Inside the Mind of Isadora


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Hidden Deep Inside

The closet door flung open.

“What are you doing in there?”, he growled.

Before I could answer, I was being pulled up by my hair and pushed towards the kitchen.

“Get in there and help your mother.”

I guess he doesn’t want to know.

“See what happens when you hide from work,” she said.

Hide from work? How about I was hiding from the jump rope he just beat me with while you were talking to Mrs. Rosen about styling her wig.

There’s a place I go to tell my troubles. Hidden deep inside the closet is my peaceful place.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

 

Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100
Photo Prompt: Rochelle

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*****In 2015, an estimated 1,670 children died from abuse and neglect in the United States. In 2015, Children’s Advocacy Centers around the country served more than 311,0002 child victims of abuse, providing victim advocacy and support to these children and their families. info:wikipedia
For more information click here: http://www.nationalchildrensalliance.org/media-room/media-kit/national-statistics-child-abuse/

 


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Friday Fictioneers – I’m Late – I’m Late

The subway doors opened. People poured off the train like swarms of ants.

Milagros rushed to get to her job. She hadn’t eaten and felt faint. She was late but needed to eat something. Her stomach growled as she ordered coffee and bagel in an out-of-breath voice.

“To go?”, the barista asked.

“Yes,” she said impatiently.

Panic took over the hunger pangs as she searched for her wallet.

Gone.

This can’t be happening.

From behind she heard, “Is this yours?”

“Yes!!!”

“It was on the floor”.

“I can’t thank you enough”

Sure you can, How ‘bout a date?”

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Word Count: 100
Genre: Flash Fiction
Photo Prompt: Marie Gail Stratford

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Friday Fictioneers – Perfect Moments

Another day is about to pass. With wide eyes, I see into the remains of the day. The red ink, in the blue milk skies, illuminating the world before dusk. I love you as the night loves shadow. I love the essence of all you are. Each time I see your handcrafted goblets, a smile invades my lips.

When I’m alone like this, you’re always in my heart. The sun massages my face from the suns rays streaming through the open window. The wind ruffles my hair. I can feel your exhaustion against yielding grain like my thoughts of you.
©Isadora DeLaVega

Genre: Flash Fiction

Word Count: 100

Photo Prompt: Sarah Ann Hall

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Friday Fictioneers – First Car


“Mason?” “Are you ready?”

“Yeah Dad!”

“The dealership said you can pick-up the car. Its’ ready.”

“OK.”

A few hours later Mason drives up in his new 2017 VW.

Shocked, his Dad runs out faster than a cheetah running after prey.

“What the hell is this?”

“You see Dad, the car dealer told me, if I took his deal immediately I could have the VW with the old ford trade-in”.

“You’re not going to drive around college in a 2017 car.”

“But Dad, can’t we talk about this?”

“No, first car is always used.”

“Let’s take it back.”

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Genre: Flas Fiction

Word Count: 100

Photo Prompt: Kent Bonham

 

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Friday Fictioneers – A Small Stone

He stood at the door of 28909 Rue de Jardin. Memories flooded his mind. He’d never imagined seeing this house again.

Why had his father left it to him?

They hadn’t spoken in forty years. He was ten. His mother had divorced him immediately after she discovered his affair. Her broken heart finally erased by her suicide.

Sitting with Clarice, the now 90 year old mistress, in the large windowed parlor he remembered the park view from his bedroom. The wounds still felt razor deep.

He placed a stone on the gravestone; softly murmuring, “Ikh bin dir mühl. Hasholem Aaron Steinman”.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

 

Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 101 words
Photo Prompt: Janet Webb

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~~~~~

*****I forgive you in Yiddish – ikh bin dir mühl

*****Rest in Peace in Yiddish – hasholem

***** Within the Jewish faith, it is customary to leave a small stone on a grave. Placing the stone on a grave serves as a sign to others that someone has visited the grave. It also enables visitors to partake in the mitzvah tradition commemorating the burial of the deceased. Stones are a fitting symbol of the lasting presence of the departed life. info©shiva.com


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Friday Fictioneers – Sunday Ferry Ride

Rain poured down. We were waiting on line to board the Staten Island ferry; a habitual Sunday routine. Usually, we’d go to the beach then visit, Mr. Frank. He was a Santero.

I was feeling car sick. My dad smoked Camels.The open windows would blow the smoke into the backseat.

I can remember the first time we were waiting to board. I had a panic attack and couldn’t stop crying. I thought we were going to drive into the ocean. I can’t swim.

“Shut up!”

A simple explanation would have helped.

Uncanny, I still see a ferry and cringe.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

 

Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100 Words
Photo Prompt: ©Ted Strutz

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Santeria is a syncretistic Caribbean religion.

Santeria includes the worship of the Orisha — literally “head guardians,” and religious beliefs of the Yoruba and Bantu people in Southern Nigeria, Senegal and Guinea Coast. These are combined with elements of Roman Catholicism.
Arriving as slaves in the Caribbean, Santerians preserved the elements of their religion by equating each Orisha of their traditional religions with a corresponding christian saint. Many traditions, within the religion, recognize different equivalencies.

One common example includes:
Babalz Ayi became St. Lazarus (patron of the sick)

Shangs became St. Barbara (controls thunder, lightning, fire…)

Eleggua or Elegba became St. Anthony (controls roads, gates etc)

Obatala became Our Lady of Las Mercedes, and the Resurrected Christ (father of creation; source of spirituality)

Oggzn became St. Peter (patron of war)

Oshzn became Our Lady of Charity (controls money, sensuality…)

Many Santerian beliefs are not freely discussed outside of the faith. In addition, there are many religious leaders whose beliefs and practices differ significantly. information click here

 


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Friday Fictioneers – Sashay to Trouble

The moon filtered through the starless clouded sky.

She could see tiny white lights shining on the patio. By midnight, they’d be drunk.
It was the perfect night to go.

Silk stockings stretched over her shapely legs and thighs. A black leather skirt accented her curvaceous hips. The spiky heels, she’d picked up at a yard sale, completed her outfit. She felt as fiery as a hot chili pepper.

A car pulled up beside her.

“Looking for some fun?”

“No …” “I’m near my destination.”

“Think so?”

“I’ve got other plans for you, cupcake.”

Tearfully, “I’m grounded. Right Mom?”

  2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100 words
Photo prompt: Dale Rogerson

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Friday Fictioneers – The Last Letter

The house was eerily quiet. The chilly air, a reminder of her long-term estrangement from her mother.

Sorting through years of her mementos was going to be laboriously stressful. It would be easier once Monique arrived.

She opened a leather box her mother kept on her desk. Letters from France?

Angelique read the last letter:

‘Dearest,
I miss you, though your touch lingers still.
Without you, time is an empty space.
I long to hold you. My heart aches for your return.
Come back soon, Mon amour.
Je t’aime,
Pierre’

Ergo, the secret of our French names finally revealed.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100
Photo Prompt©Sandra Crook

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Friday Fictioneers – Gratitude

Although there wan’t any dinner because he’d arrived late, he felt no ill will.

Freshly brewed coffee and donuts were set out for the night. This would be enough for him.

~~~~~~~

The street lights were a warm welcome for the oncoming damp chilly night.

The lamppost, near his favorite bench, the ideal place to secure the fine bicycle he’d found at the Salvation Army today. The boots fit him perfectly, too. He was happy the saleswoman had given him this woolen blanket as he left.

Soon sleep. And, another day would have been lived.

God, he thought, life was grand.

2017©Isadora DeLaVega

Genre: Flash Fiction
Word Count: 100
Photo Prompt:©Jellicos Stationhouse

 

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