Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
Hold your toes
And attention
On the story she tells.
Lean in more
To inspect
Every image as well.
For no matter
The weather
Or the chatter
Outside,
There’s not much like
The keepsake
Of a big sister’s
Pride,
And the magic of
Words
In your sweet heart,
Amplified.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Keepsake in 49 words
” … And that is when the sun became the liquid gold …” Marianna tucked the blanket tighter around the child and bent to kiss the flaxen head. The short soft hairs tickled her lips. She hadn’t yet gotten used to the severe buzz cut. She resisted touching her own head.
“…and in the morning?” the little one murmured, half-asleep.
“It will turn itself back into an orb and rise into the dawn …”
The almost translucent eyelids fluttered open once to rest on the flaming horizon, before closing, heavy, onto the small cheeks. The girl’s breathing deepened and slowed in time with the surf, arms secured around a well-loved doll.
Marianna stared at the reflection of molten lava on the water, listened to the murmured rush of the waves, rocked on her heels, and hugged herself.
At least the weather’s holding.
The child turned. An arm slipped out of the protection of the blanket and Marianna tucked the slim limb back under the covers, securing the doll where it could not be seen. It was a forbidden toy, yet Marianna could not bring herself to discard it. Not when so much had already been lost. She swallowed, and her hand rose of its own accord to feel the expanse of her head, the hair no longer there.
It was the least of it. Better they be seen as male, anyway.
The sun sank, gold, into the sea. She thought of the bedtime story and of the simple acceptance of young minds. Of the trust, the effervescent hope. Her own breath deepened as her daughter’s face at rest loosened a coil of tension in her chest into tendrils of comfort.
They’d made it this far. The beach was secluded. The trees and darkness offered their own respite. She, too, needed sleep.
May morning come, she thought. She lay her head on their pack of belongings and spooned the child against her heart. The last of the light licked the dampness from her cheek. May we safely see tomorrow’s orb rebirthed.
For Sue Vincent’s Write Photo prompt
Photo: Crispina Kemp
It had been their favorite place to play as children. Filled with old tools and lopsided shelves. A leaky roof that hindered the rain from soaking them when the weather turned and they had misjudged the time.
She never would have thought that the shed would become a shelter from a lot worse than the rain. And without end. For there was no place to return.
There will be no welcome in the farmstead. Not anymore.
No warm soup waiting. No blanket. No fire to steam wet clothes as fingers thawed. Instead of comfort, they’d likely send the dogs.
She still could not quite understand how quickly times had changed. How she’d gone from part-of to pariah.
Was she the same? How could she be, when the patch she was made to wear now defined her?
A jew, she was their plague. How long would the shed conceal her?
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Photo: Amitai Asif
Go deep into the space within
Where sorrow holds to joy,
And find the light that shadow
Serenades
In times
Without employ.
Go deep into the burrowed
Land
Where memory resides,
And seek the song that
Dances,
Stubborn,
In your mind.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS writing prompt: Deep
Note: Dedicated to all who are struggling during these uncertain times. May you find all that you need, in health, in life, in light.
“Do you still have it?”
“Let me see,” he nodded at the screen even though he knew she couldn’t see him.
“Okay.”
The tremor in her voice told him everything: How tender she felt, how brave she was, how she couldn’t bear for him to ask directly lest it shatter what brittle control she managed to maintain.
“Got it,” he breathed. Attached. Hit ‘send.’ “Check your email.”
The line was silent. Then her voice, full of tears. “I knew it. I knew it hadn’t been a dream. She said she’d visit. From the after. Exactly this way. … And she came.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Inbar Asif
He lay himself
Bare
On the ground.
Stripped into
A fraction of his
Former self, yet
In his memory
A giant
Still,
And let the blanket of
Red
Caress him
Through to the
Other side of life,
And into the
Eternal
Sleep.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: red
Photo: JK Monument, Brasilia; Maurilio Quadros on Unsplash
“Why is he up there?” Santiago shaded his eyes against the glare.
“To be close to the angels,” A-avó said.
“Isn’t he already dead?” the boy asked softly. He didn’t want to offend his grandmother, whose age seemed close enough to dying.
“Ah,” A-avó shook her head with sorrow. “He is with Jesus now some years. But he kept many from joining Heaven too early.”
The boy’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Did he do magic, A-avó?”
“In his way,” the old woman nodded. “Magic enough to me. Your O-avô would not have lived if it weren’t for President JK bringing medicine to us who lived in the country. The malaria and the tuberculosis would have taken your O-avô. As they had taken mine.”
Santiago thought of how it would be for him to grow up without the man he loved. “Obrigado,” he bowed to the statue.
“Good boy,” A-avó smiled.
For What Pegman Saw: Brasilia, Brazil
Photo: Yunming Wang on Unsplash
He said the world’s come to an end.
“Not quite,” she noted,
“For it keeps revolving.”
Her hand stayed warm
On his chest.
“Uninterrupted sun and set,
The dawn and birth,
Are their own continuity.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Continuity in 35 words
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
In the distance between
The now and
There,
Rises the stair
We all must
Share,
Step by step to
Anywhere
Before the future days
Declare,
The distance we
May finally
Repair.
For the Lens-Artists Photo Challenge: distance
Photo: Crispina Kemp
“We’re gonna have to scale things down,” The Earl noted.
“Yep,” Monterey scratched the stubble that sprouted, stubborn, on his chest. He was going to refuse the grooming nonsense next time.
“Got the shrink?”
Monterey nodded. He’d put up with the thumping for the last bit of journey. Annoying though it was, the noise did save him the trouble of going into the back compartment to check whether the cargo was still alive.
“Have him at it, then.” The Earl turned and strode back into his cab.
Monterey waited till The Earl disappeared from view before bending to rummage through the vehicle’s boot. He plucked the squirming figure out of its perforated container and held the furious man between finger and thumb.
“You’re a shrink,” he rumbled, pointing another hand at the air-ship’s anchor and chains. “These are too big. Can’t have’em stay this way. So you best shrink this.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
A place to improve my writing skills, and that's all.
We're not thriving, we're creatively photosynthesizing under duress.
History of the Bloomingdale area on Manhattan's Upper West Side
A creative miscellany of mythic fantasies
a weekly flash fiction prompt inspired by google maps
A community for writers to learn, grow, and connect.
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
I can't sleep...
Alternative haven for the Daily Post's mourners!
never judge a girl by her weight
original fiction and rhyme
You have reached a quiet bamboo grove, where you will find an eclectic mix of nature, music, writing, and other creative arts. Tao-Talk is curated by a philosophical daoist who has thrown the net away.
A photographer's view of the world - words and images to inspire your travels and your dreams
Life in progress
Straight up with a twist– Because life is too short to be subtle!
WordPress & Blogging tips, flash fiction, photography and lots more!
Light Words
Na'ama Yehuda 
You must be logged in to post a comment.