Somewhere in Laos | Torsten Bachner, Google Maps

Today was lucky, she could feel it. She puffed an ember until caught beneath the pot of vegetables. When she was satisfied the fire was burning, she slipped out into the dark.

She was a hard worker. The man who came to put them in the television show had said so. As second daughter-in-law she had to be, for it fell on her to kindle the fire and make the morning breakfast. Beyond the morning chores that she alone must do, there was wool to spin, water to carry, rice to dry, and herbs to find along the way, in case any sickness came.

She looked out across the mountains. Purple tinged the sky in a way that signaled dawn. In the hen house, she slipped a slender hand beneath one snoring bird and then another. Treasure, so much treasure. Today, there would be eggs.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Inspired by this video: The Akha tribe in Laos: Between tradition and modernity | DW Documentary

Brotherhood of Blackheads, Riga, Latvia } Google Maps

Alvis never had any need for a woman, that was for certain. A nagging wife thrusting out a bunch of hungry mouths to feed. He never got the attraction in it. Women were too soft, too insubstantial. He had decided long ago to remain a bachelor.

At an alehouse in Riga he learned about the Brotherhood. He had heard of brotherhoods before, full pious friars and with all their senseless god-chanting. He had no use for that either.

“No, no. You got it wrong. These are fighting men,” the tavern keeper said as he filled Alvis’s cup.

Fighting was not a thing that Alvis longed for, but the thought of being surrounded by fighting men was quite appealing. Especially if they were as strapping as the man who poured the mead.

“Who do they fight?” Alvis asked.

“Invaders,” the man shrugged.

Alvis nodded. This might be the place for him.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

From Wikipedia:

The Brotherhood of Blackheads (Estonian: Mustpeade vennaskond; German: Bruderschaft der Schwarzhäupter; Latvian: Melngalvju biedrība) is an association of local unmarried merchants, ship owners, and foreigners that was active in Livonia(present-day Estonia and Latvia) from the mid-14th century till 1940 but still remains active in present day Hamburg.

Somewhere in Manitoba | Phillip Compton, Google Maps

Started coming up here in ’69, hale and hearty as we were. Rode as far as Winnepeg in my VW bus with our gear strapped on the roof. Two weeks every August when the pike were biting.

’81 was the year Eddie caught a 32-inch walleye. Had it mounted in his bar. Us drunk on the dock, singin’ ‘Oh Manitoba’. Next year Randy died all sudden-like and no one felt like singing.

Phil got the cancer in ‘95 and stayed home to fight it. Next year he flew out anyway, cancer riding copilot, trademark ballcap loose on his bald head.

By 2001, most of the rest of us were retired, but feelin’ fine.

The tens were rough and by ’18 it was just me and Eddie.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said on the phone a month before. But wouldn’t you know it, his wife just called.

Manitoba’s seen the last of us, I fear.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Deer Haven, Badlands, South Dakota | Darius Nabors, Google Maps

The bouncing jeep headed down a faint dirt roadway towards the rocky outline of the Badlands.

A half mile later, a more unexpected and disconcerting thing happened. A horizontal split wrenched across the landscape–dividing the world into two distinct views. Above was the world he knew: pinnacles, hoodoos and mesas. Beneath, lay a city, both ancient-looking and impossibly new.

It wasn’t as if the split had just happened, perhaps it had always been this way. Tom had never actually been way out here. No one really did. As they drove down a slope and into the gap, he watched the familiar features of the Badlands evaporate overhead. From here, it was evident that this part of the landscape was only a projection over the city that lay below. He turned to the woman, astounded.

“Holographic camouflage,” she said, pointing up. “It’s a mirage, essentially.”

—

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Two things:

1. Sorry for being so late to the party. A family trip and a fallen tree had me playing catch-up these past few days.
2. I owe you an explanation on the story–it’s actually an excerpt from the first novel I ever wrote. I started it in August of 2011 following a family trip to the Black Hills. It’s my write-er-versary. The book was called Panacea, the story of a young man who finds himself in a secret compound in the Badlands, where science and magic collide.

3 Milch Court, Loxton, Australia | Google Maps

Charlotte hosed the garbage can out and wheeled it to the side of the garage. She made a face as she dried her hands. “Maybe we should hire out. These municipal sanitation workers…they just don’t care.”

“Charlotte, I’m—”

She gave me a sharp look. The words withered in my mouth. Instead, I followed her back into the garage, hands stuffed in my pocket. Would she ever forgive me? How could she, if we could never talk about it?

She fitted the recycling container into its niche and stared out the open garage door. “They’re not straight.”

“Excuse me?”

“The junipers. They’ve never been straight. I want to cut them down.”

I looked out at the landscaping, astonished. The neat spindles of evergreen along the property line had been one of the reasons we’d bought the place. That day, she’d clapped her hands, delighted. “What a perfect house,” she’d said.

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Long John’s Showbar, Great Yarmouth, UK } Google Maps

He was a beef of a man, broad as a London bus with a jutting jaw. He eyed the tourists perched at the hightop across the pub. “What you think they be on about?”

“Americans.” The bartender shrugged. “Jollificeartions is me guess.”

The man nodded, brow asquiggle. “Putting on parts is me guess.”

“Aye, could be.” Both men turned to eye the three ladies.

“I got this,” the big man said at least. He lumbered toward them.

At the ladies’ table, his ale sloshed in the glass. “Ar yer orrite bor?”

The blonde’s mouth dropped open. The redhead turned to the brunette, whispering, “What did he say?”

The brunette squared her shoulders and shot him a bold look. “You want to shoot the breeze, fella?”

“Oy,” he said. He took a step back, then pivoted for the bar.

“Wha’d they say?”

“Cor blast me, brother. Was a loada ole squit!”

–

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

To understand this story, you might need this:

Norfolk dialect translator

La Bajada, Cuba | Eleonora Vendetta, Google Maps

“Iowa?”

“I have a map, I’ll show it to you.”

While Mama ran to Father’s study, the girls eyed one another. It was Raquelin who spoke. “What will we do without them?”

Ana pressed her lips tight. With Father facing decades in prison, and Mama going into hiding, it was the only way. To keep the family together, they must first be wrenched apart.

She did not want to live somewhere else. She wanted to swim in the ocean, to feel the sea breeze. Cuba was her heart—its ocean, her soul. It was the first thing she saw when she flung open her shutters in the morning, and the last thing she heard at night.

When mama brought the map, Ana traced a finger around the shape of this ‘Iowa.’ There was no ocean there. There was no sea within a thousand kilometers.

How was a girl to live?

—

150 words

This has been an edition of What Pegman Saw. To read more stories inspired by the prompt, click here.

Inspired by the story of Cuban-born artist Ana Mendieta. who was sent to live an an Iowa orphanage at age 12, following her father’s involvement in the Bay of Pigs.

Mendieta said: “My exploration through my art of the relationship between myself and nature has been a clear result of my having been torn from my homeland during my adolescence. The making of my silueta in nature keeps (make) the transition between my homeland and my new home. It is a way of reclaiming my roots and becoming one with nature. Although the culture in which I live is part of me, my roots and cultural identity are a result of my Cuban heritage.”