Which Way

winding road PhilipCoons

Photo: Philip Coons

 

Which way does this road wind?

Where to goes the crack?

Do the rocks that line the path

Hold answers

Or hold back?

 

 

For the Which Way Photo Challenge

 

In A While

May flowers2 NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

In a while

There will be all colors

Of the rainbow

And then some

More.

 

In a while

There will be radiant

Greens and sunny yellows

And all the different

Shades of

Purple

To show.

 

In a while

The monochrome of winter

Will make way for

Brightly colored

Spring

To make eyes and hearts

Glow.

 

 

For the Wits-End Weekly Photo Challenge: Bright Colors

The Pillar

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

The youngsters always met by The Pillar.

Their parents had. Their grandparents had, and the great-grands before that and on and on till time before time. It was a rite of passage of sort. A congregation-point for those just past the threshold from children to adults.

There was no timetable for how long it was before a set of youths made way for those younger still. Yet the time never seemed to be very long, no matter the outward circumstances.

In olden times such changeover was marked by many youths’ marrying shortly after adult bodies and responsibilities were taken on, as it was believed that matrimony was the lead to sensibilities. Any youths lagging behind in house-making would soon enough stop visiting The Pillar anyway, perhaps as it would feel unseemly for them to be seen hobnobbing with total greenhorns to the adult world.

In modern times, with childhoods that stretched well beyond the bounds any elder would consider reasonable, and with less children in town to nip at the heels of those frequenting The Pillar, youths nonetheless rarely mingled by it for much longer than they would’ve in the past. Just their chronological age had shifted some, from puberty to closer to the end of high-school.

Looking back, few could tell exactly what about The Pillar had drawn them to the location. Sure, the isolation allowed for some actions full-fledged adults would likely frown on (though they’d done the same — and sometimes worse — themselves), but there were plenty other isolated places to find privacy in. Blustery in winter and mosquito-swarmed by summer, the field where The Pillar stood was not exactly the height of comfort. Still by tradition or something more, the youth were drawn to it like moths to light.

It was the fairies, some whispered, magic of the Fair Folk, conjured so they could feed upon the newly discovered energies of youth, necessary to the Fairies’ sustained immortality. Others pooh-poohed the folklore, perhaps unnerved by the notion that anything but their own will had caused them to view as irresistible what later on looked quite the dreary spot.

“It was just the adventure,” the latter would grumble. “Every child in town grew up dreaming of being old enough to go to The Pillar. Of course we wanted to finally do so.”

Still they could not explain what had made them suddenly wish to visit it. Or why it had just as suddenly lost its charm.

When pressed, they’d shrug that “it’s been there as long as anyone remembers.” As if that was explanation enough.

Lore or not, the youngsters always met by The Pillar.

And there The Pillar stood. Slanted by age or forces beyond comprehension. Till another age of the earth would come.

 

 

For Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt: Timeless

 

Isolated Rest

Float2 AtaraKatz

Photo: Atara Katz

 

Not quite certain if it

Will be able to hold

The weight

Of tired swimmers,

Still it waits,

A little lopsided

And more than a tad

Tired

Itself.

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Challenge: Isolated objects

 

The Bouquet

Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

He’d always forget the flowers.

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Valentine’s Day. Births of children.

It’s not that he didn’t love her. She knew he did. He showed it in how he always cleared ice off her wind-shield. In how he took the garbage out and did dishes she’d left in the sink for the morning. In how he put the toilet paper ‘over’ even though he preferred it ‘under.’

But he always forgot the flowers.

The day of the biopsy results he came home with a gilded bouquet.

“These won’t wilt,” he said. “You’ll see them and not forget me.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

In Motion

In motion AdiRozenZvi

Photo: Adi Rozen-Zvi

 

And the water rushed

From the top

Of the mountain

To the valley below,

Urged by the

Perpetual motion

Of life in

Quenching flow.

 

 

For the Wits-End Challenge: Motion

 

Salted

dead sea dry OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

In the cracked curl

Of earth

Baked in sun

And ancient salt,

The Dead Sea

Awaits a

Flawed flow of

Redemption,

Or a whitened end.

 

 

For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Texture

 

Go Below

Go Below AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 

Go below

The surface

Of the things you know

And into hollows

That are there, but

You have not yet

Allowed

To grow.

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Surface

 

Zēngzǔfù’s Bridge

Image result for Jiangxi province China free

Photo: pngtree.com

 

He had made the pilgrimage as promised. He didn’t know if he believed the ancestors would know he’d kept his word, but life was complicated enough without angering spirits, ancestral or not.

And it would have made his mother happy to know he’d visited the bridge his great-great-great-great-grand (or however many generations it was) had helped build. She’d always longed to make the trip back herself, and couldn’t.

“The sweat of your ancestor dripped into the stones,” his mother had told him, “his blood and thus yours lives in them.”

He heard her voice in Jia’s when the child, sober in pigtails and pink frilly dress, studied the structure. “So this is where we came from?”

He nodded.

His daughter walked to the first pile and touched it reverently. “Zēngzǔfù built this one,” the six-year-old stated. “Nǎinai told me. She showed me in my dream last night.”

 

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Jaingxi province of China

 

Fresh Blush

Green Pomegranate OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

A nascent blush

Promises

The sweetness

To come

And holds the space

For what is yet

To form.

 

For the Sunday Stills challenge: Fresh