I am using the last ten days of the #nanowrimoprompt to post linked flash fiction-ish, non-chronologically ordered, pieces here on the blog. Here is 21 & 22, 23.

24. Opening a letter

Dear Frank,

You shouldn’t be surprised to be receiving this letter – I have been trying to contact you in other ways, but can’t get through. You won’t answer my emails or texts etc. I only tried your home the other night out of desperation – I wasn’t deliberately trying to ‘catch’ your wife, if that’s the reason for your silence. That would be juvenile. I have news. Important news you need to know.

I am pregnant.

There, you can’t ignore that, can you?

Please return my call. I’m not going to do anything dramatic or drastic. I just need to talk to you. However, if I don’t hear back – then perhaps it is time to start telling people… starting with your wife.

It hurts me to write that – I’m not typically like this as you know. I’m confused. I need your support. I guess I figured that after five years support would be the very least you’d be able to provide. I hope I’m not wrong.

Violet

25. Being Broke

The troops marched past with heavy backpacks, most with a firearm slung over a shoulder. A photographer lifted his camera further along the Via Celio Vibenna and one of the soldiers flashed a smile, making the most of the opportunity.

“Americans, typical.” An old man, leaning heavily on his cane, made grouchy conversation with the couple standing next to him. Franco Moretti stood next to his mother, hungry, always hungry, but thankful for the deliverance. His mother had insisted on watching. She clasped her hands together and mouthed prayers of thanks – Il papa had been saved, and so had they. Finally the course of the war was turning.

Suddenly, she grabbed the hand of a passing solider. He stopped, startled, and waited to see what she wanted. Franco looked away, embarrassed, as she lifted the hand to her lips, kissing them as tenderly as his own on the nights she used to tuck him in. When he still had a bed. The old man limped away and Franco wished he could do the same. Anything would have been better than to listen to the sound of laughter once his mother released the solider’s hand and he made his way down the road, his compatriots good-naturedly teasing his luck.

Franco’s stomach rumbled. Wrapping his arms about himself, his mother squatted down and pressed two kisses upon each cheek. Her colour had returned, she looked happy. But not as relieved as she had when she held that hand. That was a look of emotional satiety. Franco knew he would not feel the same, not for a long time. Perhaps ever.

Image sourse: Kevinsteinhardt and cuppini