Photo: Inbar Asif
He lay himself
Bare
On the ground.
Stripped into
A fraction of his
Former self, yet
In his memory
A giant
Still,
And let the blanket of
Red
Caress him
Through to the
Other side of life,
And into the
Eternal
Sleep.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: red
Photo: JK Monument, Brasilia; Maurilio Quadros on Unsplash
“Why is he up there?” Santiago shaded his eyes against the glare.
“To be close to the angels,” A-avó said.
“Isn’t he already dead?” the boy asked softly. He didn’t want to offend his grandmother, whose age seemed close enough to dying.
“Ah,” A-avó shook her head with sorrow. “He is with Jesus now some years. But he kept many from joining Heaven too early.”
The boy’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Did he do magic, A-avó?”
“In his way,” the old woman nodded. “Magic enough to me. Your O-avô would not have lived if it weren’t for President JK bringing medicine to us who lived in the country. The malaria and the tuberculosis would have taken your O-avô. As they had taken mine.”
Santiago thought of how it would be for him to grow up without the man he loved. “Obrigado,” he bowed to the statue.
“Good boy,” A-avó smiled.
For What Pegman Saw: Brasilia, Brazil
Photo: Yunming Wang on Unsplash
He said the world’s come to an end.
“Not quite,” she noted,
“For it keeps revolving.”
Her hand stayed warm
On his chest.
“Uninterrupted sun and set,
The dawn and birth,
Are their own continuity.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Continuity in 35 words
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
In the distance between
The now and
There,
Rises the stair
We all must
Share,
Step by step to
Anywhere
Before the future days
Declare,
The distance we
May finally
Repair.
For the Lens-Artists Photo Challenge: distance
Photo: Crispina Kemp
“We’re gonna have to scale things down,” The Earl noted.
“Yep,” Monterey scratched the stubble that sprouted, stubborn, on his chest. He was going to refuse the grooming nonsense next time.
“Got the shrink?”
Monterey nodded. He’d put up with the thumping for the last bit of journey. Annoying though it was, the noise did save him the trouble of going into the back compartment to check whether the cargo was still alive.
“Have him at it, then.” The Earl turned and strode back into his cab.
Monterey waited till The Earl disappeared from view before bending to rummage through the vehicle’s boot. He plucked the squirming figure out of its perforated container and held the furious man between finger and thumb.
“You’re a shrink,” he rumbled, pointing another hand at the air-ship’s anchor and chains. “These are too big. Can’t have’em stay this way. So you best shrink this.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
It took him months, but he stuck with it.
It took a lot of coffee, and a great deal of wine, and a good bit of yelling at the keys and cursing at the window, and a heap of crumbled sheets of paper flung across the floor in balls he sometimes let stay there, staring dejectedly at the ceiling as he wished to do, too.
A million times he wanted to give up.
He didn’t.
Not when he had promised her he’d write her story.
One finger at a time or not, he was going to learn how to type.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
Walk with me
Into nature
Where the fresh air
Flows through.
Walk with me
As we shelter
Under skies
Me, and you.
Walk with me
Hand in hand
Muddy boots
Flowers, too.
Let us breathe
And connect
With everything
That is true.
For the Tuesday photo challenge: Connect
Photo: Charlie Hammond on Unsplash
I believe the magic
That is people,
And the unremitting wonder
That is found
Undaunted
In their hearts.
I believe the small,
Persistent,
Staunch soul rumble
That continues
Shaken but unfailing
To grow
Through the hardship,
Making handholds of the worry
All the while.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: magic
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Of all scenes
And joys and sorrows,
Of all the steps
And breaths
And sense,
There is the ebb and flow
And stillness,
That makes this
Movement
My heart’s
Place.
Photo: Amit Jain on Unsplash
She could not have guessed
What is right
What is wrong
So she just muddled
On.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Muddle in 16 words
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