Brother Ambrose softly hefted the bag of newly ground rye over his shoulder muttering yet another prayer.
Everyone was at Matins, so he was safe. This would make many loaves of bread for the orphan children in the village.
In the seven years he’d been at the monastery, he’d stolen countless bushels of food. If the abbot, discovered his theft he’d be punished for a year, he was sure; but, aye, it would be worth it to see the foundlings eat.
His only justification was that somewhere out there one of those foundling children might be his own.
Don’t know why they called it a Singer, ‘cause it sho’ wouldn’t sing for me. I jumbled up more outfits ‘n I care t’ remember. My fingers still got callouses from jammin’ ’em under the needle or tryin’ to pry out them balls of thread from a messy seam.
Ma could make it sing though. When we was little, she done beautiful clothes at the factory.
Worked long hours, she did, ‘n’ always come home tired. Never had much time for me and Jemmy, but we always had food on the table and, of course, decent clothes. Nothin’ fancy mind you.
This week’s 100-word story is inspired by this photograph provided by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
I hope everyone had a great summer!
I’ve always hated fireworks.
Josef knew that, but he insisted I go with him.
“Come here. Hold my hand.”
The first explosion. I flinched.
The second explosion. I cringed and crushed his hand.
The third explosion. I jumped and ran from the oohing and aahing crowd.
Josef followed, yelling for me to come back. “It’s only fireworks.” He yelled after me.
If he only knew. If anyone only knew.
Thirty-three years and I can’t get that sound out of my head. The sight of blood. The screams.
The nightmares still haunt me regularly.
Maybe someday I’ll tell him.