Every Friday authors from around the world gather to share their 100-word stories sparked from a photograph chosen by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Readers are encouraged to comment.
1 November 2013
My mother’s Japanese childhood was handed down to me in stories:
the giant camphor with secret footholds
mauve water lilies flowering all summer in a pond in the courtyard
the jumble of koi slip-sliding under the surface like a pool of autumn.
‘They ate from my fingers,’ my mother would tell me, and she’d pinch at my hand in nibbles.
Now, the koi are nibbling inside her. I sit by her hospital bed stoking her hand while the white carp go free radical racing through streams red with blood and the yellow ones pool under her needle-pricked skin.
25 October 2013
‘Didn’t work,’ he says.
His eyes will be squeezed shut behind his hands. At 16 he still believes in out of sight, out of mind. God! And he’s supposed to be a bloody savant. I want to grab his curls and shake his brains out.
‘It worked,’ I yell. ‘YOU don’t know how to bloody play.’
He crouches beside my broken keyboard, his arms over his head, head jammed into his knees. As if he’s scared I’ll hit him. As if I’ve ever hit him. Now comes the whimpering.
I touch his shaking back.
‘I’ll fix it,’ I say, although I can’t.