Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
They didn’t know what they could do. What’s left of what they had.
So they rode the day in minute steps, a hand in tender hand.
They sought the light as morning came.
They danced into the night.
Because they knew no ban could
Fully
Take away
What is allowed.
For RDP Tuesday: Ban
Photo: Jon Sailer on Unsplash
So far all went according to plan.
Part serendipity, part preparation, part desperation. Sheer stubborn, too. She needed all of it.
She slunk around the building, her heartbeat almost drowning out the hum of voices reverberating in the air. She used to find the monotone of prayers soothing. Now it was the buzz of wasps.
Thomas had promised to keep any from straying. Promises were at most hopes in the Commune, but indeed the path seemed clear. Where normally there would be at least one man leaning against the door in fake calm that nonetheless effectively barred the exit, there was naught but empty space. The guards imbibed.
She quickened her pace. She’d have to time it perfectly. The once-daily pass-by train was her only chance at freedom. The rails shook. No one left and no on came on the bare platform. She leaped.
Prosery prompt quote: “No one left and no one came on the bare platform.” Edward Thomas
For the dVerse Prosery challenge: Edward Thomas
Photo: Randy Laybourne on Unsplash
There was something she didn’t share, but knew.
She held it, close, against her heart. A snuggle for her spirit. They could not take away what they did not realize she understood.
So she hid her comprehension. Her perceptions. Her realizations that what was presented as truth, was not.
Real Truth, that which resonated with her soul, was different. It sang.
She’d been quite young when she’d learned how to discern the babble from the song. It hadn’t been easy to maintain Truth, to blanket her face with masks of complacent adoration. Still she labored at it, keeping hope afloat.
For the RDP Sunday prompt: Truth
Photo: Adi Yusuf on Unsplash
“It is my destiny,” he insisted.
“It is laziness,” they countered.
He shrugged and hoisted his belongings.
They wrung their hands and shook their heads and offered dire endings. Yet there was little they could do, short of straitjacketing. And they’d been down that road with others years ago and found it sorely lacking.
Settling down suffocated him. He was Nomad born. He could heed only that calling.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Nomad in 68 words
It wasn’t an easy thing for a Bottom-Feeder to achieve Topper status. Most born to the Lower Gradients remained in the dank shadows of the towers, foraging for what could be found.
But Bronson never took the easy route. Not in birth, where his footling position had almost killed his mama and had left him only one usable hand. Not in growing, when he was often the last to be fed and the first to be beaten. Not in young adulthood, when he decided that wit and perseverance would have to do what his physique could not.
He lurked. He flattered. He kept abreast of Toppers’ visits to the LG’s for the vices, and used his nonthreatening appearance to offer guidance, and sometimes, services.
When Lorena’s ankle broke on twisted pavement, he lent a shoulder, led her home, and stayed. Life was better at the Tops, even as a pet.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
The farmer pruning rows of trees,
The seller in the market.
The hens that daily lay their eggs,
For tomorrow’s nest (or basket).
The driver navigating streets,
The postman carting packets.
The parent shepherding a child
In mask and zipped up jacket.
The nurses, doctors
Plumbers, pets,
Who have become our mascots.
The slower pace
The seeking gaze
In meetings held in tablet.
The smaller gifts
That bloom in hearts,
As parks in flowers blanket.
The ebb and flow of day to day
The births, the hope, the caskets.
The love that feeds
The good of deeds,
The evenings’ clapping racket.
For as so many things are stalled,
Kindness grows in ranking,
And we are really not at all
Out of joint in thanking.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS writing prompt: joint
Photo: Sue Vincent
They built the cone carefully. Everyone knew things like that had to be just so.
“Will they come?” Nelly fretted, slim fingers worrying the edge of her tunic.
“Sure thing,” Dahlia’s nod was as resolute as her voice. “We did it exactly. And it is the right time.”
Nelly nibbled on a lip. Aunt Lorena’s mind wasn’t what it used to be. What if the elder’s confusion extended to passing on instructions?
“There,” Dahlia placed the last stick, straightened, and took a step back to admire their handiwork. She tucked a wild lock of dark hair behind an ear and chuckled. “Looks as if they’re putting their heads together.”
More like a bunch of kindling in a miniature teepee, Nelly thought. She shook doubt out of her head. “Do we wait here?” she scanned the expanse of bluebells that carpeted the ground amidst the trees.
Dahlia twisted her mouth, stuck a corner of that disobedient lock of hair into her mouth, and pondered. The small wood felt quiet. Almost as if the air itself was waiting. “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “We better give them space.”
Nelly wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed.
After a last scan of the area, the two girls walked away, stealing glances every few paces, lest they miss something when their backs were turned.
“I think that’s far enough,” Dahlia suggested when they’d gone about twenty yards. “We don’t want the fairies to think we left completely.” Or to miss them.
Nelly nodded silently.
An afternoon ray of sun wove through the branches to rest on her cousin’s narrow face, and Dahlia noted to herself how Nelly’s golden braid and cornflower eyes blended seamlessly into the magical scenery. Like a princess, she thought in satisfaction. Exactly what they needed.
She always saw the half-full of the cup. He always saw the empty.
She saw the rain’s potential. The green to manifest. The flowers. He saw mud and wet and ruinous showers.
She saw the sun and warmth. He saw the cancer.
She pointed out the good. He, the plausible con-men in every alley.
She laughed. He frowned.
She hugged babies and puppies, while he kept both at warning distance.
“We’re like the rainbow,” she explained, when others wondered how she kept sane in the face of constant pessimism. “Our perspectives of mist and light blend a full spectrum’s beauty.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Travel home
To where the shadow
Replicates
What your heart knows:
The lives
The parks
The bustling city
That seems so quiet
And yet flows,
Even when appearing
To hold its breath
In forced repose.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Travel
Photo: Lynn Jordan on Unsplash
Shuttered windows did not
Matter,
For all who lacked knew that
The door remained unlatched
The rusty locks, unfastened,
To let the needy enter
And rest their weary heads
Within,
Their huddled warmth
Steadfast in lieu of
Hearth,
Never closed from
The ancient inn.
For the dVerse poetry quadrille challenge: close
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