The Son, Moon and Star

This week's prompt is simple: write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, inspired by the delicious shot. Word limit is 600.

“Stop, you little thief”


Moon’s fingers gripped the scrap of cloth holding her prize as her bare feet pounded the uneven cobblestone. Her tattered skirt fluttered like a sail behind her as she navigated the familiar path leading to her escape. Angry shouts faded behind her as the distance grew between her and the baker.



Pushing her way through women’s thick skirts and men’s trousers, she barely noticed the way they cringed from her path as if her poverty and despair were a plague. No one chastised her for her crime, only a handful of people even knew her name.


Two years ago, as they huddled together behind the bakery, Star, with all the wisdom of a six year old, suggested Moon pick her own name. Contemplating her choices, Moon knew she wanted something that would always be close to Star. 


Star had been the one who had carried her as a toddler away from the fallen woman in the alley, the woman who was known as Mother. Two years was a lifetime to Moon. It was longer than the unwanted girl ever had with a “family.”


Moon twisted her body between the tin walls of her riverside fortress.She clutched her bounty close to her so it would be unblemished when she presented it to Star. Cautiously, Moon picked her way to Star’s bedside. 


Her breath caught for a moment until she saw her sister’s chest rise and fall with another shallow breath. 


She placed her small hand on her feverish forehead and waited. Eyelashes fluttered open, revealing Star’s pained eyes. Without a word, Moon slowly unwrapped the richly frosted donut and broke off a small piece, placing it on Star’s swollen tongue. 


A smile, so slight it could have been imagined, crossed her face as  peace took the place of anguish.


She carefully tucked away the luxurious delicacy. The lingering smell  reminded her of the other times they had shared a stolen pastry. They had dreamed of being royalty and how anxious they were to return to the loving arms of their parents. In those brief moments, Star and Moon were no longer street tramps but princesses, adorned in fine dresses and dining to their hearts’ content.


Rustling jerked Moon back into the present and she spied the hungry eyes of a child peering through the sheets of tin. Drawn by the sweet scent, the child cautiously approached her. So not to frighten the child, Moon reached out to the fragile little boy and offered him the wrapped donut.
 

“You got a mommy?”


His sad eyes told her a familiar story of pain. She settled down beside him as he devoured his treasure, savoring the sugary icing. Using her torn skirt, Moon tenderly wiped the crumbs from his sunken cheeks.


“You got a name?”


The boy would need a name. Moon suggested he choose his own.

The Red Chair

Remembered Prompt: Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.

Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self.

A red chair that sits in the middle of a landscape deep in hibernation. Harsh, drab and brittle, with blades as jagged as knives the grass surrounding me threatens the bottom of tender feet. The trees offer no shelter from their desolate branches. Its prismatic face covered, the sky is a glacial blanket of gray. The wind cuts with no promise of relief. The very air around me feels as though its been inhaled sharply with no sound within its vast vaccuum.  


I am affected by none of this because it is not what I choose to see. 


From the chair I see a supple field rich in tones of green dotted with the regal presence of brilliant sunflowers and graceful daisies. The  trees are dripping with rich foliage. Their branches eagerly offer a welcome home to the birds whose singing fills the indigo sky with my favorite song. The wind caresses me gently and whispers across my skin a promise filled with laughter and warmth.


The chair is my heart. It saturates the bleak horizon with its brilliant color. It pierces the ground with purpose even though it’s very existence defies the harsh nature around it. Its presence overflows with bubbling laughter over the irony of where it has been placed. The strong frame that holds it steadfast in the strongest winds frame the soft, easily damaged cushions. These cushions have supported heavy weight at times and although some of the natural spring has wilted; they have endured.


In the middle of the bleak landscape the chair has stood open for others to sit for a moment. It has offered its comfort in the hopes that others would see the fertile field for a moment and hear a song brought to them on the wings of the wind. It has asked for others to listen for the laughter that was buried under the cover of repose. Its cushions have absorbed spilled tears and mummers of trusted confidence. The red fabric has been torn by carelessness and ripped with impetuous purpose. It will continue to stand open because that’s the very nature of its intent.


A red chair that sits in the middle of a landscape deep in hibernation; this is who I am.

Moms Hear Everything

Moms. We are unique group. We hear things most people don't. A child sigh in the night. A cough all the way across the house. If you have had the experience of being cooped up in the house for a long period of time with only small children to talk to, you begin to hear other things. I have heard these "other" things and while I probably shouldn't admit it to you, these conversations have actually enlightened me and entertained me.


Overheard while trying to sweep behind the couch.


"Stop trying to push me towards her. What are you doing? You are going to get me killed! After all I have done for you. Time after time I have anticipated her movements and kept you out of harms way."


"What do you mean you have kept me out of harm's way. The last time she had the vacuum cleaner out you all but tripped me in a desperate attempt to escape it. I almost got sucked up that time."


"I never did any such thing. It was my idea to push the little pieces of plastic out from behind the couch so that the baby would grab them and shove them in its mouth. I knew it would make that woman stop sweeping to rescue the child so that we could escape."


"Oh you are right! Us Goldfish crackers don't have the gift of strategy like you Dustbunny Clans do."


Then there was the conversation I heard when I opened the fridge to clean it out.

"Come on guys, where is your sense of self preservation. Hug that wall"


"I can't scoot back any farther, she's gonna see me. I'm headed for the trash and after all this work to grow this fuzz long! Such a waste"

"Don't give up yet! Just push that bowl of chocolate pudding towards the front again. She never makes it past that! Push men...Push as though your green fuzzed black-eyed peas bodies depended on it"


"Holy cow, I don't believe she fell for it again. Well, we are safe for another few days. At ease, men."

Moms. We hear all kinds of things. I think the most frequent one is this conversation. It gets played every day.


"Mom! She's touching me"


"I didn't touch her. She was on my side"


"Mom! She's doing it again"


"Quit snitching. Snitches get stitches"


"Mom! She just said I was going to get stitches. What's a stitch?"


"It's that funny blue thing that is with Lilo in that movie, Stupid"


"Mooooommm....she called me stu...hey, you wanna watch that movie?"


"Yes"


"Mom, can we watch Lilo and Stitch?"

*This prompt is from The Red Dress Club. The prompt is all about dialogue. Click on the link to see what others are "talking about"