Bright Blessings

So I saw a writing prompt on Reddit suggesting using the first and last lines of a nursery rhyme to write a story. I chose Soldier, Soldier, won't you marry me as it was a favourite to sing to #2 daughter when she was little. ‘Soldier, soldier, won’t you marry me?’ Karen heard the old song running through her mind as she opened the door to Jeff. Always, her heart leapt at the sight of the handsome man on her doorstep, in full dress uniform, medals glittering on his breast. She ushered him in and did what she always did, gave him everything she and her home had to offer. Ever she hoped those magic words would finally come. Instead she heard; “My best coat got ripped yesterday. I don’t suppose…?” He knew, she knew, and off she went to the attic, flinging back the lid of her grandfather’s military chest. His beautifully preserved camel hair coat lay on top of many mementoes and Karen wondered, fleetingly, if he minded her giving away his things. She doubted it. He’d alw...

 For Lynne Brown, who gave me the inspiration ;) Emily cycled up to the junction, her heart in her mouth. It was the same every day; either pedal like crazy and hope the cars missed you or sit, and wait, possibly until you were retirement age.   The council kept saying they would install lights, had been for six, years now, but the promise had attained the stuff of legend. And so the accidents happened, the injuries and deaths mounted. And the residents of the four villages fastened their seatbelts, put the pedal to the metal and did the suicide run morning and night. In 3 years of travelling to the rural museum, where she worked reception, Emily had never seen anyone willingly let some else through. It was always a battle to the death, cars skirting around the edges of disaster daily. For cyclists it was worse. Emily put her head down, sent a prayer to whoever was listening and shot into traffic. The usual choir of horns and curses buffeted her on all sid...

Carl drove away from the flooded quarry, humming quietly to himself. His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, head bobbing to the beat pouring from the radio. Empty road, WKMF All Rock Radio, and a new job tomorrow; life could be good. He glanced at the bright red stiletto hanging from the rear view mirror by its shredded strap and grinned. An hour later, halfway between back there and up ahead, he caressed the shoe a final time, and then hurled it out the passenger window. It cartwheeled a couple of times, dropped and was lost in the weedy depths of the verge. He drove on, power ballads winging him to another nameless backwater.                                                           ...

In autumn she came. She sat beneath the falling leaves, feared her memories would wither and fade with them. She gathered crumbling foliage to her, sympathised with their dried out existence, their willingness to release the world. Would she go with them? Did she have the nerve? The world was a husk without him.  In winter she came. She circled the monument, round and round, pacing out the minutes in a whirl of ephemeral flakes. She watched them melt on her hands, on her coat. Felt the stinging, fleeting touches on her cheeks. Would she ever leave the cold, the frozen silence? Could she melt and meld with the warmth of the world once more? Without him? In spring she came. Pale light, tentative warmth urging blossoms forth. Undercurrents of renewal, returning to the world after restorative sleep. Light breezes stirred her hair, crowned her with shed petals . Drifts piled around her feet. She kicked at the past blossoms, scattering them to the winds, tucked a spr...