For this week’s challenge, find some magic, and charm us with it.
I followed the dewy fragrance and stumbled upon the garden. It twinkled and rustled. And then I heard a faint splash. A melodic squeaking filled the air. Yes, it squeaked but it had a fullness. What could it be? I knelt for a closer look.
Closer still. This is what I saw.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. There he was. The golden fairy bug, blowing some sweet sounds on his sax. I could really hear him now. Man, he could play.
Here’s the full view of the fairy garden. I’m sure he wasn’t alone.
This week, the challenge is to show us where your heart is.
“Local” to me is not so much a place as the people you know and experiences you have while being there.
Here is a garden dedicated to my son’s former third grade teacher, Mr. Winford. He died unexpectedly and it was so very sad. He loved kids and teaching. His eyes smiled when he spoke to his students. I feel lucky that at least my oldest son got to learn from him. Gardening meant a lot to Mr. Winford, so it’s fitting the school choose to honor him this way.
I’m betting he’s still smiling as he watches these kids, having a quiet moment in all the chaos stirring around them on any given day. But here in the garden, they can stop for a bit, rest on the bench, and gather their strength and enjoy the beauty of this place. I know Mr. Winford would love that.
Mr. Winford would appreciate this picture.
But I think he’d like this one more! Mr. Winford is there right with them. That’s what I think!
Welcome to Friday Fictioneers. How exciting that my photo was chosen for today’s prompt. Thanks, Rochelle, for the honor of selecting my photo and for your dedication to this group.
Personally, I think storage units are strange, fascinating and a bit disturbing. This one gave me the creeps. But, I think generally storage units are places of transition, what we leave behind, can’t fit into our life, or simply don’t need or want. A lot of ideas about having stuff and what it all means came up for me, but it didn’t quite fit into a story and has nothing to do with what I came up with.
In any case, I hope this photo inspired you.
Hiders of the Tin
Marla hid in her storage unit. Like a visit with a sick relative, she never stayed long. Others hid, too. She had heard whispers, had felt their tears on her face. Usually, she left before that happened.
Her familiar brick of boxes was her refuge. She reached for her folding chair in the corner, but not before kicking a beat-up music box.
She picked it and said, “But this isn’t mine.” Quickly, she left to throw it away in a dumpster.
Returning home, she found the music box open on the table. A tiny dancer whirled to a creak of a song.