(Photo: Isaac Holmgren on Unsplash)
When all was said and done,
There was no question
Of whether or when
Or why,
She would be expected
To abide by all
The rules they had
Intended to
Apply.
The law was set.
The outcome clear.
She was to follow
And adhere.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: abide
(Photo: Brunno Tozzo on Unsplash)
There were no two ways about it. The situation was dire.
He pressed his weight onto the box to seal it.
Nailed it shut.
He stood back then to admire his handiwork.
A wall of boxes. Most of them no longer wiggling.
It was do or die.
And it wasn’t going to be him who did the dying.
For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Dire in 58 words
“See that thing?” Holly whispered.
“What thing?” Harold mumbled, eyes barely lifted from the miniature screen of his new smart-watch.
“That thing!” Holly covered her brother’s wrist with her hand. “Over there.”
Harold sighed and looked around. Old metal fences that once cordoned lines of people. Rotten concrete. Musty dankness. A deserted skating rink. What’s to see?
“Nothing,” he shrugged.
Holly exhaled exasperation. “That bird,” she hissed.
“Oh. A brown pigeon. Unusual coloring.”
His sister’s fingers tightened around his wrist and he grimaced at the pressure on his watch. It was new. She’d ruin it before he could show it off. “Hey, let go! What?!”
“I don’t care about its coloring. It is staring at us!”
“It’s just a bird.” He scrutinized the gate. His friends were very late.
“Yeah? Bet you won’t say that when it calls millions of its friends to dive in and peck us to death!”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
“At least you got a day off and a pedicure out of it.”
There was no mistaking the jealousy in Marianne’s voice, and Belinda glanced at her scowling co-worker before returning her gaze to her toes. She had an urge to wiggle them but thought the better of it. It’ll hurt.
“I guess I did,” Belinda responded. No use adding that she ‘got’ pain out of it, too, and the sorrow of forgoing dancing at her sister’s wedding. Marianne will only make it a competition of misery.
There were worse things than torn ligaments.
She could’ve been born as Marianne.
Photo prompt: © Susan Eames
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Photo: Jon Tyson on Unsplash)
“We believe in freedom,” they proclaimed,
“So of course you’re free to choose!”
Then they added
As her lips began to show
Relief,
“Just as long as what you choose
Is what we say you must
Believe.”
“For after all,” they stressed
When she blinked at
The paradox,
“We cannot have you
Infringing on our freedom,
When it is
Your body for us to be free
To make the choices
For.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Paradox in 71 words
“Once you’re out the other side you’ll be one of us.”
Marco hiked his chin to try and eye the larger boy through the slits of light underneath the tight blindfold. He wanted to take the stupid thing off. It was scratchy and smelly and made him feel sad.
But to do so would be to give up and be left out. He didn’t want to be left out. Again.
“What if I crash?” he tried but didn’t quite manage to keep the quiver out of his voice. He was afraid of the dark. And of falling. The others knew it. That’s why this test. To weave a skateboard, blind, through the concrete blocks in the underpass.
“Then,” Roberto replied haughtily, “you will have only yourself to blame for not being good enough.”
Marco blinked. It sounded wrong.
Before he could pull the blindfold off, someone gave him a push.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
They will not be coming home.
She paced the few steps from her door to the deck’s edge and back again. She gazed up at the washed out sky. Watched as the shadows encroached on the small lawn to blanket the rocks in the graying garden. Her breath was heavy in her chest.
They will not be coming home.
With every blink, the hues were fading. Taking with them memories of laughter, of pitter-patter, of wet wool and hot cocoa steaming by the fire.
The telegram emblazoned in her mind.
The boys will not be coming home.
All color gone.
Note: Dedicated to all those who knew and know such loss.
Photo prompt: © Sarah Potter
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Amotz Barlev
When the sunlight ends early
And twilight follows
Close,
Grab a book and dive into vast
Worlds where anything
Goes.
Immerse yourself into the realms
Where magic is the
Norm
And ride the wings of imagery
All night into the
Morn.
Note: I just had to share (with permission, of course) the absolute delight of this photo of my grand-niece and grand-nephews so utterly absorbed in their books. A bookworm myself, I’ve spent many an evening immersed in reading. Still do. It shaped my life. This gift that keeps on giving offers riches that all the money in the world cannot, and I am so so heartened to see it in children. I hope you read. I hope you read to your children. Your children may well follow your lead, and love of reading is a ‘bug’ well worth ‘catching.’
(Photo by Steven Weeks on Unsplash)
He believed all fair
In fight
Or wrangle,
Even if it left his life
A constant
Tangle.
For the mere thought of loss
Any would
Dangle,
Had him target max
Potential
To mangle.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Wrangle in 33 words
There was not much sweeter than Grandpa Gulliver’s honey. Then again, there was not much that was sweeter than honey. Berries, perhaps, in their short season. Or maple syrup, when they found it. But there were not many maples left anymore, and those she knew of were not particularly generous with their sap now that they had to parse energy for growing.
But there was Grandpa Gulliver’s honey. The slow pouring amber liquid of deliciousness. As valuable and as glorious as gold. The warmth of happy in her mouth.
Grandpa Gulliver had built Hive Homes for the bees. Tiny mansions of industry where workers and queens could shelter from the rain under eaves that shed the snow and cut the wind.
She used to watch the ins-and-outs for hours. The buzz. The promise.
Now they stood desolate.
No bees. No Grandpa Gulliver.
Who knew they’d all be taken, sweetness gone?
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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