And over the years, he’d picked up two essential tips about sleeping in hotels.
Always take the bedspread off, and just leave it folded up on a chair.
Because they never wash those.
And always take your own pillow.
Because as well as helping you neatly dodge having to rest your head in a place countless others have been, your own pillow can also feel like a little piece of home to come back to every night.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
To avoid admitting he was really just a germaphobe… 💼😎💼
There are markers in the blood for inherited conditions, weaknesses. Perhaps there are markers left by memory too. The places they loved, those children, young people, parents and grandparents now gone back to join the living earth, live on in my coursing blood, a flicker of the past.
Perhaps it was that flicker, an attachment deeper than tree roots, that darted across the path, like the first summer swallow, when we rounded the last bend in the lane and saw the house, alone in the meadows, face turned to the sun, the running stream, that told me I was home.
Well, that's about ten hours of my life I won't get back.
My normal routine is to dictate these microfictions into my phone during my morning walk with Ziggy. He’s small and doesn’t understand what I’m doing. Also, he’s a miniature dachshund and doesn’t speak English.
But even Ziggy looked shocked when I repeated these words, loudly, petulantly this morning.
I had to sit down as soon as we got home.
Nobody’s been really counting?
Good grief.
Well, fuck the last nine words then, this’ll have to do instead.
Holidays are great but coming home is better. Before leaving I change beds, clean through, put everything away.
Neat as a pin, my Gran would say.
As we pulled into the driveway I could see, from the fall of the living room curtain, that something wasn't right. As the family unpacked the car dumping everything on the spotless kitchen floor I, after taking my shoes off, wandered round the house. Nothing else was out of place. Yet that one curtain was telling a tale in its silence. I felt a shiver down my back.
Love your story again, Miguel, and I'm sure its depth forgives you for the extra words. Also it is you who make the rules so it is you who can break them :)
It all started with a split of the trail. I was mesmerized by the eucalyptus smell, the cool air, and the damp grass. I followed them. I kept going, until I was alone in the forest.
Later, I got picked up by a couple and joined them in a car. I sat quietly at the back. They dropped me somewhere where I could stay for several nights.
One day, I heard Ben, my best friend. I ran out. We were so happy to find each other again. Ben held me tightly, and I licked his face lovingly.
To make the trip alone was terrifying. Somehow, I packed my suitcase, two dogs and a cat inside the rental car, and we headed north on the highway.
After two hours, my arm was cramping and I gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands. Buddy vomited in the back seat, Molly tried to climb into my lap and Captain Midnight wailed piteously inside his carrier.
It was twilight when we finally turned onto the familiar dirt road and bumped slowly into our own driveway. The soft scent of pine, the sweet sound of birdsong. I had come home at last.
I was thinking of a soldier returning home after the war...and thought after that I should have made him a Civil War Vet. I don't think I quite convinced myself, so I know I won't be convincing anyone else with this...but, it is what it is.
He looked back after making the long climb up the hill, and stood for a moment, looking into the valley below. He was coming home, he told himself. The river — no more than a creek he now realized — held the sunlight in its grip, as the rocks reflected the light of the water breaking across the surface. His heart ached at the sight of tiny huts — hovels was a more apt word he realized — as he began the long descent into the valley. The huts looked older, more run-down and weather-beaten than he remembered, as he realized they’d been abandoned.
I wanted to connect the dots between yesterday's word "Summer" and today's prompt, "Coming Home". Still, each has to stand on it's own. I hoped this worked.
COMING HOME
His overseas deployment was delayed by twelve hours. If he hurried, he could be with his little girl to celebrate her sweet sixteen birthday. How many had he missed over the years?
He called his wife at work to make sure their daughter had no clue that he was coming home. First, a quick stop at J’s Jewelry where he bought a gold necklace with two overlapping circles. He wanted it to remind her that they would always stay connected, even when he wasn’t there.
“Surprise!”, he shouted joyfully as he opened the front door. She was no where to be found.
The car strained climbing the mountain. In the rear view mirror was the place she had lived for years. She pondered memories. Good things: first job, first love, favorite places, and favorite people.
But also, frustrations. Every mile the car chugged brought a new image to leave behind. The break-up. The absent parents. The never fitting-in.
With a gasp, the car crossed the summit. She gasped at the vista before her. Twinkling lights of a city, like diamonds against velvet stretched as far as she could see. A breeze warmed her face and her heart swelled. She was coming home.
Ain’t no shame in it, that’s what I says, only cause he’s lookin’ real low, but then he looks at me an, ya know what he says? He says, how’m I s’posed to bring home a nice lady to Ma’s basement, so course I tell ‘em just take her somewheres nice, a fancy restaurant or somethin’, but a’course he says he ain’t got the funds so ya know what I says? I says guess your comin’ home to mama then! He ain’t like that too much but well damn, the boys goin’ on 40 — he’s got to move out sometime.
“Congratulations on the sale of your home Mr. Tomlinson.” Dee from Sikes Realty texted.
Tomlinson had just sold his Florida home, well his late mother’s home, for a million and change. He had become the sole inheritor after his drug addict brother had disappeared last year. Declared legally dead a month ago.
One year later, driving by the old homestead, he saw the Cooper Pools truck. Heavy loader backhoe. His mother had been fond of saying, “Chickens have a way of coming home to roost.” He pulled over. Heart pounding. The backyard was almost too small for a pool. Almost.
Only a few months had passed, but it might have been decades. I stepped up the front steps, checking each blackened shape for strength before moving on.
Before me lay the cold ashes of my childhood home. In truth, I had only aged a couple months since I had last seen the old inn intact, but I had lived a lifetime since then.
If things had concluded less positively, I guess I would have been crushed. Treasure changes things.
With a shrug I hefted my bag and headed toward New Sarum to find my mother.
The flight was delayed for hours. She rested while she could. Becky would need all the energy she could gather for this homecoming. In the five years she had been away everything and nothing had changed. Her siblings had pointed out the necessity of being a family one last time. After much contemplation she decided that they were right. She needed to be there to say goodbye and ease her mind of all the accumulated pain. She could not forgive but she could cleanse her memory and once again begin the task of recovering who she was one final time.
I return home to the island. I took a deep jet lag nap.” No stress.”, the taxi driver said. Sparrows fly to the grape field across the street, create a nest. The wine is cold; pour a glass half full. Across the street a donkey brays,wanders in the field. Neighbors doves fly with pigeons from coop, but return home to roost; wait for dinner food to be fattened. Rooster crows. Sunsets in cloudless sky. I wait on my patio balcony. Island life is long and relaxing. People rarely move. I’ve come home to feather nest, grow old with pigeons.
This is a great idea, very innovative and new
Aw. Thank you!
PROMPT: COMING HOME
THE BUSINESS TRAVELLER
He travelled for business.
A lot.
And over the years, he’d picked up two essential tips about sleeping in hotels.
Always take the bedspread off, and just leave it folded up on a chair.
Because they never wash those.
And always take your own pillow.
Because as well as helping you neatly dodge having to rest your head in a place countless others have been, your own pillow can also feel like a little piece of home to come back to every night.
At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.
To avoid admitting he was really just a germaphobe… 💼😎💼
I was a bonafide road warrior for years. Let me tell you, those are words of wisdom. Handy wipes were also a must-carry item, even before Covid.
Finally got a 100 word story to fit.
There are markers in the blood for inherited conditions, weaknesses. Perhaps there are markers left by memory too. The places they loved, those children, young people, parents and grandparents now gone back to join the living earth, live on in my coursing blood, a flicker of the past.
Perhaps it was that flicker, an attachment deeper than tree roots, that darted across the path, like the first summer swallow, when we rounded the last bend in the lane and saw the house, alone in the meadows, face turned to the sun, the running stream, that told me I was home.
Beautiful one at that!
Thank you! And it’s a true one.
Coming Home - any number of words you please.
“Nobody’s really counting”??!!
That’s what the guy from Microdosing said.
Today.
Well, that's about ten hours of my life I won't get back.
My normal routine is to dictate these microfictions into my phone during my morning walk with Ziggy. He’s small and doesn’t understand what I’m doing. Also, he’s a miniature dachshund and doesn’t speak English.
But even Ziggy looked shocked when I repeated these words, loudly, petulantly this morning.
I had to sit down as soon as we got home.
Nobody’s been really counting?
Good grief.
Well, fuck the last nine words then, this’ll have to do instead.
(101. And counting.)
🤣 I didn't mean to shock Ziggy.
Coming home – 100mg
Holidays are great but coming home is better. Before leaving I change beds, clean through, put everything away.
Neat as a pin, my Gran would say.
As we pulled into the driveway I could see, from the fall of the living room curtain, that something wasn't right. As the family unpacked the car dumping everything on the spotless kitchen floor I, after taking my shoes off, wandered round the house. Nothing else was out of place. Yet that one curtain was telling a tale in its silence. I felt a shiver down my back.
“Gran?” I said without thinking.
Love your story again, Miguel, and I'm sure its depth forgives you for the extra words. Also it is you who make the rules so it is you who can break them :)
Thank you, Diane!
Microdosing Fiction - 100mg of Coming Home
===
It all started with a split of the trail. I was mesmerized by the eucalyptus smell, the cool air, and the damp grass. I followed them. I kept going, until I was alone in the forest.
Later, I got picked up by a couple and joined them in a car. I sat quietly at the back. They dropped me somewhere where I could stay for several nights.
One day, I heard Ben, my best friend. I ran out. We were so happy to find each other again. Ben held me tightly, and I licked his face lovingly.
‘Let’s go home!’
🥹🥹 that’s so cute
thank you!
Beautiful!
thank you!
That is so clever.
COMING HOME
To make the trip alone was terrifying. Somehow, I packed my suitcase, two dogs and a cat inside the rental car, and we headed north on the highway.
After two hours, my arm was cramping and I gripped the steering wheel with sweaty hands. Buddy vomited in the back seat, Molly tried to climb into my lap and Captain Midnight wailed piteously inside his carrier.
It was twilight when we finally turned onto the familiar dirt road and bumped slowly into our own driveway. The soft scent of pine, the sweet sound of birdsong. I had come home at last.
I was thinking of a soldier returning home after the war...and thought after that I should have made him a Civil War Vet. I don't think I quite convinced myself, so I know I won't be convincing anyone else with this...but, it is what it is.
He looked back after making the long climb up the hill, and stood for a moment, looking into the valley below. He was coming home, he told himself. The river — no more than a creek he now realized — held the sunlight in its grip, as the rocks reflected the light of the water breaking across the surface. His heart ached at the sight of tiny huts — hovels was a more apt word he realized — as he began the long descent into the valley. The huts looked older, more run-down and weather-beaten than he remembered, as he realized they’d been abandoned.
Now this is a start of a story I'd like to hear more of. Where had he been? Why are the huts abandoned?
I wanted to connect the dots between yesterday's word "Summer" and today's prompt, "Coming Home". Still, each has to stand on it's own. I hoped this worked.
COMING HOME
His overseas deployment was delayed by twelve hours. If he hurried, he could be with his little girl to celebrate her sweet sixteen birthday. How many had he missed over the years?
He called his wife at work to make sure their daughter had no clue that he was coming home. First, a quick stop at J’s Jewelry where he bought a gold necklace with two overlapping circles. He wanted it to remind her that they would always stay connected, even when he wasn’t there.
“Surprise!”, he shouted joyfully as he opened the front door. She was no where to be found.
The car strained climbing the mountain. In the rear view mirror was the place she had lived for years. She pondered memories. Good things: first job, first love, favorite places, and favorite people.
But also, frustrations. Every mile the car chugged brought a new image to leave behind. The break-up. The absent parents. The never fitting-in.
With a gasp, the car crossed the summit. She gasped at the vista before her. Twinkling lights of a city, like diamonds against velvet stretched as far as she could see. A breeze warmed her face and her heart swelled. She was coming home.
Coming home 100 words
Ain’t no shame in it, that’s what I says, only cause he’s lookin’ real low, but then he looks at me an, ya know what he says? He says, how’m I s’posed to bring home a nice lady to Ma’s basement, so course I tell ‘em just take her somewheres nice, a fancy restaurant or somethin’, but a’course he says he ain’t got the funds so ya know what I says? I says guess your comin’ home to mama then! He ain’t like that too much but well damn, the boys goin’ on 40 — he’s got to move out sometime.
Coming Home / 100 Words
“Congratulations on the sale of your home Mr. Tomlinson.” Dee from Sikes Realty texted.
Tomlinson had just sold his Florida home, well his late mother’s home, for a million and change. He had become the sole inheritor after his drug addict brother had disappeared last year. Declared legally dead a month ago.
One year later, driving by the old homestead, he saw the Cooper Pools truck. Heavy loader backhoe. His mother had been fond of saying, “Chickens have a way of coming home to roost.” He pulled over. Heart pounding. The backyard was almost too small for a pool. Almost.
Only a few months had passed, but it might have been decades. I stepped up the front steps, checking each blackened shape for strength before moving on.
Before me lay the cold ashes of my childhood home. In truth, I had only aged a couple months since I had last seen the old inn intact, but I had lived a lifetime since then.
If things had concluded less positively, I guess I would have been crushed. Treasure changes things.
With a shrug I hefted my bag and headed toward New Sarum to find my mother.
Rebuilding wouldn't be hard now.
A second one. Sometimes they just pop out!
The flight was delayed for hours. She rested while she could. Becky would need all the energy she could gather for this homecoming. In the five years she had been away everything and nothing had changed. Her siblings had pointed out the necessity of being a family one last time. After much contemplation she decided that they were right. She needed to be there to say goodbye and ease her mind of all the accumulated pain. She could not forgive but she could cleanse her memory and once again begin the task of recovering who she was one final time.
I return home to the island. I took a deep jet lag nap.” No stress.”, the taxi driver said. Sparrows fly to the grape field across the street, create a nest. The wine is cold; pour a glass half full. Across the street a donkey brays,wanders in the field. Neighbors doves fly with pigeons from coop, but return home to roost; wait for dinner food to be fattened. Rooster crows. Sunsets in cloudless sky. I wait on my patio balcony. Island life is long and relaxing. People rarely move. I’ve come home to feather nest, grow old with pigeons.
I love the line "pour a glass half full" For me that sums up the contentedness of this