Arranged

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(Photo: Ben Rosett on Unsplash)

 

There was not much to do but wait.

And hope.

The lots were cast,

Though she had very little trust

In such.

It was not for her

To decide.

Now it was just,

The drip of minutes

Through childhood’s hourglass.

Dreams slowly fraying

Into dust,

While growing worries,

Poke trembling shoots

Into her heart.

Will this unknown,

Chosen for her

Husband,

Will he be

Kind?

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Challenge: unknown in 65 words

 

Refusal

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“Not all orders ought to be obeyed.”

The old man’s head was bent over the leather, but Owen read more than concentrated focus in the bony shoulders, in the jab of awl then needle bearing sinew through the holes.

“They said ‘Everyone’, Grandfather,” the youth fretted.

The fingers stopped moving and rheumy eyes met his in shared cornflower. The hue used to comfort him. A confirmation of family and familiarity. Now Owen wondered whether it also reflected the age he may well not live to be. Especially, he thought, if he did not obey …

“Look up,” the elder’s chin bobbed.

Owen squinted against glare. White sun on milky skies and swift-moving darker clouds of gray.

“You can no more change the sun’s course than a moral compass,” Grandfather noted. A cloud blotted the sun and a chill traveled down Owen’s back. “Do not obey evil. Fight it, or hide.”

 

 

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Spot

 

 

They dug a hole and placed him in it. They shoveled dirt atop. They nailed a plaque onto a post.

They stood and mumbled words.

They bowed their heads.

They shed some tears.

They did it the way it was done.

The way friendships were supposed to close.

And still it did not feel right. That kind of burying. The post with painted plaque. The tidy mound of dirt over their spot.

The next day they lugged the old doghouse and placed it on him.

For rain.

For moss.

For bones.

Even for rot.

After all, Spot loved the lot.

 

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

PHOTO PROMPT © Alicia Jamtaas

 

Crystal Clear

(Photo by De an Sun on Unsplash)

 

She would have gone to bed

And let the mess wait

For the morning,

Or the following

Millennia,

Had it not been for voices

That still

Echoed

From her past

To smudge shame

Onto her

Present.

She grabbed the mop

And filled the pail.

 

 

 

For the dVerse poetry quadrille challenge: smudge

 

Displaced

(Photo: Erol Ahmed on Unsplash)

She did not require much notice for her travels.

Her bags were packed. All papers drawn. There was enough of any currency she needed.

More than enough of

All the hopes.

Distance was not an issue. Time, however, sometimes was. And space.

There wasn’t always sufficient space.

To take the journey.

From here.

To as much as a step

Beyond.

Still, the need persisted.

It had to. For she was, in many ways,

Displaced.

In her own mind.

From the galaxy of dreams,

That could in a drop of a hat,

Respond.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Galaxy in 92 words

 

 

Horsing Around

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“Did she see you take Butter?”

Hailey chuckled, “Nah.”

The stable dame was notorious for imbibing at lunch and for the sprawled-in-chair-nap that followed. If you timed it correctly, you could saddle a horse, enjoy a ride, and return before the woman stirred awake.

“What if she found out?” Dora squirmed on Rocky’s back, and the gelding raised his head in admonition. “Sorry, Rocky,” she placed a palm on the equine’s neck.

Hailey shrugged. “Not like Butter will tattle. Right, Butter?”

The horse neighed in return, and the girls giggled.

Rocky snorted.

“Nor you, Rocky. You ain’t a snitch,” Hailey agreed.

The mare trotted languidly. She had to be just as happy for the outing, let alone with Rocky. If it weren’t for Hailey’s family’s recent trouble, and the sale of Butter to Mrs. Jolly’s stable, the horses would still be grazing together, as they had from colt and filly.

 

 

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

 

Partially Installed

 

“So it’s full of juice?”

Robin rolled her eyes. Her brother was too thick for his own good.

“No, Dufus. It is hollow. Or mostly.”

The boy’s eyes stared glassily.

“Don’t know what hollow means, do you?”

He shook his head and tugged on her hand pleadingly.

Robin sighed. Little brothers should come with language already fully installed.

“It means it has space inside. Like a balloon. Sort of. Only it won’t pop.”

Donnie glanced at the sphere and the concession stand at its bottom. “A juice balloon?”

Robin snorted. “Can you imagine?”

Donnie grinned.

Apparently, they both could.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo: © Dale Rogerson

 

Water Line

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She took herself onto the cliff each morning. Obedient. Observant. Obeisant.

Obscure as her faith seemed to those who did not understand, she nonetheless kept fast to her beliefs. To her practice. Those who shook their head did so due to limits in their vision. Their blindness did not diminish the veracity of what was, to her, as real as the rock she sat on.

She did not belittle other people’s inability.

As she wished they did not deride what they declared her “foolishness.”

To her, it was a line she drew. Of kindness. Or on harder days, of patience.

A mirror to the line that stretched across the water to reflect the passage of the Glories. The empyrean beings that took pain to skim the water in her favor.

In all their favor.

As protection.

From the monsters of the deep.

The ones she knew. The one she’d seen.

 

 

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

 

Turning Up

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(Photo: Brett Jordan on Unsplash)

 

There had to be a way

To be heard,

Without becoming

What they fought

Against.

They refused to condone

Violence,

Hate,

Or putting others down

To make a point.

Instead,

They turned up

A crescendo

Of truths.

 

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Crescendo in 37 words

 

Long Term Parking

 

 

She let them think she didn’t mean it.

Though she had.

If she no longer could drive, then none of them were going to be able to.

At least not with her vehicle.

Sure, it was (another) way of shooting herself in the foot.

No doubt it was petty.

But petty was all she felt that she had left.

If she were to still be noticed.

Life was putting her in long-term parking.

Fine.

She was not going to let others earn more freedom by it.

So she drove the car into the fence, and left it.

And them.

Hanging.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Liz Young