She had been looking for a sign. Was this it? Had the cosmos spread out a tarot reading just for her? She tried to decipher its message, but she was distracted. The man hummed as he cleaned the window shield. What was that song? It seemed so familiar, but the melody struggled against the discordant squeak of the squeegee. She looked at the wall again. Danger. Caution. Dead End. The signs seemed clear. But then she recognized the tune: Let it Go.
Instead of walking away, she opened the car door: “Thanks for the ride.”
Hoping to be alive to see their babies hatch, the cackling bunch of clever hens gathered in the shade of their favorite hutch to hatch a secret plan. But first they argued over whether they should ask that cocky rooster crowing in the yard to join their covert club.
“No,” said Henrietta Hen, “he’ll just claim the floor and crow and crow and crow,” but Mimsy Chicken and her coterie of clucking pullets called for a vote. (They not-so-secretly craved the approval of that cocky crowing rooster.) Henrietta lost and the cocky rooster took the lead.
Today’s six sentence / 100 word story was doubly inspired by Friday Fictioneers’ fabulous photo and Girlie On the Edge’s Six Sentence word prompt of HATCH.
They think I can’t see them for what they are. Just because other people pass them by without a thought. Or if they do look, they complain about “spending tax dollars” on public art or wonder if “it” means “something.” Then they just keep walking. But nobody says, “Hey these weren’t here yesterday.” I don’t know why nobody else remembers that. But I do. They’re watching us. I don’t know what they are but now I’m watching them. I can wait too and I’ll .…
Tommy! What are ya gawping at? Come on! I’m hungry! Mom is gonna leave us!
She held out her arms to hug me, but I knew this wasn’t my house — and she definitely wasn’t my wife.
Or was she?
I searched my mind for a memory of her face, and I felt … something. Like a name on the tip of my tongue or a tune that I could hum but the words were not quite right. She smiled and, again, I felt … something. Like a dog’s cold nose on a sunny summer day or the smell of coffee in the morning. Familiar. Safe.
But no! The room was wrong. Where were my things? Why was everything so shiny and white? It was all wrong! She was all wrong!
I wasn’t married. I was only 20. But why did she keep saying she was my wife? Why was her face so familiar? Maybe she was my mom’s friend. Why was that song stuck in my head?
Panicked, I turned to run and stopped dead in my tracks. Stunned by my reflection. I touched my face and felt the deep scar across my forehead. Ran my fingers through my hair. Why was it so white? That’s not me. That’s definitely not me.
Or was it?
I searched my mind for a memory of that face and felt … something. I watched the tears run down that face as I softly hummed the song stuck in head.
Drink Me was her—admittedly, completely unoriginal—first thought. But really what else does one think when one sees a tiny door. If reading had taught her anything it was that tiny doors lead to magical places full of lovely flowers and great adventures. Intent on finding the beautiful bottle that she knew MUST be nearby, she didn’t see the bark begin to ripple. Sadly, little Allie had forgotten another important lesson about magical doors: they often have guards. Before she could even think “what a curious feeling,” she felt its arms around her. Now it’s her turn to wait.
PHOTO PROMPT © Mr. Binks
Tina Stewart Brakebill 