure she will. She is based off of Becky and Sara from A Little Princess. I envisioned her very down to Earth! :) Thanks again!Delete
Abi, I almost wish I were Ella - but then I've got my computer and any available piece of paper and crayon if need be. Nice piece.Delete
Thank you so much!Delete
I like this one; very Dickens-ish. Good for you. I hope you keep coming back.ReplyDelete
Thank you so much! If you likie that one, there is one under children, OMG did i see what i think i saw? I am an up-and-coming author, and I am glad you love my work.Delete