Some mornings, Stella longs for the sea. After she feels her way to the kitchen, she locates the hutch and takes out the small leather pouch of Doubloons. The conch shell.
Stella rolls the coins between her fingertips and holds the shell to her ear. The waves call her home.
Now that’s way more fun than I had in mind! I was trying to portray that she was blind, but I think I needed fifty more words to pull it off the right way! 😆 Thank you for reading, my friend. Hope you are well.
What was the something she kept in the hutch was a question we asked obsessively throughout our youth. Turned out after she passed, we learned we had been asking the wrong question. With the wrong pronoun. It wasn’t a what but a who. At least what was left of him.
The kettle whistled impatiently on the stove. Not listening, she stood lonely at the kitchen sink, looking out at the dry, distant horizon. Retrieving the old button box from the back of the hutch, she counted, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven dollars. She needed only twenty-two more to get away from him.
Ever since she was small, she knew what her mama hid in the hutch. The one she inherited from her granny. It wasn’t in an obvious place. She made sure he couldn’t find it. Her insurance policy. So, the next time that he hit her, was the last.
The cherry wood hutch or “furdkin’ my aunt called it. She kept her balls of woolen yarn. Each colored strand unwound as she knit-needled like madam DeFarge sweaters, headless tales of guillotined heads. I remember most not true, but the knit-needles twisted truth to become lies with time.
Mother kept a kidney stone in a glass jar in the kitchen hutch—a reminder she’d died on the operating table for 3 1/2 minutes and saw heaven: pearly gates, golden streets. “This world isn’t all there is,” she’d say. We lost the stone, but her story stayed with us always.
What a beautiful story, GeorgeAnn. My grandfather had a very similar experience. He died for 2-3 minutes on the operating table back in the seventies, and he remembered seeing a figure walking away from him…yet the figure was surrounded by bright, golden lights. Needless to say, it wasn’t my grandfather’s time!
A beautiful story of hope, and the power of faith. This world is absolutely not all there is, GeorgeAnn. Sometime I will share a story of why I am so certain of it. Your mother was blessed to have a preview of her Heavenly home.
Heads fly , bowling balls are tossed down lanes to strike 10 pins and darning needles sew eyes with no see-ums bite. Where are we when knit sweaters can’t keep out the cold winter frost-bitten tongue.
In the pine hutch, was a clock. It ticked out her pleasant life, second by second, until the day her happiness was taken, by the 6 o’clock news report. “The votes are in, and by a very slim margin, we have a new President Elect…” Oh WHY hadn’t she voted?!?
Thanks, Sharron! Yes, there's a lot on the line for us all. We don't have the luxury of "passing the buck." What we do doesn't just make a difference in our lives, but how we vote affects the Supreme Court picks, which has a great effect on several generations to come.
The monster wasn’t real, but glancing toward the dishes stored inside she swore she saw It move. The man pushed her against the piece of furniture, the gun against her head. She reached behind and inched open the door. When he ran away screaming, she knew the monster was real.
I like the way you show that even though Stella is deprived of her sight, her other senses (touch and hearing) can transport her to a place where she was once happy. Beautiful writing, Justin.
She rubs her bruised wrist as the shadows of paisleys dance across the tiled kitchen floor, filtering through the linen curtains over the kitchen sink. His key in the door and she hops up, drops ice in a highball glass, and adds a sprinkle of something special from the hutch.
Oh, this is excellent! I love how there is so much suggested here outside the confines of the fifty words. We catch a glimpse of their history, their present…and a hint at what is to come.
A letter of confession to killing her husband after long time abuse. She was able to cast guilt to an itinerant worker at the farm. He disappeared before his arrest. But she had to finally make things right.
Back then her self-defense would not stand in a court of law
Landlocked, fiction
Some mornings, Stella longs for the sea. After she feels her way to the kitchen, she locates the hutch and takes out the small leather pouch of Doubloons. The conch shell.
Stella rolls the coins between her fingertips and holds the shell to her ear. The waves call her home.
Maybe she is a selkie... I found no hint that tells why she had to "feel her way" to locate the hutch. Could she not see?
Now that’s way more fun than I had in mind! I was trying to portray that she was blind, but I think I needed fifty more words to pull it off the right way! 😆 Thank you for reading, my friend. Hope you are well.
Awesome. Love the feeling her way
Thanks, Scott! 🙏
The Importance of Grammar/Fiction
What was the something she kept in the hutch was a question we asked obsessively throughout our youth. Turned out after she passed, we learned we had been asking the wrong question. With the wrong pronoun. It wasn’t a what but a who. At least what was left of him.
This is brilliant, Scott! What a twist and reveal in that final line. Loved it.
Thx. Had to go dark on this. That picture was great.
Eeeuw....ick! Nice job.
Thx. Halloween hangover lol.
Yikes! Great story!!
Thx we mostly all went pretty scary hopefully yours is not the scariest🤞
BUS MONEY, fiction
The kettle whistled impatiently on the stove. Not listening, she stood lonely at the kitchen sink, looking out at the dry, distant horizon. Retrieving the old button box from the back of the hutch, she counted, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven dollars. She needed only twenty-two more to get away from him.
What a powerful and moving story…and heart wrenching! I hope she finds that twenty-two dollars quickly. Beautiful work, Sharron!
Love the way you write about life, Sharron. This paints a complete picture of a character, and her life, in only 50 words. Great!
Thanks, beautiful!
Love it
No Hallowe'en hangover here. But I DID find a snickers bar...
The Secret-Fiction
Ever since she was small, she knew what her mama hid in the hutch. The one she inherited from her granny. It wasn’t in an obvious place. She made sure he couldn’t find it. Her insurance policy. So, the next time that he hit her, was the last.
Another powerful story, Kim! Thanks for sharing.
Whoa, Kim. Our heads are running up the same on ramp today... We could use a little happy hour. Nice job!
Woven tales (50 words)
The cherry wood hutch or “furdkin’ my aunt called it. She kept her balls of woolen yarn. Each colored strand unwound as she knit-needled like madam DeFarge sweaters, headless tales of guillotined heads. I remember most not true, but the knit-needles twisted truth to become lies with time.
I really enjoyed this, Richard! What a vivid story…I felt like I was transported directly into the scene!
The Secret in the Jar (CNF)
Mother kept a kidney stone in a glass jar in the kitchen hutch—a reminder she’d died on the operating table for 3 1/2 minutes and saw heaven: pearly gates, golden streets. “This world isn’t all there is,” she’d say. We lost the stone, but her story stayed with us always.
What a beautiful story, GeorgeAnn. My grandfather had a very similar experience. He died for 2-3 minutes on the operating table back in the seventies, and he remembered seeing a figure walking away from him…yet the figure was surrounded by bright, golden lights. Needless to say, it wasn’t my grandfather’s time!
So beautiful, Justin! I love reading about these glimpses of our lives beyond, which are seen with our own eyes, in a way we cannot deny.
A beautiful story of hope, and the power of faith. This world is absolutely not all there is, GeorgeAnn. Sometime I will share a story of why I am so certain of it. Your mother was blessed to have a preview of her Heavenly home.
Thank you Sharon. I look forward to reading your story.
You wove a scary good tale here, Richard!
The Guillotine... a punishment whose time has returned. Urk. Did I say that? Sorry.
Heads fly , bowling balls are tossed down lanes to strike 10 pins and darning needles sew eyes with no see-ums bite. Where are we when knit sweaters can’t keep out the cold winter frost-bitten tongue.
Hindsight~Fiction (or is it?)
In the pine hutch, was a clock. It ticked out her pleasant life, second by second, until the day her happiness was taken, by the 6 o’clock news report. “The votes are in, and by a very slim margin, we have a new President Elect…” Oh WHY hadn’t she voted?!?
Excellent story, Sharon!
Thank you, Justin, and thanks for your 50-word prompts!
Nooooooooo! Every vote counts, friends! Get your butts out there and drag two neighbors with you. Excellent, Sharon
Thanks, Sharron! Yes, there's a lot on the line for us all. We don't have the luxury of "passing the buck." What we do doesn't just make a difference in our lives, but how we vote affects the Supreme Court picks, which has a great effect on several generations to come.
VERY timely reminder, checked online and know my vote is in. This election surely counts more than most.
Thanks, Sharon, and I'm glad to know that your vote is in! It is always important to vote, but this time it is crucial!
Chills are good. Right?
Right! At least in my book they are. 😄 Thank you for sharing, Cyn.
Something She Kept in the Hutch ~ Fiction
The monster wasn’t real, but glancing toward the dishes stored inside she swore she saw It move. The man pushed her against the piece of furniture, the gun against her head. She reached behind and inched open the door. When he ran away screaming, she knew the monster was real.
Sorry I somehow missed this, Cyn. This is terrifying…a true nightmare. It gave me chills!
I like the way you show that even though Stella is deprived of her sight, her other senses (touch and hearing) can transport her to a place where she was once happy. Beautiful writing, Justin.
Aww, thanks, Andrea. I’m sorry…I somehow missed this last week.
I think we all get bombarded with emails and some of them slip through the cracks!
Revenge, fiction
She rubs her bruised wrist as the shadows of paisleys dance across the tiled kitchen floor, filtering through the linen curtains over the kitchen sink. His key in the door and she hops up, drops ice in a highball glass, and adds a sprinkle of something special from the hutch.
Oh, this is excellent! I love how there is so much suggested here outside the confines of the fifty words. We catch a glimpse of their history, their present…and a hint at what is to come.
The Truth at Last, fiction
A letter of confession to killing her husband after long time abuse. She was able to cast guilt to an itinerant worker at the farm. He disappeared before his arrest. But she had to finally make things right.
Back then her self-defense would not stand in a court of law
Yeow. You and Kim and I are giving men hell today. What's going on...?