A Broken Wing

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(Photo: Michael Carruth on Unsplash)

 

They stumbled

Broken

On the wind,

Dragging behind

A shattered wing.

Still chanting with

The roar of

Mobs,

Dispersed a faction

That from the

Truth’s been

Robbed.

Their memory

Fogged

By lie’s

Remorse,

Will they attempt to

Correct course?

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Faction in 39 words

 

One More Time

 

It was going to be a stretch, but the alternative was silence.

And they could not. Not with the possibility that someplace, someone, was still listening.

After all, you never knew what people managed behind closed doors with all kinds of inventions that obscured their virtual footprints from those who’d mine their minds for false and profit.

Hadn’t there been exploitation in them, too? In their own broadcasts?

“We hold to truth,” Boss said.

And fastened onto truth, they nodded.

“Good evening, folks,” they said with tight smiles flickering. “We have the news. After which we will bid you goodbye.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Tested

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Photo: Andy Feliciotti on Unsplash

 

Perhaps they did not know when it would come, or what it would require to what end. But they had to know they’d face the crucible that will reveal a moral fiber, if they had one.

They’d have to choose then: good or bad, peace or harm, truth or falsehood.

It would appear an easy choice, to go for better judgment. And yet they had so tangled themselves in the net of lies, that extrication meant losses they weren’t quite prepared to reap. Not when they hoped for revenue from crouching behind flags of insurrection.

They capitulated.

Dark history, revisited.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Crucible in 100 words

 

 

A Marginal Way

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(Photo: Karen Forte)

 

At the very fringe

Of hope,

And even as embers

Of warmth

Barely flickered,

A marginal way

Lived on

In her heart,

Its waves crashing

Full of breath

Against

Life’s rocks.

 

 

 

For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Marginal in 31 words

 

Seeking Silver Linings

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Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

It wasn’t about giving up. It was about silver linings.

Or about looking for them. At least.

Better than seeing the mess inside her mother’s house. The junk that kept arriving, accumulating, suffocating. Better than listening to the endless arguments between her parents. Or to the cries of the neighbor from across the street. The police there every other week. Mostly on payday, when the neighbor’s husband was drunk. Fancy neighborhood. Broken lives.

So, she curled up by the window, eyes to the sky, watching fluffy clouds drifting by.

Perhaps the silver lining will ride in on the next one.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers (I mean, how could I NOT participate when Rochelle chose to use one of my photos today?! Happy, healthy, and a BETTER 2021, everyone! And to all the children in homes-of-crisis: Hang in there, it gets better, you are worth it, you are seen!)

 

Waiting

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(Photo: Martha Dominguez de Gouveia on Unsplash)

 

He drooped as hours

Lingered

Without any

News.

He tried to read but

Worry clogged his

Views.

He paced awhile but

Found his feet too heavy

As his hope grew

Weak.

The moments stretched

Their languid

Endless

Streak.

“It’s done,”

A soft voice filtered

To him

Through the mist.

“She’s resting comfortably.

So is your newborn son.”

 

 

 

For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Languid in 57 words

 

Unintended Consequences

 

“This is the stuff of nightmares.”

Nina grinned and admired her handiwork. “This is the idea.”

Daniel shuddered. This thing was creepy even in full daylight. He could only imagine how it would appear in twilight or moonlight or through a flashlight’s beam. “Did you have to make it so KKK?”

Nina’s grin slipped and quivered but returned. “Not the intent, but perhaps the effect will nonetheless be meaningful.”

Daniel scratched his afternoon whiskers. Itchy stuff, all that growing up. “How so?”

“A dilapidated, pathetically-desperate-for-a-shower bully racist figure protecting a multi-racial, pluralistic graveyard is perhaps quite apt. Don’t you think?”

 

 

Photo prompt: © Sandra Crook

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Not Long Now

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(Photo: Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash)

 

He failed but would not let it go.

He would not let things rest.

He has to prod and press and woe

In niggling senseless tests.

 

He cannot accept evidence.

He contradicts all fact.

His weakness grows in petulance

Yet haggle seems he must.

 

A pity he’s so insecure.

His desperate noisome pouts.

Yet reason in most still endures

And his time will soon run out.

 

 

For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Niggle in 66 words

 

Windmills

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(Photo: CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash)

 

So he shouts

At the wind

For blowing

To where he did not

Want it,

And demands

Others swear

There’s no wind

Because he’s so

Quixotic.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Quixotic in 26 words

 

Compliance

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(Photo: Isaac Holmgren on Unsplash)

 

When all was said and done,

There was no question

Of whether or when

Or why,

She would be expected

To abide by all

The rules they had

Intended to

Apply.

The law was set.

The outcome clear.

She was to follow

And adhere.

 

 

For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: abide