Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
He was so small
I recall,
How did he grow
Suddenly so?
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Growth
Growth Spurt
Life and love
The Cost of Living
Photo: Inge Vandormael
She had come to make a new life.
She found illness. She found death.
And life, perhaps, hiding in the shadows
Of her convalescing sorrow,
Waiting
To take hold.
She had come in search of meaning.
She found a babble of confusion.
Within. Without.
Rising skyward. Buried underground.
She found hope, too. For things she didn’t know
Even had names
But sprouted meaning
In the corners of what she believed
Was ruined,
But had in fact been opened
To allow in the winds of change.
She came seeking answers,
And found the cost
Of living
Paid for little more than added questions,
And that she had to look
Quite closely
At what wasn’t there,
To find
What she did not even know
She had been searching for.
Photo: The old Smallpox Hospital on Roosevelt Island (a narrow island set in the East River between Queens and Manhattan).
For What Pegman Saw: Manhattan Island
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First Sighting
Photo Credit: C.E. Ayr
Frank said he’d show them. They didn’t know what to expect.
There had been noises coming out of Frank’s garage for the last month. Scraping sounds. Creaks and screeching. Odd lights that did not seem electrical. Scents of things they could not place.
“That’s what happens when you indulge a grown man’s folly,” Mirabelle scowled, bestowing wisdom and a sharp tongue on the gathered neighbors. “Tinkering about instead of doing an honest day’s work.”
Rebecca raised an eyebrow in Dave’s direction and he swallowed a laugh. He had no intention of having his wife succeed in making Mirabelle turn her bottomless well of ire onto him.
“He found it,” Tommy whispered. The towheaded boy lived across the street from Frank and was known to make extensive use of binoculars, not always for savory pursuits.
Dave tilted his head in quasi-invitation.
“In the bog. A round thing. Egg-like. Didn’t sound this big before, though,” Tommy fidgeted.
The racket grew and the assembled quieted. Slowly the garage door rose. Something labored out, scraping massive claws on the driveway’s concrete.
Rebecca gasped. Mirabelle fainted. Frank hung back.
Reptilian eyes regarded them, assessing. As food or foe, Dave was not so sure.
For the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge
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Woolgathering
Photo: Karen Forte
Pause, and
Let your mind wander
In waking reverie
To the places where
Tomorrow’s seeds
Are sleeping
Underneath the snowy
Ground,
Wrapped in the arms
Of memories
Of days
Long passed
And others
Yet to come.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Woolgathering in 36 words
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A Firm Affirm
Photo: Tetyana Kovyrina on Pexels.com
She climbed atop the hay
And called
“I am King Of The Hill!”
And then she paused
And frowned
And said,
“I am the Princess
I’m the Queen!
No dress
No crown
But still!”
For the Stream of Consciousness Prompt: Affirm
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Spin Cycle
Photo: Y. Levenberg
Making foam of sky
With kicking feet
And screeching mouths,
Must be the new spin
Of a hit thing
Going around.
For Kammie’s Odd Ball Challenge
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Which Way Next?
Photo: Philip Coons
Which way next?
He requested,
Will it be up
Or down?
Are we headed
To Nature
Or perhaps
Sutherland?
Will we go
With the horses
On the bridle path left,
Or take the loop
With the birders
And turn right
At the cleft?
For the Which Way Challenge
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City Space
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Up and high
They pierce the sky.
Clothing floor
By floor
With glass,
They climb
Through city space
En masse.
In large cranes
O’er river,
Rails and roads,
They build Manhattan
Load
By load.
For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Construction
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New Passage
Photo: © Renee Heath
It had been a long night. It will be a long day and night still.
The old man sighed and watched the spirits paint the sky.
The youth had spent the night secluded in silent contemplation. The elders had kept vigil not far from the tent.
Some elders frowned at the arrangement. “Right of passage should require complete solitude,” they’d argued. “How else will there be quietude enough to hear the whispers of the land?”
“Times had changed,” he’d stressed. “The current world requires the tent’s protection as well as our watchful eye. Surely the spirits, in their wisdom, understand.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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The Harbinger
Photo: Amitai Asif
In the slowest hour of the night
She came in robes
Of dreams
To weave the nearest future
Into light.
She swished along the desert
Roads that only
Deepest yearnings
Take
And whispered:
It shall be.
You’ll find the path
To follow when you
Wake.
For the d’Verse challenge: Harbinger
Na'ama Yehuda 
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