Anything You Can Do…

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Wayne Fields

“Anything you can do I can do better.  I can do anything better than you—“

“Will you stop singing that stupid song?”

“It isn’t a stupid song.  You just don’t want to hear it because it’s true.  Girls can do anything as good as or even better than boys.”

His face turned red.  “Okay, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?”  He stepped back.  “Try setting the tent up by yourself.”

“Okay.”  She rubbed her hands together before getting to work.  Eight minutes later the tent stood upright.  “Well?”

“Well what?”

Shaking her head, she left.

 

100 Words

 

This was written for the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields For more details, visit Here.  To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

My Father

Ever since I was a child, I used to gaze at my reflection in the pond or in the looking glass and wonder what was wrong with me–why my father didn’t love me.  He has never shown me any affection.  How I longed for a kind word, a tenderness in his manner toward me but none was forthcoming.  There were times when I feared that he hated me and I could not comprehend why.

After my mother died I thought that things would improve between us but unfortunately they did not.  I hardly saw him.  When he wasn’t at the office, he was locked away in his study, permitting no one to enter unless summoned.  He never summoned me.

We had our meals separately.  And when he roused himself from his solitude to go on a trip, he never asked me to accompany him.  He would be gone for days or weeks and never wrote nor inquired after me.  And upon his return, he never sought me out and I was afraid to seek him out for fear of his temper.

The affection I failed to receive from my father, I secured from Susan, my personal maid, Mrs. Lewis, the housekeeper and my half-brother, Robert.  Perhaps, Robert’s affection for me was on account that Father no longer looked upon him with favor.  It had to do with Robert’s choice of profession.  Instead of taking over the family business as Father expected, my brother wanted to be a solicitor.  Enraged, Father threw him out of the house.  Robert found lodgings near to the law office where the kind Mr. Watson employed him.

I have visited my brother at his lodgings frequently.  The room is quite small and the street which it overlooks is rather noisy but he seems to be managing well.  I hold my peace regarding how things are between Father and me but Robert could see from my countenance that all is not well.  On more than one occasion he offered to appeal to Father on my behalf but, mortified, I beg him not to.  It will only made matters worse, I tell him and reluctantly, he would respect my wishes.  And we would talk no more about the matter.

Things between Father and me have gotten worse and they came to a head when one afternoon, upon my return from a walk in the park, Robert came striding out of the study, his expression thunderous.  I inquired as to the cause of his fury, but he brushed past me and out of the house.  Without thinking, I rushed into the study where Father was pacing, his face red with anger.  He fixed upon me a gaze that should have warned me not to interfere but I dared to venture further into the room, my expression earnest.  “Father, what ever the matter is, please do not let it vex you so.  Why don’t you have a seat while I ring for Nellie to bring you some tea.”

He brushed my suggestion aside.  “Don’t be foolish, Girl. What good would tea do me?”

“I’m sorry, Father.”

He ignored my apology.  “What a bloody fool your brother is.  He came here expecting me to give him his inheritance so that he could marry Miss Price–Miss Price, a banker’s daughter.  Well, I informed him that if he persists in this unsuitable match, he will have no inheritance.”

“Oh, Father.  I’ve met Miss Price and her father.  They are good people–”

“Their goodness doesn’t make her a suitable match for your brother.”

“Father, please don’t disinherit Robert.”

“This is the second time he has thwarted my plans.  First he has turned his back on the family business and now he’s marrying the penniless daughter of a bankrupt father instead of Miss Wright who is a lady of good breeding, constitution and means.  Whatever happens to your brother is of his own doing.”

Overcome with deep concern for my brother’s situation, I took hold of the sleeve of my father’s coat, my eyes beseeching him.  “Father, please, have pity on Robert–”

He shoved me roughly aside and I fell onto the floor, hurting my hand as I tried to break the fall.  “If you’re so concerned about your foolish brother, why don’t you go to him and leave me alone?”  With that, he turned on his heel and quitted the room.

For several minutes, I sat there, dazed, my wrist throbbing.  Tears sprang to my eyes.  I shuddered when I recalled the fury in his eyes as he looked at me.  Why did he hate me so?  What had I done to arouse such malignant feelings in my own father?  Brushing the tears from my pale cheeks, I slowly rose to my knees and then with the aid of a close by chair, I stood.

I quickly left the room and the house.  I ran all the way to Mrs. Turner, my mother’s former lady’s maid who had been like a mother to me.  As soon as she opened the door, I dissolved into tears.  She took me in her arms and exclaimed, “Oh, Dear Child, whatever is the matter?”  She drew me inside the warm, welcoming home she once shared with her daughters and son.

Over hot tea and scones, I explained what had happened and she shook her head.  “I never understood why your father treated you the way he did.  It grieved your mother.  God rest her soul.  Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like but we should let someone at the house know that you are safe and sound.  I will send one of my neighbors’ son with a note.”

“I don’t think that Father would care.”

“All the same, it would be best for him to know where you have run off to.”

“I suppose you are right, Mrs. Turner.”

I ended up spending a fortnight with Mrs. Turner and then was summoned home.  Upon my arrival, I learned that Father was gravely ill and was not expected to last the week.  Horrified, I rushed to his room.  I froze in the doorway.  I yearned to go to his side but was afraid of distressing him.  Doctor King beckoned to me.  “Come, Miss Adelia.  He has been asking for you.”

Heart pounding, tears running down my cheeks, I hastened to his bedside.  Horror and shock gripped my heart when I saw how ghastly my strong, proud father looked.  His eyes shifted to me as I stood there gazing down at him.  He mumbled something and stretched out his hand.  I took the thin, bony fingers and knelt beside him.  I leaned over so that I could hear what he was trying to impart to me.  I barely made out the words, “Forgive me…”

“Oh, Father, all is forgotten.”

“My Dear, dear Girl…”

Unable to speak for the lump in my throat, I rested my wet cheek on our entwined hands.  At last, my father had shown me some affection.

The doctor was right.  My father didn’t last the week.  It was a cold, grey morning on which he was laid to rest.  Many people came to pay their respects.  Robert was there with Miss Price and so was Mrs. Turner.  I suspect that they were there for my sake.  Upon the reading of the will, I was shocked to learn that my father had left the house to me.  He had turned the business over to his trusted assistant, Mr. Shaw.  And he had left Robert’s inheritance intact.  Robert was free to use the money as he saw fit.

My father left a letter for me in which he explained why he was so unkind to me.  For years he had believed that I wasn’t his daughter because just before I was born, my mother had been having an affair with an acquaintance of Father’s.  Father found out about the affair and threatened to turn Mother out.  She begged him not to because she was in a family way.  My father relented and allowed her to stay but he never had conjugal relations with her again.

It wasn’t until recently that he discovered that the gentleman whom he believed was my father was unable to have any.  That was when he realized that I was his.  The shock is what had brought on the illness.  I felt no bitterness toward my mother.  She had made a terrible mistake and paid for it for the rest of her life when she witnessed my father’s disdain and treatment of me.  She died an unhappy woman who had married a man twenty years her senior.  And I pitied my father because he had raised a child whom he believed was another man’s despite her mother’s protestations that such a belief was contrary to fact.

As I walk on the grounds of the estate which now belongs to me, I am thankful that the truth of my parentage was made known to my father and we enjoyed a renewed, albeit brief relationship before he passed away.  Every week I visit his grave and spend hours, sitting there and although, I know that he cannot hear me, I talk to him as I used to long to when he was alive.

For as long as I live, I shall never forget when my father called me, “My Dear, dear Girl…”

This was written for the Ragtag Daily Prompts for today’s word, Reflection.  If you’re interested in participating, click HERE for more information.

Source:  Modern Monastery

Berta’s Lot

Berta sat down, dog tired.  Tears ran down her cheeks.  She brushed them away.

What had she done to be saddled with a life of hardship and misery and an ungrateful child?  Hurt and anger welled up inside her as she thought about her only daughter, Clarissa.  She, Berta had worked so hard to make sure that Clarissa went to a good Negro school where she’d meet a fine Negro man and what does she do?  She runs off with an Injun.  All that money wasted and all that hard work for nothing.

Slowly, she rose to finish the ironing.

100 Words

This was inspired by the movie, Unbowed.

This was written for the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields For more details, visit Here.  To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

Rebuilding/Monochrome #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

It stood there, a monochrome structure, unusual in appearance as tourists and curiosity seekers descended upon its immaculate grounds like a swarm of locusts.  They came every year to see if it would cave in.  The owners of the property were determined that it never would.  As long as it remained standing, the money would keep coming in.   They made sure it was properly maintained and repaired.

They didn’t, however, imagine that their cash cow would one day go up in flames.  It turned out that the caretaker set the house on fire in an attempt to cover up the accidental death of his girlfriend.  Following a heated argument in his office, he struck her in a fit of rage and she fell, hitting her head against the concrete wall.

Panicking, he grabbed a can of kerosene and doused the place, set the flammable liquid on fire and then fled.  Riddled with guilt and remorse, he turned himself in a couple of days later.   He is serving time in jail for assault, involuntary manslaughter, destroying and concealing evidence and arson.

Tourists still flock to see the burnt remains of the house.  Donations are flooding in for its rebuilding.  The owners are raking in more money now than before.  They are hoping to have the new structure finished by the year 2021.

This was written for the #writephoto Prompt – Monochrome at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

 

Margot’s Good Samaritan

Photo Credit: CE Ayr

She was dressed in a grey sweatsuit with the hood covering her head. Chestnut hair framed a heart shaped face slightly smudged with dirt. People saw and pitied her, shaking their heads and criticizing the government for not doing anything about the homeless problem. Some gave her money or scraps of food while others ignored her entirely.

He saw her every day. She reminded him of his sixteen year old daughter. Today, he was going to give her his breakfast.  He found her going through one of the bins.  She started when she saw him.

“Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. Here, take this.” He held out the paper bag.

She stared at it for a moment before grabbing it. She eagerly reached her hand in. In a matter of minutes, she devoured the sandwiches. When she was finished eating, he gave her the orange juice.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What’s your name?”

“Margot.”

“What are you doing here, Margot?”

“My mother kicked me out.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t want me around anymore.”

“That’s rough. You can’t stay here, though.”

“Where can I go?”

“There’s a shelter at the corner.”

She looked unsure.

“I’ll take you there.”

She shrugged. “Okay.”

 

199 Words

This was written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit Here.  To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.

The Missionary/Calm #writephoto

Photo by Sue Vincent

 

“When you went off on a missionary trip to Africa, we certainly didn’t expect you to come back with a wife,” Mrs. Cartland exclaimed, her expression one of disdain as she looked at her son.

Rolf sighed.  “Naija isn’t my wife, Mother.  I’m not sure why you think she is.  I’m sure I was clear in my letter that if I didn’t do something, she was going to be taken out of school and married off to a man old enough to be her grandfather.  In Nigeria, girls like Naija and younger are given in marriage without their consent.”

“And so you decide to bring her to England.  What about her parents?  I can’t imagine that they would let you just whisk their daughter away like that.”

“Her parents and I came up with an arrangement which will benefit all parties.  They were going to give her away in marriage because they are poor and need the money.  The man they were going to marry her to, has money but I offered them more money in exchange for marriage that Naija come to England instead.  I will put her through university.  After, she graduates, it is up to her if she wants to remain here or return to Nigeria.  Her parents agreed that if she should return, she is not expected to be married off but can get a job so she could continue to support them.  While she is here, I will send money to them on a regular basis to keep them.”

“You’re going to send them money?” Mrs. Cartland was aghast.  “And how long do you propose to do that?”

“Until Naija can afford to support them herself.”

“And when exactly will that be?”

“When she finds steady employment after graduating from university.”

“I fear, my Dear, that she’s going to take advantage of your generosity and you will find yourself supporting her for longer than is necessary.  You’re far too indulgent and gullible when it comes to the dregs of society.”

Rolf’s lips tightened but he held his temper in check.  “Mother, I appreciate your concern, but Naija isn’t like that at all.”

Mrs. Cartland didn’t look at all convinced and was about to say something else when her daughter, Rosalind spoke up.  “Rolf, let’s go for a walk.  It looks absolutely gorgeous outside.  Mother, please excuse us.”

Grateful for the interruption, he rose to his feet and after excusing himself, he followed her out of the room.  “Thank you for that,” he said to Rosalind as they walked down the hallway.

She glanced at him.  “No problem.  I could see that you were trying very hard not to blow your top.  And Mother can be very irritating at times.”

“At times?”

Rosalind laughed.  “All right.  Most of the time.”

Rolf’s lips twitched.  They were outside now and it was a gorgeous day.  “Let’s take a walk by the stream.”

“What a splendid idea!”

The stream was about a ten minute walk from the family’s mansion.  “Do you remember when Dad used to bring us here on a Sunday morning?  While he and I fished, you fed the ducks pieces of bread from the egg and cheese sandwiches Mrs. Hogwarth made?”

“Yes and I remember getting pecked by one of them and Dad had to bandage my hand with his handkerchief.  I was scared of the ducks after that.”

“Yes, that’s how Mrs. Hogwarth found out that you fed her sandwiches to them and she clobbered you.”

“Yes, I was scared of her after then too.  Oh, Rolf, what a riotous childhood we had.  I miss Dad.”

“I miss him too.”

“He would be so proud of you, being a missionary and all.  It was something he himself loved.  He always regretted leaving the field when he married Mother.  She never understood his love for it.  She preferred being the wife of a government minister rather a missionary’s.”

“I love being in full-time ministry, helping communities in London and overseas.  It’s how I met Naija.”

“You’re in love with Naija, aren’t you?” Rosalind commented, looking at him closely.

He blushed.  Nothing ever escaped her.  “Yes,” he admitted quietly.

“I see the way you look and act around her.”

“Can you imagine how Mother would react if she knew?”

Rosalind waved her hand dismissively.  “It doesn’t matter what Mother or anyone else thinks, Rolf.  You have to follow your heart.  It’s your life, your future and your happiness that are at stake here.  Remember, Mother wanted me to marry Reginald but I married Maxwell instead?  Reginald was a good man but I didn’t love him.  I was mad about Maxwell and we have been happily married for twenty-six years now.”

“I think you made an excellent choice.  Maxwell is an exceptional man.”

“Thank you and yes, he is.  Does Naija know how you feel about her?”

He shook his head.  “No.”

“Don’t you think that perhaps it’s time you told her?”

His heart lurched.  “I don’t know,” he said in alarm.

“Come on, Rolf, don’t be such a coward.  Sometimes, happiness comes by taking chances.  I took a chance with Maxwell and looked how that turned out.”

What she said made a lot of sense but the thought of revealing his feelings to Naija was daunting.  He would have to think about it some more.  “I’ll think about it,” he said after a while.

Rosalind slipped her arm through his and smiled.  “All right,” she said.  “Sleep on it, then.”  They continued walking alongside the river, enjoying the sunshine and the quietness.

****************************************************

Naija was already at the park, waiting when Rolf got there the following afternoon.  He had just come from a staff meeting.  She smiled when she saw him and the large brown paper bag in his hand.  He smiled as he sat down beside her.  “Have you been waiting long?” he asked.

She shook her head.  “No.  I got here about five minutes ago.  Thanks for getting this.  I’m starving.”

He opened the bag and took out a box of Fish and Chips and handed it to her along with a plastic knife and fork.  He took out the other box.  On the bench between them, he put the cups of flavored milk tea and the straws.   After he said Grace, they tucked into the food.  It tasted as good as it looked and smelled.  As they ate, they talked about different things.   And all the while, he was thinking about what Rosalind had said.  He wanted to tell Naija how he felt but he was terrified.

“What’s wrong?” Naija’s question startled him.

“Nothing,” was his quick response.  A pause and then, wanting to shift the attention away from himself, he asked, “What are you plans after you graduate from university?  Will you stay here in England or return home to your family?”

She thought about it.  “I’ll stay here,” she said.  “I’ll find a job or I can become a missionary and work for you.”

“Being a missionary is an admirable vocation but what are your dreams?  What would you really like to do with your life, Naija?”

“I like writing.  I like to write about what I see around me.”

“Sounds like you’re thinking of becoming a journalist.  That’s very good. Perhaps, you’ll let me see some of your writings.”

“I will,” she promised.  “I keep a journal.  It’s almost full.  I write about university, what I observe on the campus, what I hear on the News and the conversations I have had with my host family.  I’ve written a lot of things about you as well.”

His eyebrows arched.  “Really?  And what exactly have you written about me?”

“How you’ve been so good to me and how blessed I am that you came into my life.  I will always be indebted to you, Rolf.”

A muscle began to throb along his jawline.  “I’m the one who’s blessed,” he replied.  Their eyes were locked.  His heart was racing.  This is foolish, he thought.  I’m behaving like a lovesick fool over a girl almost half my age.  She just sees me as her benefactor, nothing more.  All she feels towards me is gratitude. 

“That isn’t all I wrote about you,” she said shyly.

He swallowed hard.  “What else did you write about me?”

She looked nervous now.  “Rolf, I know that I’m only eighteen years old but, I–I was hoping that our age difference wouldn’t matter to you.”

“What are you saying, Naija?”

“What-what I’m saying, is-is that I want us to-to be more than friends.”

He expelled his breath in an unsteady sigh.  “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his expression tense.

She nodded at once.  “Yes,” she replied.  “It’s what I’ve wanted since we met.”

“Oh, Naija,” he cried, his cheeks suffusing with color.  He set the empty boxes aside and rose to his feet.  He reached down and pulled her up.  “It’s what I want too.”  He pulled her against him and his eager lips found hers.  Overhead the setting sun cast its crimson glow on them.

This was written for the #writephoto Prompt –  Calm at Sue Vincent’s Daily Echo.

Sources: Erika and Eva Toh Travels;  London City Mission

Meeting McKenzie

Photo credit: JS Brand

I’m a happily married man with two adorable kids.  I’m standing here, in front of the magnificent Kelpies.  I remember the first time I brought my kids here.  Little Brody clung to my legs, terrified.  Cora’s eyes were huge in her little face as she gazed up at the massive sculptures.  I came here alone today.  The kids are in London with their Mom.

The day’s overcast.  I’m meeting McKenzie, the woman I’d gotten off on a murder charge due to lack of evidence.  She’s a stunning woman who married a man twenty years her senior.  His family had always believed that she’d married him for his money and that she was responsible for his death.  From all appearances, he’d died of a heart attack. There appeared to be no foul play.  When she received the not guilty verdict, his family was visibly upset and fought bitterly to contest his will which left everything to her.

“Hello, Counselor,” her voice interrupts my thoughts.  I turn to face her, my heart pounding.  “I was worried you wouldn’t show.”

I swallow hard.  “I almost didn’t.”

“I’m glad you did,” she says as she walks away.  I follow.

We head for the hotel.

 

200 Words

This was written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. For more details visit Here.  To read more of the stories based on this week’s prompt, visit Here.