The house is strung up with clumps of holiday lights and when she says garish her mother says beautiful when she says bad taste her mother says unique when she says tacky her mother says unpretentious when she says look at that drunk Santa her mother says just like your father when she says real love her mother says he was very affectionate when she says grief her mother says freedom when she says independence her mother says abandonment when she says you can always live with me her mother says I’m moving in with my boyfriend.
Deb introduces me to Lenny as her boyfriend. Lenny limps over to the ragged upright in the piano bar, thumps down on the stool.
Someone asks if he’ll play Thelonious Monk’s “Ugly Beauty”, hands him a slick clump of 1’s.
Deb never misses a show, except three months ago; he had a stroke. He can only play with one hand, and keeps a tangerine-sized squeeze ball for exercise.
Lenny’s one hand stretches over the keys, discord fills the room.
Deb looks like Mom listening to Rachmaninoff, while Dad sat in the corner, warming his fingers, waiting until she was ripe.
There is so much here! Sad and beautiful and warm. That tangerine-sized therapy ball! Didn't expect the connections in the end. And that last line, mysterious but I think, spot on.
Jenny awakened to a sickening thump and grabbed a makeshift weapon. The smooth device carried heft—just the thing to maim an axe-murderer.
She cracked the bedroom door, her forehead slick with fear-sweat, and crept into the den, pausing alongside the glowing aquarium. The air was ripe with cigars, the filter choked by a clump of ragged seaweed… and her goldfish's severed head.
“Tangerine! Oh dear God, nooooooo?” she wailed.
Something grabbed her shoulders—shook'em like a limp ragdoll, “Jenny! Wake up.”
She snapped awake, vibrator-weapon in hand, her boyfriend above. Pity in his eyes.
Brilliant prompt idea, Meg. I want to write more stories like this. Disclaimer: I am not glorifying the events that took place last month, but wanted to write a more nuanced response. It looked surreal and was incredibly devastating at the same time. Nature's duality.
Actually Blood on the Leaves
“Beautiful,” I whisper. It’s a lie, or maybe not—hard to tell anymore. Destruction spills across the ridge like a river of molten gold, consuming everything in its path as it rolls. Smoke billows above, angry and crimson, painting the sky as though it’s weeping blood.
Constance squeezes my arm. “It’s awful,” she says.
She's right. It is. But I can’t stop staring.
A gust pours ash onto my windshield, and I swipe at it, smearing the dead away.
The fire doesn’t feel distant anymore. It’s everywhere, choking the trees and blanketing the Palisades. And yet, it demands to be seen.
This is excellent. 3rd par description is especially lovely, but heartbreakingly sad. The duality is well captured, along with the human gift for finding beauty in devastation. Thank you for sharing.
The mountain of shoes inside the door is spilling off the winter rug into a lazy flowing drizzle of mud. I kick off my own shoes and begin to tidy the pairs into neat rows, finding those at the bottom saturated with the slick brown muck oozing down from the top. I pause as the equally mountainous laughter from the kitchen wafts throughout our home, carrying the ease and joy of young girls learning the art and warmth of gathering together. I close my eyes and quietly repeat a prayer for their future – stay silly, and fierce, and true to each other.
Thank you! I've always loved writing, but haven't focused on writing for fun since I was a kid. Your prompt spoke to me -- thank you for the opportunity to start again!
My story (below) addresses a secret fear and uses the prompt words, however, it doesn't feature something beautiful yet ugly. Nevertheless, I hope you get a chuckle.😁
Ripe Words Under a Tangerine Moon
The house is strung up with clumps of holiday lights and when she says garish her mother says beautiful when she says bad taste her mother says unique when she says tacky her mother says unpretentious when she says look at that drunk Santa her mother says just like your father when she says real love her mother says he was very affectionate when she says grief her mother says freedom when she says independence her mother says abandonment when she says you can always live with me her mother says I’m moving in with my boyfriend.
Whoa, Cheryl! A tiny powerhouse, a whole life of family pain captured here.
Thanks, Meg. It changed lanes a bit, so I just went with it.
Ugly Beauty
Deb introduces me to Lenny as her boyfriend. Lenny limps over to the ragged upright in the piano bar, thumps down on the stool.
Someone asks if he’ll play Thelonious Monk’s “Ugly Beauty”, hands him a slick clump of 1’s.
Deb never misses a show, except three months ago; he had a stroke. He can only play with one hand, and keeps a tangerine-sized squeeze ball for exercise.
Lenny’s one hand stretches over the keys, discord fills the room.
Deb looks like Mom listening to Rachmaninoff, while Dad sat in the corner, warming his fingers, waiting until she was ripe.
There is so much here! Sad and beautiful and warm. That tangerine-sized therapy ball! Didn't expect the connections in the end. And that last line, mysterious but I think, spot on.
Thank you Meg! I really enjoyed this prompt. To me, there’s something about being given a word limit and a few keywords that is so freeing.
Roadside Service
“All I said was ‘the sky looks like cotton candy.’”
We walked several more meters down the road, our rhythm marked by the hollow thump of the jerrycan against the side of my leg.
“I had a boyfriend. He was abusive,” she finally said.
The moment was ripe for compassion. I offered disbelief. “With cotton candy?”
She stopped. I turned to find her weeping.
The jerrycan fell to the slick asphalt. “I’m sorry. I will never be that way.”
She nodded, stepping toward me.
There, in the light of the service station, I held her as she cried.
Really well done! So much is accomplished in this quietly romantic, tiny piece. The last line is beautiful.
Thank you for the challenge and the compliment.
The Recurring Murder of Tangerine
Jenny awakened to a sickening thump and grabbed a makeshift weapon. The smooth device carried heft—just the thing to maim an axe-murderer.
She cracked the bedroom door, her forehead slick with fear-sweat, and crept into the den, pausing alongside the glowing aquarium. The air was ripe with cigars, the filter choked by a clump of ragged seaweed… and her goldfish's severed head.
“Tangerine! Oh dear God, nooooooo?” she wailed.
Something grabbed her shoulders—shook'em like a limp ragdoll, “Jenny! Wake up.”
She snapped awake, vibrator-weapon in hand, her boyfriend above. Pity in his eyes.
“That sicko axe-murdered Tangerine again?”
This is darkly funny! Really enjoyed it Lisa. Great details.. Love the 2 surprises in the end.
Dark and funny are two of my favorite things! Thank you Meg.
Brilliant prompt idea, Meg. I want to write more stories like this. Disclaimer: I am not glorifying the events that took place last month, but wanted to write a more nuanced response. It looked surreal and was incredibly devastating at the same time. Nature's duality.
Actually Blood on the Leaves
“Beautiful,” I whisper. It’s a lie, or maybe not—hard to tell anymore. Destruction spills across the ridge like a river of molten gold, consuming everything in its path as it rolls. Smoke billows above, angry and crimson, painting the sky as though it’s weeping blood.
Constance squeezes my arm. “It’s awful,” she says.
She's right. It is. But I can’t stop staring.
A gust pours ash onto my windshield, and I swipe at it, smearing the dead away.
The fire doesn’t feel distant anymore. It’s everywhere, choking the trees and blanketing the Palisades. And yet, it demands to be seen.
This is excellent. 3rd par description is especially lovely, but heartbreakingly sad. The duality is well captured, along with the human gift for finding beauty in devastation. Thank you for sharing.
The mountain of shoes inside the door is spilling off the winter rug into a lazy flowing drizzle of mud. I kick off my own shoes and begin to tidy the pairs into neat rows, finding those at the bottom saturated with the slick brown muck oozing down from the top. I pause as the equally mountainous laughter from the kitchen wafts throughout our home, carrying the ease and joy of young girls learning the art and warmth of gathering together. I close my eyes and quietly repeat a prayer for their future – stay silly, and fierce, and true to each other.
this is lovely. I like how it begins with mud and ends with love. Wonderful writing.
Thank you! I've always loved writing, but haven't focused on writing for fun since I was a kid. Your prompt spoke to me -- thank you for the opportunity to start again!
My story (below) addresses a secret fear and uses the prompt words, however, it doesn't feature something beautiful yet ugly. Nevertheless, I hope you get a chuckle.😁