(Photo: Pierre Bamin on Unsplash)
When voice failed and
She could no longer
Think
She turned to
Ink
For words on velum
Scribbled
Fast
Translated
Into heart.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Ink in 22 words
Inked
Month: June 2021
Not All
“We must cancel!” Ruth’s voice was reedy with tension.
“We must not!” Tomas retorted more sharply than he’d intended.
Ruth flinched and turned away. Her shoulders trembled.
Tomas wanted to kick himself. “I’m sorry, Love,” he tried.
Her head shook, but she turned back to him and buried her face in his chest.
“It is all ruined,” she sobbed, pointing at the storm’s devastation.
“Not all,” he wrapped arms around her.
A long breath shuddered, then Ruth’s eyes, glistening, found his.
“No, not all,” she repeated. Breathed.
His own knees weakened. His Ruth of Awe and Fire.
His bride. Today.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Brenda Cox
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Arranged
(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
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Refusal
“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
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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
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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
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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
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Horsing Around
“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
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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
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Water Line
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
Na'ama Yehuda 
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