Photo: Sven Brandsma on Unsplash
He reports first thing in the morning.
He reports again every night.
There’s little that could dissuade him
From being absolutely forthright.
He records every scene with a flourish.
His voice reflects every sight,
As with journalist’s flair
He spells data in ample delight.
He would not be distracted from telling,
The minutia has got to be tight.
After all, he is in potty training
And to him no discharging is trite.
Photo: Javardh on Unsplash
“If it rains,” she said.
“It pours,” he answered.
They laughed and touched palms
Over glass.
The barriers that divide
Not keeping them
Apart.
“And when it shines,” she said,
“It glories,” he responded.
She grinned and then the corners
Of her lips
Shook and her palm pressed
Again
Toward his
And her eyes unleashed a
Downpour of
Longing.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered.
“I’m almost ready
For the transplant.
My cells will welcome yours
Into my own.
As they had
In the womb.
It is like coming home.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Downpour in 88 words
“He should be here soon,” Ernest’s inert body belied the excitement in his eyes.
“It might not be today,” Gertrude noted. She knew he had to hold on to hope, but she could not bear to see him wade across another disappointment.
There have been far too many of late. And more coming.
“Oh, it will,” Ernest insisted.
Gertrude nodded. When he got something firmly into his head, there was little use in trying to dissuade him. Nor much to gain from it, really.
She wheeled him to a sunny spot out of the wind, arranged the blanket over his lap, and brought herself a stool. The both of them could use fresh air as well as what vitamin D they’d manage making.
They sat. She dozed off.
His cry woke her. Joy. Not pain.
“He’s here!”
Merlin, he’d called him. The osprey rested twice-yearly, mid-migration, on their chimney stack.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
“You’ll stand on one side of the bridge, and I’ll cross it to the other.”
Millie considered.
Sylvia could be tricky. Sometimes the spunky neighbor was a delightful friend. Other times … not so much. And that’s not counting mishaps. Millie lost tally of how many times her playmate had landed her in trouble.
Millie’s hand rose to absentmindedly rub her backside. It still sported a bruise from the last ‘adventure’ Sylvia took them on. That tree limb would never grow again, and Millie’s piggy bank was half-emptied from the fine her parents had levied.
She looked at the pond. The water lilies floated serenely on the surface. A dragonfly hovered before dipping elegantly to paint a ripple. A frog leaped and splashed and swam underneath a wide green leaf. A bird chirped nearby.
It was perfect.
“I’m fine just relaxing here on the bank,” Millie decided.
“We won’t disturb anything,” Sylvia countered, flinging a braid behind a shoulder.
Millie shuddered. It was one of the things that were uncanny about Sylvia. Millie was positive the girl could read minds.
“I brought a ball,” Sylvia enticed. “And bread.”
The ball must be Denny’s, Sylvia’s brother, and almost certainly swiped without permission. The bread? Well, that was probably not ill got.
“No ball,” Millie said, then sighed. Somehow she always gave in to what became a kind of bargaining, when she in fact wanted none of the options to begin with.
“Great!” Sylvia scampered across the narrow bridge. “I’ll toss bread crumbs in the water and make some waves. You corral. Let’s see how many frogs we can get!”
“Can you see her?” Emma rose on tiptoes and lifted her chin to add inches to her five-foot frame.
I smiled. What Emma lacked in stature, she made up for in sheer stubbornness. She felt tall.
We had parked on the far side of the marina and were approaching from behind the stage, facing the crowd. A sea of heads corralled by masts.
“She isn’t in the first row,” I noted, puzzled. Aunt Tilda was a front-row fixture in all local concerts.
“Look again,” Emma insisted. “If it’s free, you bet she’d staked her claim since the day before yesterday.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Karen Forte
They’ll return
To the sky
To the bluffs
To the forests.
They’ll return
To true pride
To the strength
And the chorus,
Of the way
Things can be
When the truth
One can see
And the powers
Of we,
Will refuse to
Agree
To deceits of those
Pretending
To celebrate
Being free.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Return
Photo: Will Malott on Unsplash
She refused to budge
Or borrow.
She would not allow herself
The slightest
Reach.
“If it ain’t broke,” she said,
Hiding sorrow –
Holding on to life
In tatters
Yet refusing to
Give in even
A stitch –
“There is no need to seek
A fix.”
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Fix
Photo: Jon Tyson on Unsplash
As soon as he arrived, she would be able to make her exit.
Take time for herself. Have a moment of calm.
She was oh-so-tired. She urged him on.
“On my way,” he said. “A few more minutes and I’ll come.”
She waited.
The minutes then the hours ticked their slow molasses of seconds. Time puddled, sticky, in her mind.
Around her the demands of life continued and her body obeyed. Her hands found zippers and did and undid buttons and washed dishes and stirred pots and hung wet linens and kneaded dough and bandaged a skinned knee and broke up fights and interrupted arguments. Her mouth managed to answer questions she did not remember being asked.
At some point her eyes no longer rose to check the clock. The sinking feeling curled up and took residence inside her gut.
She fed. She bathed. She put to bed.
She rocked. She soothed. Not knowing what she said.
As dark deepened and the night grew long, she knew.
He would not arrive.
There will be only more to overcome.
Photo: Lerone Pieters on Unsplash
Where faith remains in morning’s dawn,
There will not fade
The hope of light,
Breathing
Life
On.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Fade in 17 words
“There’s no line!” Margo pulled Adina’s hand with one of hers and pointed with the other. “Let’s hurry!”
Adina followed Margo’s finger, shielding her eyes from the sun. It’s been a long day already and they’d only gotten in a little over an hour ago. The drive. The stops. The lines for the tickets. The lines for the entrance. The lines for the bathroom. The lines to the lines …
Her eyes met the target.
What was that!?
A contraption rose ahead, metal-barred and plastic-sheathed, crisscrossed with steps and zigzagged horrors.
“Come on!” Margo danced on the balls of her feet, ecstatic.
Adina felt the hotdog that she didn’t even eat yet threaten a revisit.
No way she was going up that thing. Nope. Ain’t gonna happen.
“Must be a reason no one’s there,” she tried.
“Yeah! Because it is ‘by reservation.’ Aren’t you glad I called ahead and made one?”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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