There's a new format to my weekly addiction. The Write On Edge community is retiring the Tuesday-Friday link-up of Red Writing Hood in favor for a new Sun-Thurs writing prompt. We're at Week 1 of Write at the Merge. The standard word-limit is set at 500 and the prompt will reflect a "merging" of two ideas. This week, there is a song Past and Pending by the Shins (which you'll have to forgive me, but I found the lyrics disjointed. Something about love or pistols or a road...or an ancient torch?) and the word Wish.
Wish. I understood Wish.
The most wonderful thing about wishes is making them for others. Love is wanting the best for another.
I offer the following in response: A Future Waiting
“What think you of that one?” Colette abandoned her sweeping to point towards a well-dressed gentleman leaning against a stall in the marketplace.
The morning was still early, but there were crowds enough to obscure him at first glance. Francesca dismissed the suggestion as she beat dust from a hanging carpet. “His is a dangerous occupation and one of extreme importance. If we were wed, who would support the fishmonger’s stall as well as he?”
Colette clicked her teeth with disapproval, “Will you not take your marriage prospects seriously? If I am forced to wait for you, the eldest, I’ll die an old maid. I am near ten and seven and all my friends have already entered engagements.”
“You are not so near ten and seven as you are near ten and six, and only your ill-advised friends are so entangled. I think there is time yet before we are forced to spirit you away to the garret.”
“You sound like Father,” her sister pouted.
“Worry not,” Francesca delivered another series of well-measured strikes against the carpet, delivering another cloud of dust into the air. “I daresay Father has his own mind as to whom I shall wed. A cleric, I should think, or mayhap a soldier. He is fond of those who can prattle on with superiority about dignity and duty.”
Her frown did not vanish. “And if the lanky monger-leaner is the one Father has given his approval for?”
“Then I suppose you shall die an old maid,” she teased. “I’ll not marry a man who slouches so. It is unseemly.”
“Well, I shan’t be as prejudiced as you, Fran. A rich man can love as well as a poor one. I shall marry a wealthy man.”
“Yes, I suppose you shall. You are fair of face and your blonde curls entice where my red offends.” Francesca agreed in a softer tone. Red-hair was not a desired trait among the respected classes. A shop-girl, she long abandoned the notion that a man of means would ask for her hand, but she still wished the world for her sister. “You shall have a wealthy man indeed for your husband. For your sake I hope he is also very foolish, for you deserve to be showered with pretty presents daily.”
“That is a silly fancy to hope for, but I shall endeavor to be gracious and accepting of such a lad.” Colette smiled and spun about her broom, dancing like fiber on a drop-spindle. “You, my sweet sister, I shall pity greatly, for you shall have a dull existence with a humdrum husband. You are far too practical.”
“And you are much too delightful to be a spinster. I shall endeavor to marry a nomad if I must in order to secure your happiness. Come, we’ve much left to do before Father can open shop.” Francesca collected the carpet, casting a furtive glance to the stall-leaner. For a moment, she wondered of him, but turned before the thought took root.