Not Quite

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(Photo: Kajetan Sumila on Unsplash)

 

He was, but not quite, a solitudinarian.

He lived alone. His homestead perched atop a bluff where steep trails provided an effective fencing.

He offered bare gruff care for stranded hikers whose calculations of the weather led them to beg shelter.

Townspeople cast shadows on his hermitage. No sane man, they insisted, would give up their company.

He differed.

He came down from the mountain only rarely, for provisions he could not otherwise procure, his expression ascertaining that friendship remained off that list.

And yet.

He loved. The one. Before.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: solitudinarian in 90 words

 

Writing In The Sand

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She shifted her weight and sand squeezed warm between her toes. Heated not by sun – the orb still far too distant in such early spring – but because she’s been standing still so long that the permeating chill under her soles relented to the constant pulse of lifeblood in her veins.

A bird called. Another bird returned. An insect buzzed a disharmonious song. It will be summer soon.

She felt her chest rise in a breath and her eyes skimmed the expanse of shimmering ground, patient, waiting for the tide.

Today, perhaps, he’ll come.

Today, maybe, he will return home from the wild, where waves rose high and ships dipped low to the ocean’s floor.

There was a writing in the sand. A code left by the crabs. The gulls. The seaweed.

She waited. Wavelets licked her feet.

Perhaps today something of him will wash ashore.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Make The Move

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Rupert had always taken things too literally.

Now she would be stuck with the same leak around the toilet bowl when the boys flush a bit too long; with the same creaky closet door that slithers nightmares in her dreams when Mat-The-Cat decides to make a bed of laundered linen; and with the crooked shelf in the pantry that requires a perfected fold of cardboard to ensure the flour box does not slide off.

It never was the outside scenery she needed changing.

She watched one half roll by and realized she did not care to wait for the other.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Ted Strutz

 

Lost And Found

(Photo: Cameron Stow on Unsplash)

 

They said she was wanton.

That from a child she’s been, capricious.

Her mom would sigh. Her father, frown.

They loathed how she refused to bow.

Ungovernable. Resisting.

She was, to them,

A moral stain.

A failure

In contrition.

They had stopped speaking to her

Till she had learned submission.

The wayward daughter of the tribe.

The one who lost

Her compass.

Only they none of them knew

That,

In shunned space,

She finally

Found

Life scrumptious.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: wayward in 77 words