Little girls in the village didn't have dolls. They played with potatoes instead. A twig here, a sprig of pine there and you had a well-dressed playmate. When Mamushka called, all evidence of an ordinary childhood was stripped from the potatoes in order to feed the family. Every meal was dependent upon potatoes. And so, little girls in the village had to eat their playthings.

The village didn't see much of the war. Every few months a bedraggled soldier from Germany or the Americas would wander through, collapse on the steps of the church and beg for mercy in his native tongue. The Babushkas would bring a bucket of water and, depending on the man, would ladle it to his lips or drop it on his head. No one ever came to rescue these men. Some stayed to become potato farmers and marry the less attractive girls. Some had other ideas and shuffled on.

Cyganka, or gypsies, were a common sight as well. Their ornate caravans, adorned with lush curtains and jangling bells were the delight of all little girls. Gypsy sightings were far more satisfying than consuming their dolls for supper. Marysha was the most curious girl and approached an elderly gypsy woman counting out silver coins. She forced herself not to blink as nimble, veiny hands rubbed two coins together. Marysha expected magic could happen at any moment, and would not permit herself to blink.

“You are a very nasty girl,” the old woman sneered. “You steal your grandmother’s apples off her trees in the spring, and hoard her cherries in your fat cheeks. Your poor mother is heavy with another baby and your father ---“

“My father is a lousy drunk!” Marysha spat on the ground. “Good for nothing! Mama gives him all the meat and we only get potatoes and milk. We never have money because he takes it to Warsawa and drinks it all away.” Marysha ground her foot into the spit and turned on her heel to leave the old gypsy.

“Careful” she whispered. “Girls often end up just like their mothers”. Marysha rolled her eyes and returned to her potato dolls. The old woman would be gone soon, like the others, and one day Marysha would be old enough to go to Warsawa herself. She was too pretty to marry a handicapped soldier. She would not be like her mother, uneducated and beholden to the town drunk. She would do better. She would be smart.

Marysha did not think of the old woman again until many years later. As her sister rose to give a toast to the happy bride and groom, Marysha thought of her parents. They were back in the village, likely eating kielbasa and potatoes mashed with milk. As the champagne flutes clinked from one guest to the other, Marysha reached for her husband’s hand. He was not there. The photographer found him at the bar, a menagerie of bottles at his feet, downing the last of the vodka.

Submitted for this week's Prompted at tipsylit.com. 
Prompt: Write a story about an embarrassing prophecy. 
Word limit: 500 (nailed it)

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Prompt: Good Vs. Evil.
Word count: 421/500

Deacon Reynolds leaned back in his leather office chair, the image of relaxed authority. Determined not to make eye contact, he steadied his gaze on the second hand of the clock just behind his parishioner’s heads. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs had been attending weekly counseling sessions for just over one year. Today was their final session.

“Folks, I can’t tell you how to live your lives but I can tell you this, “he began; now staring at the ceiling. He pressed his palms together before raising his index fingers to his lips. “Scripture is clear on the roles of men and women, not only in the house of the Lord, but in our private homes”. He rocked in his reclined position for a few moments, hoping his prayerful stance inspired divine action.

“I’m sorry, Deacon Reynolds. If Sheena could meet me in the middle, maybe we could work this out. She wants too much. I’ve been sober for nearly a year, I’ve cleaned up my credit, I got a better job – it’s still not enough!” Mr. Jacobs was on his feet now, shoving his arms into the coat that had been crumpled in his lap for the past fifty-five minutes. The deacon swiveled around to face him – Lord, he did love a chair that swiveled – and narrowed his eyes.

“You are treading dangerous waters. Ten years of marriage to a good woman and you give up? Coward! Repent, and make things right. The Lord will forgive you.” He leaned back into the cognac leather, enjoying the squeak of the hinges.

Bob hung his head and slumped back onto the Chesterfield next to his wife. Sheena Jacobs was an ice sculpture; beautifully crafted yet frigid. The A/C blast wasn’t helping ease the tension that hovered around her. Bob started to reach for her hands, neatly stacked on a chiffon dress that was almost too dressy for such an occasion, before he thought better of it.

“Maybe I am a coward” Bob started, “... but I’m no schmuck. What’s done is done.” He exited without another word.

After a few moments, Sheena stood to release the creases in her dress. Her anxiety was palpable. Deacon Reynolds sat up again and loosened the starched white collar from around his neck. “Another Friday evening of success”, he quipped.

The young woman smirked, her nerves now electrified. She crossed the room like a lioness, her confidence increasing with each step. As she lowered herself onto the good Deacon’s lap, he whispered, “Leave the dress on tonight”.


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They see me every day.

I greet them at morning carpool; happily pluck their pigtailed, sticky faced tots from the constant stream of automatic minivan doors.

Open, pluck, close, next. Familiarity begets confidence.

 I am the hero of recess; I bring out the bags of dodge balls and jump ropes for the students to play with.

Run, jump, chase, catch. They remind me of Pomeranians at the pet shop.

I say goodbye in the afternoon. I place them back into the stream of minivans; I tuck them safely into their car seats. 

Open, tuck, close, wave. I even chat with their distracted mothers.

They don’t see everything.

My closet is at the end of the hall, where it’s cold and quiet. The administrator says it’s my office. I have mops and buckets and bags of playthings hanging where a window should be.

Brown desk, chair, walls, carpet. Sometimes I disappear into the building.

No one is watching me select from the gaggle, the quietest of the shy ones. My sneer is on the inside, hidden deep within my putrid soul.

Confusion, pain, shame, hush. This is our secret. No one would believe you anyway. You're invisible like me.

You see me every day.

You see what you want to see.

Look closer.

This week's prompt is death. In 500 words or less, someone - or something - has to die. 


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Everyone in New England remembers the blizzard of ’78. The news stations would light up at the slightest sign of winter precipitation. It was an opportunity to relive the blizzard of ’78 through choppy newsreel and commentary, while reminding locals to stockpile bread, milk and eggs. Me? I remember the blizzard of 2005.

We were stuck on A1 that cold, Connecticut night. The cable stopped working during second shift, leaving us with one working radio. It was a relic from the 70’s that somehow remained operational. Perhaps it was preserved by the staff of ’78.

Truth be told, I enjoyed my time on A1. My favorite patients were transferred directly across the hall from one another. Brother and sister – the Dynamic Dabrovski’s. After my last med pass, I’d head back down to the end of the hall to tuck them in. They held the same pose every night; wheelchairs carefully parked side by side, holding hands and whispering in a way only siblings can understand.

We already had three deaths that day, during the morning shift. According to nursing lore, we’d met our quota. Third shift during a blizzard was no time to be working in a nursing home. I could hear the CNA’s in the rec room, praying for an uneventful evening. I would too, if cleaning dead bodies was part of my job description.

I was on my thirteenth cup of coffee when the lights started. A chorus of groans arose from the rec room. The CNA’s were awake. “I’ll take 32A” I called over to them. “It’s Mr. Dabrovski”. I popped a chocolate Ensure and a plastic spoon from the fridge into my coat and started down the hall.

I found him slumped across the safety bars of his bed. His face was firmly planted between the upper corner of the bed and his one, precious pillow.  At once I was shouting for help, flicking on more lights and checking for vitals. No pulse, no breath – just a tight grip on the call button that wouldn’t shut off.

Across the hall, the other half of my dynamic duo was shouting “Poczekaj, poczekaj! PROSZCE!”

 “Don’t worry, Dabrovski! I’m coming!” I shouted back. Ten minutes passed before we gave up trying to resuscitate her brother. Another nurse informed me of her death back at our station, completely devoid of emotion, as if he were telling me we had run out of hand sanitizer.

“What was she saying … y’know … before she died?” he asked me.

“She was speaking Polish” was my heartbroken reply. “She said, "Wait, wait. Please”.

How well do you know your neighbors? I couldn't tell you much about mine, though I've lived in the same space for 3 years. A good friend across town admitted that she wouldn't be able to identify her neighbors in a line up. I explored a bit of those feelings here ... along with a real-life incident that left me equal parts confused and enraged.

*submitting for tipsylit's prompted - week of March 14, 2014. Click the image to check out the fantastic people behind tipsylit, and the other entrants.

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BAM BAM BAM

“Unlock the door! Unlock the goddamned door! I swear to GOD, if you don’t …”

The neighbors were fighting again. 

He took the stairs two at a time to get away from her. The girl was quick – almost had her hand slammed in the driver’s side door before he slipped in. She spent a good hour pounding those angry Irish fists on the hood and the windows. The whole time her squeaky, high-pitched voice was demanding, “Unlock the door!” then, “Don’t leave!”

Shouting was returned from the inside the aging blue Jetta. One word: liar. The beating of his hands against the steering wheel matched the cadence of his defense.  Other neighbors were out on their decks speaking in low voices. “Maybe someone should go down there” said the Italian. “Calm her down so he can escape” said the elderly Czec downstairs. By the time we all got to the parking pad, she was lying behind the rear wheels.

 “I know you see me!” she shouted up at the sky. In the moonlight, she appeared almost ghoulish. Her doughy skin was host to an excessive amount of freckles that joined together like snakeskin. Attached to her scalp was a wild mess of ruddy curls that reminded me of pubic hair.  We looked over at the kid sitting in the car. He had stopped shouting. A swath of blonde covered his face. He was defeated.

“I’ll stay here all night!” she screamed.  

The rear lights flicked off. She smiled. “You can go now” she called. When we didn’t budge, she threw handfuls of gravel and asphalt back at us. No wonder they were constantly fighting. The girl was weapons-grade crazy.

The Italian was already on the payphone across the street. I stared at my neighbors, realizing I didn’t really know them. All I knew was the shouting. Turning away, I walked towards the Italian acting out obscene gestures towards the town police, still on the line. Let the cops sort it out.

SCREEEECH                     THWOMP  THWOMP

 I whipped around in disbelief as the Jetta advanced over the ragdoll body, then again in reverse. Just when I thought it was over, oh dear God, he’s slammed the accelerator again. His baritone “Aaarrrghhh!” nearly drowned out the crunching of gravel, asphalt and bones.

The blue sedan stopped inches away from me and purged its lone passenger. Buzzing street lights illuminated the Italian frozen in fear, payphone receiver still in hand. The blonde kid lit up a cigarette. He smoked it down to the filter before stamping it out into the gravel. We met each other’s gaze for a moment.

“She lied “he said soberly. “There was no baby”.  He shook his head as tears broke free to slide down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, unfussed by the sirens wailing down the road.

“What kind of sick, twisted fuck buys an urn and fills it with cigarette ashes?”