Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
You can captain a boat
Drive a car
Pilot planes,
But there’s nothing quite like
Driving this
Mini-train.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Drive
Choo-Choo
Author: Na'ama Yehuda
Mr. Stormled’s Undoing
Photo credit: Fandango
“How long does she have to be here?”
I’m sure Martin’s eyebrows would’ve reached the ceiling if they weren’t tied together in a unibrow.
“Mr. Stormled said, at least a month.”
Martin twisted one side of his mouth to bite the corner of his lip, and I knew there were many words he wanted to say and wasn’t. Afraid, perhaps. Many were. There was something about people – if they were people at all – who controlled such things.
Stewart Stormled didn’t frighten me, though. At least not more than most things did. I bent to straighten the small pillow.
“Making her comfortable?”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Dad won’t like this.”
Martin had a point, but Dad wasn’t in charge of this any more. He’d given up that right when he dabbled in what he shouldn’t and left us to clean his mess. Like always.
A moment trickled by.
“You think it’ll work?” For once, Martin’s voice was small.
I sighed and traced the handle of Mr. Stormled’s broken wicker chair. “Yeah. Or Mama will remain a branch forever. Julie says that’s what happened to Grandma … last time Dad tried to use magic.”
For the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge
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Early Hold
Photo: Zaid Abu Taha on Pexels.com
She is early in birth
And early in breath,
Independent in all.
She’s come forth barely cooked
But is here even so
Stubbornly grabbing hold
Ravenous in her howls,
In a world just a tad
Unprepared
For her life-hungry spirit
And determined
Big soul.
[Dedicated to all the little ones who arrive exactly at the right time … for them. … and to all who work with them, to make it the best possible time and outcome.]
For the dVerse Poetry Challenge: Early in 44 words
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Turning In
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
As the cool nights
Begin,
Snow draws near
And she pulls in.
The verdant hues of
Summer’s green,
Slowly replaced with
Sleep’s bronze
Sheen.
For the Festival of Leaves Challenge
For the Photo for the Week: Red
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How Will I Know?
Photo by Kat Jayne on Pexels.com
How will I know
The taste of freedom
If I am locked
Inside a cage?
How will I find
A true horizon
When I am of
Tender age?
Where will my parents be
Tomorrow?
Will army men
Lock them away?
How will I know
If I will get to see them
Once again
One day?
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Not Itsy
Photo: Adi Rozen-Zvi
This is no macro shot
Of a small spider
Up close,
But a photo of one
That is bigger than most.
Sized to barely fit
In the palm of a man,
It clung to a web
That could use
A steadier hand.
For the Lens-Artists Challenge: Big
Trivia: Giant Golden Orb Weavers (Nephilia Pilipes) are named for the way their intricate webs shimmer in the light. Females can grow to 20 centimeters (8 inches!!) in size and have a long slim, black body with golden spots on their back, and long skinny legs (the males are about 10 times smaller, sorry guys). Female Giant Golden Orb Weavers can build gigantic webs that can span 2 meters (6-7 feet!!) across, often between large trees, where they can be seen resting on their webs and protecting their territory (yep, that’s exactly what the photo we took above depicts). They bite their prey to immobilize it, and though their bite is not dangerous to humans, if you do get bitten by one of these mega-spiders, I cannot guarantee that you will not have LOTR-style nightmares of massive arachnids coming to get you.
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Bayou Bridged
City Park, New Orleans (Photo: en.wikipedia.org)
They always met in the park. There were spirits there, too, of course: The drowned. The lost. The desperate. The abandoned young. However, these tended to be the milder spirits, mellowed by moss and rain and the freedom to roam on whispery winds. House spirits were harsher, meaner, and angrier. They carried histories of rape and whippings and the smaller everyday murders that chip at a soul until there is nothing left but agony and bitterness.
It was better to meet in the park, on a bridge between this world and the other, chiseled by masons, anchored by time.
She lowered herself onto the top stair and waited. She’d hear him come, but she would not turn. He did not bear to be looked upon.
“I will take him across,” he’d said when they last met. And he had. It was a gentle death.
Now it was her mother’s time.
For What Pegman Saw
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White Gold
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Atop a daisy’s crown
Of petaled
White
A bee hovers
Set to hold
The pollen sought
Like precious
Gold.
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Behind Closed Doors
Photo: Inbar Asif
Decades shut
Behind closed shores
What old stories
Had you told
Of not so distant
Wars?
Weathered by
Time and lore
What future resides
Behind Cuba’s
Sealed doors?
For the Weekly Photo Challenge: Door closes
Na'ama Yehuda 
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