A to Z Challenge — A is for Audacious

I must be mad.

Spring is truly around the corner, and the seedlings I have started are exhibiting proof of life and will need nurturing until the soil warms enough to plant them out. My duties for my 9-5 will be escalating in the coming month requiring more of my time. Of course, there is my beloved writing which I cannot and will not abandon.

But, here I am about to commit myself to the April A to Z Challenge. I decided my A to Z posts would be stories that convey an emotion. I used the site ID Your Emotions to select emotions which conveyed a positive aspect of the human experience. (At least that is my hope).

In keeping with the Foolishness of the Day here we go with the Letter A:

A is for Audacious.

Answer Me

Mother groomed Arletta. Prepared and educated her for a role she might assume. She was not simple, not like her elder brother, Charles. “Twice her age and half the sense” one of her tutors often said.

Charles offended Duke Alan. Embolden with the rush of power conveyed upon him with their father’s death, he dismissed the warnings of the advisors. His arrogance launched them into a war and to his death at the tip of a spear. Duke Alan, their new enemy was gracious, granting them time to grieve, time to inter another king and coronate a queen.

Photo credit: Qsimple, Memories For The Future Photography via Visualhunt.com / CC BY-NC-SA

Appointed by God, queen of a country her advisor said was her destiny to lose. She had met with them for hours, searching for a solution. The strength of the enemy’s army was undeniable, reinforcements arrived while they waited for the coronation. Duke Alan demanded satisfaction for the injustice of her brother. This man did not stop short of attaining his goals. And, she was, well, a woman. The Duke didn’t negotiate with women, not even queens.

“Is there no way in which I keep my kingdom?” she asked. The downcast eyes, the grim expressions were the only reply. She could not bear their verdict and fled to the chapel.

“Why have you done this?” she yelled as she threw open the doors. “Why bring me to this place and deny me? You can’t mean for my people to suffer at the hands of the Duke. You say I am appointed by God to lead my people. Then why don’t you show me the way?” She raised her fist shaking it before her God. The priest ran into the church, searching for the source of the commotion.

“How dare you defy God? The audacity of you, a woman, attempting to command God.”

“How dare I? How dare He?”

“He will strike you down.” The priest blinked, wringing his hands as his face drained of color.

“You spoke words at my coronation saying God works thru me. Were they only words priest? He wants me to do His work? Yes? Then tell me what to do. He must show me how to save my people. His people. You spoke of Divine Intervention. I say we need it right now.”

“You’re upset, the strain of these past days. I’ll call the physician for a calming tincture…”

“You will not sedate me. I need an answer from God.” She turned to stare at the crucifix above the altar. “God. Answer me.” She waited in the silent church. Nothing moved. Everything was quiet, even the priest.

After a long while, Arletta heaved a great sigh and turning her back to God, she left the chapel without uttering another word. The priest fell to his knees and prayed.

Sleep did not come that night. She tossed and turned, dreading the morning. Dreading her fate. At last, exhausted, she slept. When she woke, she no longer feared. The calm worried her maids who cast furtive glances at each other as they helped her dress.

“Call my council, and have this messenger deliver this to the Duke’s encampment,” she said handing the parchment bearing her seal to her maid.

“Mum? Is everything, all right?” the maid asked.

“Everything will be fine. Today I will turn our enemy to an ally and I shall increase the reign of our country.” She smiled at the expression on the girl’s face.

“Mum?”

“God has spoken. It is His will.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Due Diligence — Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © Fatima Fakier Deria

Title: Due Diligence

Source: Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple

Word count: 100 words

Dianne’s heart raced. Today wasn’t a normal day. Usually she donned white cotton gloves to protect the delicate manuscripts and ancient texts she read. She searched the world requesting and gaining access to rare volumes written in arcane languages. The ink faded and difficult to read. It was worse when the ink eroded the paper leaving lace and obliterating meaning.

Today a rented boat and diver waited. They knew only what she needed them to know. If her research was correct, she would find the evidence she needed to confirm her conclusion. Today she hoped to find the sunken treasure.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

When Superheroes Fail — FFfPP

Title: When Superheroes Fail

Source: FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2017 WEEK #14

Word count: 200 words

Dani wrestled the large cardboard box out of the minivan and hauled it to the front porch. She fumbled with the keys, unlocked the door, shoved the box over the threshold, and then kicked it across the tile so she could slam the door shut. Exhausted, she collapsed on the sofa in the living room and soon cried herself to sleep.

It sat in the same spot for months. Day after day, Dani walked past it.

“It has been almost a year,” her mother reminded her, staring at the box. Dani, didn’t reply, didn’t look at it.

Today was Justin’s birthday. Dani made his favorite cake, chocolate with chocolate icing. She lit the candles and carried it to the box as she sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to him. The candles burned, white wax pooling on the dark chocolate icing before she finally blew them out. Setting the cake on the floor, she knelt and opened the box.

On the top, just has she remembered were his superhero shoes. She hugged them to her chest. He was hers for only twelve years. At the end, she held his hand and told him he was brave. Even superheroes couldn’t save her baby boy.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Diva — FFfAW

Photo prompt provided by Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode. Thank you Louise!

Title: Diva

Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – Week of March 28, 2017

Word count: 170 words

Edgar pounded the keys of the piano and slammed the lid shut. He kicked the stool, sending it clattering across the floor. Clara jumped out of the way as it bounced off the wall. Standing, his face full of rage, he pushed past Fannie and headed downstage.

“That is enough. I cannot tolerate one more sour note from your diva,” he spat flinging his arm in Fannie’s general direction.

“Edgar, it is a rehearsal,” a voice pleaded from a seat in the middle of the darkened theater.

“At this rate, you’ll be in rehearsal for years. No. I won’t stand for this. Either she goes or I do.”

“Edgar, be reasonable.”

Edgar turned and stomped off stage.

“Edgar?”

He was gathering his things from the greenroom when Fannie entered, closing the door behind her.

“Edgar, I know I can’t sing, not like her. But mother won’t let me go.”

“Stand up to her. Quit.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Oh, Fannie.”

The tears began as Edgar pulled her into his arms.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Fuga! — Warm Up Exercise

Photo credit: infinitaletizia via Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-ND

My lungs burned as I raced after my brother. We plunged headlong down the steep streets attempting to fly with each step, the papal guards a short distance behind us. I cried out in pain as my shoulder slammed into the wall where the street curved. I was running so fast I couldn’t navigate the turn.

“Avanti,” Sandro yelled at me. He shouldn’t have wasted his breath, I knew what would happen if the guards caught us. Seconds later Sandro skidded to a stop, dashed to his left and vanished. I fixed my eyes to the spot where I had last seen him, slowing as I got close. I glanced left into a short vicoletto. The alleyway ended with a set of stairs that lead to bolted doors. Sandro’s head peeped out from behind a wooden door that half blocked the stairwell. He motioned me forward.

“What have you done? There’s no way out of here. The guards….” my voice trail off as Sandro motioned for me to be quiet and disappeared behind the wooden door. I heard the guards in the street. Maybe they wouldn’t find us.

I ducked behind the door, only Sandro wasn’t there. Instead, I looked at a dark opening where a wall should be. A cool, damp breeze wafted into the vicoletto.

“Entra qui.”

It was Sandro’s voice, reaching out from the murky void. I stepped inside drowned in darkness as the door silently slid shut, cutting us off from the guards.

“Silenzio,” he whispered. We could hear the guards outside the door. They tromped up the stairs and banged on the bolted doors. There was a loud crash as one of them knocked over the potted plant. A muffled voice called from the street and the guards retreated. Only silence remained.

Sandro fumbled in the darkness lighting a candle.

“What is this place?” I asked.

“Passaggio segreto, secret, no? Corrono sotto la città.”

“Under the city?”

“Si. C’è un’uscita al di là delle mura della città. Passato le guardie.”

“The tunnel will get us past the guards?”

“Si. Passato le guardie saremo al sicuro.

“Andiamo,” I said. Trusting my brother, we began our escape.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Sunday Solitude – Warm Up Exercise

Photo via Visualhunt.com

Gary enjoyed his Sunday afternoon ritual. On Sundays, the lavanderia was empty. Other days it was full of people rushing with the weeks washing. Sundays were for sleeping late, for church, and for spending time with family. Gary didn’t mind sleeping late.

Every Sunday was the same. With a basket of laundry tucked under his arm, he stopped at the shop on the corner to pick up a newspaper and a beer. As the machine cleansed his clothes of offensive grime, he settled in to read of the transgressions of the politicians and the misdeeds of the famous. Sometimes, hidden in the columns, he found a story of a Samaritan. He raised a toast to the Samaritan and took a long drink from the bottle.

Laundry done, he downed the last of the beer before chucking the empty bottle and the newspaper in the bin. The article of the Samaritan neatly folded with the laundry, he made his way home.

______________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Tradition in Style– 3 Line Tales


photo by Cathal Mac an Bheatha via Unsplash

 

From Sonya’s 3LineTales

at Only100Words. You can find the original prompt here.

Thank you  Sonya.

 

In the old days, we trusted the boucherie, steeped in tradition, cuts made to order.

Progress, modernity, sterile plastic wrapped offerings stripped of the connection to the animal, to the land, nearly closed the age-old shop.

Now the new resembles the past, trusting in the butcher, connecting us with the animal, the land ensuring tradition, ensuring the highest quality.

______________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Reflections – 100WW

Image Credit: Matias Larhag

Title: Reflections

Source: 100 Word Wednesday: Week 11

Word count: 100 words

She signed the document and the shouting, the arguing, the accusations, the blame and humiliation became things of the past. The self-doubt, the insecurities, the hurt, the betrayal and the miss-trust remained. The pity in other eyes left scars on her soul.

Her life was perfect once. Like the postcard view, calm, serene, beautiful, carefully cropped to hide the horrors of the truth. The pen altered her reality, leaving her at a crossroads without a map, without direction.

Wounded, ruined, cast into despair, she cradled a small ember. The spark she had protected. Now she coaxed her phoenix to rise.

______________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Broken Promises — Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

Title: Broken Promises
Source: Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Word count: 100 words

Gabriella’s hands clutched the icy iron pickets, her heart pounded as she stared at the house, hoping for a sign. Birds chirped, and wind caressed her cheek flipping her hair across her face. Nothing else moved.

She waited until her hands turned blue and her body trembled in the frigid air. The truth seeped from the dark corners of her mind, gathering speed until the iron freight train blasted the words she feared from the start. He wasn’t coming.

It was all a lie. Gabriella turned away from the future he had so sweetly promised and walked to the river.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

The Power of Music — FFfAW


This week’s photo prompt is provided by Sunayana MoiPensieve. Thank you for our photo prompt!

Title: The Power of Music
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers – Week of March 21, 2017
Word count: 150 words

Oliver’s first love was music. His hands played beauty, carried emotions, connected him with others who recognized his joy. He was alive when he played.

Convinced this love was fleeting, seeing only harm in his devotion, his parents encouraged him to find love elsewhere. To look towards a love to sustain him for his entire life. A love allowing him to provide for a wife, a family, enabling him to have the finer things in life and retire in comfort.

To please his parents, he sacrificed, denied his love, took her as his mistress. Clandestine meetings, stolen moments, whispered promises of someday, made when no one could hear. Publicly, he followed the money, intent on keeping his promises.

The money came at a price. A blackmail he no longer wished to pay. He confessed his love, embraced his true love, the one that would sustain him for his entire life.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer