Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
And the stories that we tell
To small ones under
Good tales’ spell
Become the fabric
That unveils
The yarns they’ll spin
Or might dispel.
For the SYW-Revisited Challenge
Stories We Tell
Author: Na'ama Yehuda
Trill Trio
Photo: Philip Coons
It was down
To the wire
To find glorious
A perch,
As the skies
Drew around them
A gray dome
As church.
For the One Word Sunday Challenge: Threesome
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Warp and Weft
Photo: Adi Rozen-Zvi
Shuttle flies
Right and left
In hands
Steady and deft
Every line
Adding heft
Beauty born
Warp and weft.
For the Sunday Stills Challenge: Work
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Pink Blessing
Photo: Adi Rozen-Zvi
Perched above
Hearts and eyes
Freshly woven
Phuang malai
Made in faith
By the Thai
For good fortune
In Chiang Mai.
For Pink September Squares Challenge
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As The Crow Flies
Mackinac Island; http://www.cityofmi.org/
“Thar she is,” the captain pointed.
She stared at the lighthouse across a desert of stacked ice shards and patches of wet cold.
“How far are we?”
The grizzled man lifted a hand against the horizon as if measuring. “Ah, ’bout a mile, as the crow flies.”
Might as well be ten thousand, she thought. Years, too.
He’d left the engines idling but refused to get her any closer. Would not lend her a kayak, either. “Too chocked up,” he’d said.
She reiterated her urgency but still he would not be swayed.
“She’d give up her ice soon,” he nodded at the lake. His attempt at kindness.
Soon would be too late. She swallowed bitterness. The estate was scheduled to be liquidated the next morning. Without photo proof of her early childhood scrawls in the lighthouse’s attic, she’d lose the inheritance. Illegitimate in a whole new way.
For What Pegman Saw
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Summertime
Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
Evening comes.
Sun slides down
Child at play
Lapping light
Close at hand:
Summertime.
For the Weekly Photo Challenge: Summertime
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Imminently Absent
Photo: Jaime Michelle
Every year it shrinks back
Every year it grows less
Till too soon
It will be
But a memory
Unless.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: Absent
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Glassed
Original Photo: Amitai Asif
The broken ice
In shards
Of glass,
Pierces to melt
A pond’s
Cold heart.
For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge
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All There Is
Photo: Davide Cantelli via Unsplash
She would learn everything about it, she promised herself, and details will no longer catch her unaware. The books soldiered on, and she with them. By closing-time she was educated and heartbroken: She knew what it was. She knew it was incurable.
For Three Line Tales, week 135
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Gramma’s Right
PHOTO PROMPT © Nathan Sowers
“You can come with me,” she insisted.
“Mazie,” I sighed. “You’re old enough to know not to take Gramma’s stories literally.”
The seven-year-old shrugged, and the new pixie cut she’d insisted on and which took away the curls I so adored, glinted in the light.
She glanced at the dilapidated building, then at me. Her face was inscrutable. Was she hesitant or exasperated? Perhaps both?
The moment stretched.
“Gramma’s right,” she sputtered. “You’re too stubborn for your own good.”
And she stepped through the mirror, onto grass, and disappeared into the shack.
For Friday Fictioneers: August 31 2018
Na'ama Yehuda 
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