Perfect View

aerial photography of tree surrounded with fogs

Photo: Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

 

“There!” Angelo pointed.

“There what?” Payton panted

“There if you bother to lift your head.”

Payton scowled but was more occupied with getting oxygen into his lungs than wasting it on responses. He was sure that Angelo-The-Braggadocio had set the punishing pace deliberately to get him gasping. Not everyone climbed mountains for recreation!

The stitch in his side finally subsided enough to allow him to remove his fists from his thighs and straighten to take in the “amazing vista” Angelo had promised.

Dense fog. Vague tree tops. Milky air.

“There goes nothing,” Payton grouched.

Angelo chuckled and the saturated air softened the sound into something almost vulnerable.

Payton glanced at his friend. Glanced again. Was the wet on Angelo’s cheeks mist or liquid feelings?

“It is the perfect view,” Angelo murmured, his oft guarded face as open as a child’s. “To be inside Big Sky is to revisit Heaven.”

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Big Sky Montana

 

 

It is Time

It is time Na'amaYehuda (2)

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

It is time to make time

For the truth

Of what happened.

It is time to make space

For what some wished

Not be known.

It is time to take heed

Of the lengths went

To smother

The misdeeds and bad choices

So the fake

Will take hold.

It is time to revisit

Civic duty and justice

And refuse to permit

Free reign for hate,

Greed and lies.

It is time to return

To the truth.

For in fact it has long been

Well way past

The time.

 

 

 

For December Squares: Time

 

Boulder Holder

Boulder holder NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Wrapping tentative fingers

That become tangled vines

Jungle trees tell the boulder:

“You’re my rock, you are mine.”

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge

 

Around The Bend

tltweek150 JanGenge via Upsplash

Photo: Jan Genge via Upsplash

 

They ran around the metal that machines had bent

And right across the bend of time

Into handmade medieval.

 

 

For Three Line Tales

 

Netted

Photo Copyright –Douglas M. MacIlroy

 

“Looks like a tennis ball on steroids,” Linda squinted at the gray blob.

Ethan rolled his eyes and turned the screen so it faced him again. “Definitely not a tennis ball.”

He shouldn’t have caved and showed her. Not that he ever did manage to withstand her pleading. Linda’s persistence could persuade a zebra to do away with its stripes.

“A cement globe?” She pressed.

Ethan shook his head.

“Am I at least getting warmer? Oh! Is it a post-global-warming thing?”

He sighed. It was hopeless. Might as well give it up.

“It’s Pluto, barely netted by the Sun.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

A Challenge To Pick

climb ChagitMoriahGibor

Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor

 

When faced with

This-is-just-impassable,

The oh-too-dangerous,

And far-too-far

To pull out from;

One step

And then

A careful second,

With a resolute pick

And sturdy rope,

Will help lock arms

With trembling courage,

To climb you out

Of hazard’s maw.

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Challenge

 

Pass Time

castle riverboat SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

At exactly the right time

She passes through,

Sliding by.

A riverboat

Glides alongside

The clock in sky.

 

For December Squares: Times

 

 

The Best Tradition

Traditions R.Yehuda

Photo: R. Yehuda

 

The doorbell rings

The gate stays open

As they trickle, stream, come in.

Sisters, brothers, nieces, cousins,

Nephews, parents, aunts and uncles,

And new additions to the scene.

Candles lit and babies cuddled,

In the kitchen tied-up aprons swirl

As busy hands ready cuisine.

A phone is passed:

A distant caller

Hellos each loved one from the screen.

The rooms are filled

The hearts are fuller.

Another year of treasured family din.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills Challenge: Traditions

 

 

Late Dance

dance OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Rega’im Menatzhim

 

Things were winding down. Most tables had been cleared and many guests had left for home. Only the hardiest (or closest kin) still remained. Sated and a bit deflated with fatigue, they lounged, gossiped, tapped phones, and not-so-surreptitiously checked the time. Several small children slept on makeshift cots of pulled together chairs.

Music still played but with more inertia than conviction.

The celebration was officially over, though not for everyone: two boys, oblivious to the late hour and overall exhaustion, danced on.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Celebration (82 words)