Summer is the time for vacations, picnics on the beach and reruns on the telly. For me it’s a time to meet a deadline in July for my third novel in my series entitled AS ONE MUST ONE CAN. Many thanks to those of you who responded to my plea for your favorite reruns.
The following photo is the PROMPT. This week’s retread request is from my Cuzzin Kent If you’re one of those who wrote a story for this prompt feel free to re-post it and enjoy the respite. Remember that all photos are private property and subject to copyright. Use other than Friday Fictioneers by permission only.
In Rowena’s thirty-eighth year the flashbacks started. One by one, memories from her childhood surfaced like debris in a whirlpool. Among them were the uncle who molested her and the neighbor who raped her then threatened her with worse if she told. Both happened before her twelfth birthday.
To punish her body for its betrayal, she starved it. Reduced to bone and thinning skin, her defense against pain became her prison.
The following photo is this week’s PROMPT. What stands out? What type of story does it tell you? Tell us in a hundred words or less.
My story comes after the prompt and the blue inLinkz frog. I appreciate honest comments and crit. The artwork afterward is original and used for the sole purpose of illustrating my story. Permission required to use it. Thank you and shalom.
In the midst of running, swimming and daily calisthenics, all at a frenetic pace, I fantasized about onion rings and fried chicken. Low numbers were all that mattered. One hundred calories per meal. Twenty pink pills to purge them. The scale hovered between eighty-five and eighty-four.
“You like my new jeans?” I asked my friend Linda. “I can’t believe they fit.”
“What size?” Her ice-blue gaze met mine.
“You’ll look nice in your child-size coffin.”
Now I run and swim at a comfortable pace and not a day goes by that I don’t thank Linda for my life.
Author’s Note: After I made the difficult decision to move on, Linda and I tossed those skinny jeans down the trash compactor in the backroom of our store. I don’t tell this to garner sympathy. It’s something I went through and have conquered with the help of excellent therapy and good friends. Life is all grist for the mill, isn’t it?