Tag: Writing Prompt

Gossip Channels at the Sahara Desert

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Flash Fiction

The image is from Getty Images on Unsplash.

Stefan and Holly hadn’t left the community pond in two weeks. Their last outing found them chasing away a cackle of hyenas who were trying to attack the neighboring zebras. Stefan was no longer in his prime. At 37 years old, his body weight amassed to 6,200 lbs. Holly was his confidant – his forever feathered friend. She would fly to his nook of the pond every day, and the two of them would gossip about the goings-on of the Sahara.

Jeffery the Jackal was cheating on his wife Johnna. Callan the Cape Hare had been evicted by the burrow’s landlord. Murphy the Mongoose lost a finger to Alfred the Alligator (by accident) the night before last. And Cheyenne the Cheetah was in heat.

“Have you heard about Cheyenne, Holly?”

“No, what’s that old bitty up to now, Stefan?”

“Word about the Sahara is she’s in heat.”

“You don’t say!!! Will Clyde and Clifton be on the lookout then for her, you think?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of those two since the last desert rainstorm.”

“My word! I hope she doesn’t come prancing over here with that scent of hers. We’ve got enough problems on this side of the pond. You heard about Jeffery, right?”

“The Jackal or the Giraffe?”

“The Jackal. Berta the Barbary Sheep caught him stepping out on Johnna.”

Stefan gasped, and a pent-up ball of air escaped his wide and viciously tooth-filled mouth.

“You don’t say! Didn’t they just have a whole new litter of little ones?!”

“They sure did! Four of the little pups, if I’m not mistaken. The nerve of that over-aged pimp! She needs to leave him!”

“I doubt she will, though. Two of the older children came back home to help out. Jeffery is the breadwinner – Johnna’s stuck. He’s got her right where he wants her, and that ain’t no place I’d wanna see any of my friends.” Stefan sighs discontentedly as he says this.

The Saharan sun bows its reddened glow and hovers over Stefan and Holly before closing its eyes. Pitch black is the night sky as the two wander gingerly back to the base of the pond. A day of gossiping, galloping, and gloating has met its end.

“Same time, same place, tomorrow, Stefan?”

“I’ll be right here, Holly.”

This flash fiction piece is in response to Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge. This was my first go at it, and I truly enjoyed writing this story. Perhaps you’d like to try your hand at this challenge, too?

A Creative’s Workspace

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We all need somewhere to be creative

Small creative workspace #1. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

I have a workspace for my job; it’s in my bedroom. But as a writer, as a creative, I needed a small workspace not linked to my professional life.

It didn’t take much time to put this simple yet efficient (foldable) desk together, and the chair, although it looks plain & possibly unappealing (to you), it is serving its purpose. It was also quite pricey for that top-notch comfy cushion you see.

There is just something about having a place in which one’s creative thought-processes can flourish and produce digestible fruit. There is a peace in it that I cannot describe.

I’ll just have to show you.

And what workspace is complete without a candle to lend a light, inviting fragrance to the room, huh? Not one. Not one at all.

Small creative workspace #2. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

I’d forgotten the importance of lingering in a space for the express purpose of writing and creating and being at peace with how my mind works and operates as I am creating.

This space is surrounded by natural light and everything I need to bring soothing comfort to me regularly.

I do not think I could ask for anything more. I am prayerful it will fulfill its duties as time presses on. I have this feeling it will. My gut is telling me so. And, I trust my gut.

I reached out to a fellow friend and creative to see how he feels about collaborating. My idea is to write a poem and have him create art around that poem or have him create his own art piece and I write a poem enveloping his creative output. I am waiting for his response. If I know this person like I know this person, he’s going to be down for it, and before year’s end, I should have something to share here from our labor.

Now that you have been introduced to my new workspace, how about sharing your own? Tag this post or my blog in response by posting a picture and a snippet on your own blog about where you are most creative. It could be anywhere, of course.

Where do you get creative, beautiful people?

A Freeway Billboard of My Own?

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If you had a freeway billboard, what would it say?

That’s easy! It would say:

Black women are still here!

Why would I choose this as my message to drivers on the highways and byways, you may ask … well, oftentimes, I feel as though we aren’t seen or heard as much as we should be.

There are times it appears we have to yell all the top of our lungs for a whisper of our voices to reach another’s ears.

We’re all fighting. And one thing I know, we definitely will not give up easily.

Peace and blessings.

Back to School but Only in My Mind

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A narrative reflection

Photo by Sam Balye on Unsplash

We bolt from the yellow Blue Bird bus that carries us from fifteen streets away. The bus driver has a pronounced gap between her two front teeth and yells at the top of her lungs every afternoon for us to “Sit our behinds down” before she parks the bus somewhere and lets us have it.

This is the deep South, right before the summer break. The heat is a devil on stilts. The kind of heat prepared to kick God in the shins for creating it.

I’m best friends with two sisters, one loner, a metrosexual, and there are an undisclosed number of acquaintances who know me but don’t know me-know me.

My mom is a recovering cocaine addict who buries her face in goblets of Hennessy and Tanqueray. I spend most of the evenings crying in my room — praying for a way out of where I seem stuck.

My brothers are 8, 9, and 10 years younger than me. The oldest hears me crying and sits by my closed door until I fall asleep.

I never tell him this, but it is nice to have him there — listening, waiting for me to be at peace. He’s still the same to this day — ready to protect me. Open to keeping me safe.

We spend the humid nights at the poolside, playing spades and talking shit about anyone we wanted to.

Or … I run circles around the boys in the neighborhood on the basketball court until the day I split my lip open and bruise my right jaw. I still have the scar. My bottom lip — purple and midnight blue — never the same.

We are young, bold, academically advanced, and full of wonder. I leave at 18 — travel one hour for college — settle there for seven years, and pick my shit up one day out of the blue to journey onward to North Carolina.

I do not look back. I am not speaking to my mother, who finally proves to me I mean little to her when she does not come to my college graduation.

It is a weight I choose not to carry as I move through my 20s, stressed out by the constant feeling of worthlessness. If my own mother can’t see me achieve this goal, why should anyone else?

To my surprise, everyone I love more than mint chocolate chip ice cream shows up. Even my friend from Mississippi.

The Powerhouse coordinates visits and caters to my every whim, hugging me until I feel my soul smile before she leaves to celebrate her boyfriend’s graduation day too.

I am 17, 18, 21, 23, and 25, and with all those past ages still living in my mind, I become the woman I never thought I’d be.

And I love her so much more.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt

*This piece is in response to the Back to School prompt in CRY Magazine via Medium.