Friday Fictioneers – The Confederate

/ Rachel Bjerke / 43 Comments

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The Confederate

Gettysburg again. Her aging father wanted to go. It’s where he always wanted to go, and she hated it. And today it was crowded with tourists and Civil War re-enactors.

When one re-enactor grabbed her hand, she jumped. But he smiled, and her knees turned to jelly. He didn’t say a word the whole day, he just held her hand. And her father left them alone to walk the battlefield in the fog.

But the re-enactor’s clothes were too authentic, his eyes too old, and there was a small dark hole in his stomach. She knew what he was.

And soon, it was her father that got sick of going to the field every weekend. Continue reading →

Petrichor

/ Rachel Bjerke / Leave a comment

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And the sound of wind,
thick and harsh
through the trees,
as it blows the storm away
to haunt someone else;
It leaves behind
the smell of earth;
freshly cleansed,
new, toxins seeping deep,
down, filtering.
Away.
The trail of dark clouds breaking up
opening for the sun
-like sentries making way for their king,
And the king rains down
polishing the streets in light
so they glisten.
And everything is fresh,
And a rainbow graces his presence
just for a moment
he’s shy – sensitive
things must be just right for him to come out.
But all else is green, even dead grass looks greener
now that the rains have stopped.
And the air that had been bounced around and purified,
during the storm
can slow down – and pick up
the fragrant flowers, the sweet earth
and the magic.
Given to us,
For no other reason
than to enjoy.

Her Passive-Aggressive House

/ Rachel Bjerke / Leave a comment

It was the house. Though only she knew it. And when she would talk about it, the slips, the revenge, her husband would laugh and tell her to knock it off. Her friends thought she was crazy. So she stopped mentioning it. The house was a rental after all. Nothing permanent. She thought maybe that’s why it was so mad at them.

Her first day there, she spent all afternoon in the old kitchen, trying to unpack their dishes. But the pine wood drawers stuck so bad, it took all her strength to open and shut them. Her frustration finally boiled over, and she kicked the bottom drawer, hard, leaving a mark in the original wood. That very moment, the sink began to back up.

The next day, she tried doing laundry in the basement, but the sink that the washing machine drained into clogged, so she hit it with a wrench out of anger. That very moment, the old glass doorknob on the basement door fell right off, trapping her downstairs. She had to wait two hours for her husband to come home to let her out.

Continue reading →

Friday Fictioneers – Bobby’s Blood

/ Rachel Bjerke / 27 Comments

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“Uh-oh, looks like you’ve got quite a mess here, Miss,” the detective said, pointing to the candle. “Shouldn’t let them burn so long.”
She nodded and tried her best to look sad. Good thing the detective couldn’t see what was underneath the wax. Bobby’s blood. But she had done a good job, delicately and intricately drizzling the candle wax over the blood drips stained into the wood.
“Well, you get some sleep, Miss,” the detective said. “We’ll keep looking for Bobby.”
She smiled, trying not to look relieved. Now if only there was a candle big enough to hide the body.

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My story this week is in a genre that I call: Just Finished Watching A Twin Peaks Marathon On Netflix In 2 Days (It’s funny how much influence something like that has).

Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a photo that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Photo Credit: ©Renee Heath

Friday Fictioneers – Old Roberto

/ Rachel Bjerke / 26 Comments

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It was too dark to read the music on the page. I saw my mistakes on the customer’s faces, their cringes with every wrong note I played. All in front of Old Roberto, my first time playing with him. He was a legend, recorded albums, played in all the good joints in the city. My idol. My hero. I wanted to be just like him.

And I blew it. I wanted to cry.

I sat at the bar, ready to drown my tears. And then the bartender slid me a gin and said, “don’t worry, Old Roberto won’t admit it, but he’s been stone deaf for years.”

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Friday Fictioneers—a story in 100 words prompted by a photo that Rochelle posts every Wednesday. Photo Credit: Bjorn Rudberg.

My First Friday Fictioneers – Perrito Saves The Day

/ Rachel Bjerke / 45 Comments

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I sat under the wedding feast table, and my small girl held out a slice of bacon for me. I licked her little hand to say thank you. But then I could hear the man too, he was mad. The hand disappeared.

My girl’s feet didn’t touch the floor like all the others. And they swung back and forth; I lay down underneath them, in case she needed me.

And then, the woman in pure white lost something. She held out a tiny jewelry box for me to smell, and I found a little ring that matched the scent.

After that, I had all the bacon I wanted.

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This is my first attempt at Friday Fictioneers—a story in 100 words prompted by a photo that Rochelle posts on her blog every Wednesday. I’m new to WordPress, new to linking things like this, so if something goes wrong here, please be patient…I’m still learning! Thanks : )

Hardwired For Blood

/ Rachel Bjerke / 3 Comments

He’s hardwired for blood
His body evolved to kill
to kill on land and in water
his teeth, white and jagged, meant to tear
meant to crush bone, meant to rip sinew.
He is a predator, his ancestors still roam and pillage in gangs
and they spark fear in humans.
When they howl, our hearts grow faint
and the hollow returns to our stomachs.
And he is their offspring, though we built him specifically to hunt.
And his natural diet, muscle and eyeballs and liver and skin
and hearts,
he would eat them even if they were still beating.
He stands before me, drool dangling from jowl to floor,
hungry.
This predator, nature’s killing machine
hardwired for blood
he won’t take his eyes off the food, it is obvious what he wants,
this predator
he whines at me, and growls a little.
Then yawns.
This predator, this hunter, this killer,
whines for what he wants:
the chocolate cake on my plate,
and a nap.

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100 Words – Bippy’s New Pet

/ Rachel Bjerke / Leave a comment

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“I told her no, but she just had to have it!”
“It looks…dangerous.”
“Well, you know Frank. He could never say no to his little Bippy.”
“No, really, it looks dangerous! You need to get it out of your house!”
“I know, I know! I don’t know what she’s sees in that mutt. We should have bought her that hamster last year! There would have been a lot less clean-up!”
“Will it hurt her?”
“Gosh, no! He’s her little Wubby!”
“It’s snarling. Does it always snarl like that?”
“Oh, sure. When it’s hungry.”
“What do you feed it?”
“Guests.”

Painting: “The Favorite” by Omar Rayyan found here: http://sarah-belham.tumblr.com/post/38110351324/the-favorite-by-omar-rayyan

we could

/ Rachel Bjerke / Leave a comment

you like what you’re told to like
you wear what you’re told to wear
you can’t think for yourself
because you’re taught not to
in high school.
your hair is like everyone else’s
your shoes are like everyone else’s
you look around
and you say
Yes, i will be like everyone else
because that is what boys want
and you are told
that’s all that matters.
So yearbook pictures
row after row
same after same
until the popular one gets blue hair
and like vultures circling a kill
you pounce
and then we drown
in blue hair.
But what if you thought for yourself?
what if you wore something else,
what if you did something else
with your life?
How many more Curie’s
How many more Brontë’s
How many more Earhart’s
could we have,
If we were just told
we could be different
we could be smart
and still be beautiful.