(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)
The sun shone
As spring gently yet
Resolutely strode
On.
The park evolved into
A luminous
Expanse
Of green
Shoots
And pink petals
Unfold.
A respite
From the winter’s
Cold.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Luminous in 30 words.
They knew they’d need some help. They knew where to find it.
They weren’t very good at building anything, even less at securing it to withstand the snow, the winds, the cops.
Or so they hoped.
It was better to make use of what was already present.
What others, who had better skill and quite possibly better sense, had built.
Sure, some called it squatting. Some found them vagabonds.
But why not when the struts provided good foundations?
It was a pity, really, that so many did not understand.
The cops raided one night. Tossed the tents.
Kept the struts.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
(Photo: Lorenzo Fattò Offidani on Unsplash)
They told her to not
Make waves.
That to speak out is
Provocative
And that it is
Unladylike.
Unseemly.
And goes against the word of
God
As interpreted by
Themselves
Who see it as their duty
To
Control
Her.
They told her to be meek.
To atone
For the sins
Of
Eve.
She stood.
Unfurled.
Provocative.
As the Goddess made her.
Herself.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Provocative in 62 words
They didn’t know where she was. She preferred it that way.
The windows were all missing. No doors. Graffiti covered the shell of building.
It was far from town, but sometimes travelers stopped to stare, and some used the empty rooms for all manner of unsavory business.
She spent most days in the nearby woods. Foraging. Snaring. Keeping watch.
At night, she kept to the relative shelter of the basement, hanging bits of chain on entryways to serve as warning chimes.
She dreamed of restorations. Of locks on doors.
She wanted more.
But it was home enough.
For now.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Carole Erdman-Grant
(Photo: Noita Digital on Unsplash)
The swirl of white had gotten
In her eye.
Placed a tickle in her
Throat.
The door would close.
The chairs will sleep with bottoms
Against table
Tops.
There would be no more
Early morns.
No damp sponge
To erase all of yesterdays’
Chalk.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: chalk in 44 words
“I am not cold!”
“Your lips are blue,” the mother deadpanned.
“They’re not!” the child insisted, her exclaim dampened by chattering teeth.
“I see,” the woman breathed and swallowed a retort. The girl was altogether too much like herself and would only dig in deeper if confronted.
One set of eyes stared at the other.
The shuddering intensified.
“There’s a nice warm bath and dinner waiting inside,” the mom dangled.
A shrug.
“And how long do you intend to be … um … ‘not cold’?”
The little girl narrowed her eyes.
“Very well. Shall I bring you a chair, then?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: © Dale Rogerson
(Photo: Bernard Hermant on Unsplash)
It mattered not how many times he’d pressed the issue, urged she ‘see the light.’
She would not deny her own reality for his. She could not worship his Gods. His requirement of absolute adherence to ideas over facts. Over reason. Over voice.
“It’s not about facts,” he insisted, annoyed by her refusal to acquiesce. “It’s about compliance. The lesson of faith.”
“That kind of faith isn’t in my lexicon,” she said.
“Then pray on it till it is,” he turned, locked the door, left.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Lexicon in 85 words
(Photo by Elijah Hiett on Unsplash)
The world was full of golden fuzz.
The sun shone on the meadow.
She let herself soar, up and up.
Her voice free to glide on from high to mellow.
“What is that god-awful noise?”
Aunt Edna woke, her voice a sonorous bellow.
“A yodel,” the child said.
“A bird in my throat sings the dandelions yellow.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Yodel in 57 words
(Photo: Inbar Asif)
‘Tis the season for
Reason.
Time for soul to be
Bold.
Time to oust stale perceptions
And to justice
Uphold.
‘Tis the season for
Reason.
To let true heart
Take root
And dishonesty
Doom,
So the summers of
Tomorrow
May
Sing sunflowers to
Bloom.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: Season
She pulled the reins gently, but Mathilde was already slowing. Perhaps the mare knew where to stop. Perhaps she understood Elana’s shift in the saddle.
The horse tensed under her thighs.
“I know you want to gallop,” Elana patted Mathilde’s sable neck. “We’ll just stop here a minute.”
Mathilde snorted, then lowered her head to nibble on a cluster of dandelions by the gatepost.
“It’s been too long,” Elana whispered. To herself. To the plaque the ancestor she was named after had placed at the property’s threshold. A crest. A warning. A gateway.
Elana reached and Mathilde pranced sideways, bringing them flush with the square of gray granite. “Thank you, Em,” Elana breathed.
Her fingers traced the carvings and rested on the wheel of time.
The air around them shimmered. Bent. Restored.
The pasture rippled in the sun and she heard a clash of swords. Laughter.
“Let’s go visit Great-Grandam!”
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