Adrift

laurenz-heymann-A81b6QQRz_M-unsplash

(Photo: Laurenz Heymann on Unsplash)

 

They would have gladly helped.

If he had let them.

If only he had found

The key

To what his dreams

Put forth.

If only he had known

How to identify

What were so many

Opened doors.

Instead, they watched,

Helplessly muted

To his ears,

As he fumbled,

Lost,

Amidst a maze of what

Were to him

Opaque,

Endless,

Walls.

Their lifelines loose,

Adrift

In the current

Of his

Half-formed

Words.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Key in 71 words

 

Space Saver

small-load NaamaYehuda

 

“It won’t fit.”

Sandra looked up from kneading. Mollie’s face was red with exertion.

“What won’t?” she asked, resuming the stretch-fold-stretch-fold rhythm. Working dough relaxed her. The knowledge that each pull and press moved energy from her muscles into what would later feed them. The cycle of it.

“The laundry. Nothing fits.”

“That’s odd,” Sandra noted. “I washed linens in it just the other day.”

“But nothing fits!” Mollie’s voice shook. “Not a sock!”

Sandra paused. She forgot how easily her sister got flustered even by simple things.

“It’s a Space-Savor model,” she offered. “Have you tried shrinking the items first?”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: © Na’ama Yehuda

 

Not Unprepared

susan-wilkinson--nM5cl0rVXI-unsplash

(Photo: Susan Wilkinson on Unsplash)

 

She was up all night.

Words crowded her mind. Piled atop each other, they kept coming

Impatient. Wanting to be picked.

Even the discarded ones pressed behind closed lids, trying to repeat.

A few slipped, surprising and lubricated by unexpected tears.

Of worry.

Of hope.

Of fatigue.

She tossed and turned. She wrote. She paced.

And still words tumbled. Filling every space.

In the small hours she ran the tub.

Soaked.

Prayed to soften the callouses

And the rough edges

Snagging nonsense

In her mind.

As dawn rose, she was bare.

Exhausted.

Script mulled.

Not quite ready,

But word lulled.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Script in 100 words

 

Impressed

 

kelly-sikkema-jrFNMM6K0VI-unsplash

(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)

 

Impressed, she was.

The image etched into her mind.

The angle of his neck,

Head bent over the

Guitar,

Engraved

Onto her heart.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Engrave in 23 words

 

Her Own Shadow

 

Evening light filtered through partially open curtains. Outside the porch’s floorboards sighed. A car’s engine coughed into life. The scent of crushed leaves and motor oil drifted on an errant breeze.

She sighed.

There will be time to sort through the tangled mess inside her heart, to sweep up shards of life, to breathe out the echoes of words she wished to never have heard.

Not yet.

For the moment, she just sat.

A shadow of her former self.

In a house that wept emptiness.

And let the space behind her eyes

Hold her as she waited

To be found.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo: © Dale Rogerson

 

Greenhorn

 

“A pile of junk,” she had called it.

“My pile of junk,” Tim had responded, knowing then that if it came to choice, it would not be her he’d choose. And not because he cared for wheels and metal more than for flesh and blood. If Daria could not see why Poppa’s beloved Greenhorn was worth saving, she could not see worth where it sat.

Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. Memories and family.

His only. Family.

Daria found a man with a Jaguar.

Tim renovated Poppa’s car.

Found Miranda.

“A classic!” she exclaimed.

Flesh and heart. Worthy of Poppa’s car.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Brenda Cox

 

 

 

 

Singled Out

 

 

He didn’t mind.

Not really.

She tossed him out, she did. A punishment. For being “self-absorbed” and “unmotivated.”

Fair blame, it was. If needing quiet time was selfish, and if not finding it important to climb the never-ending escalator of social comparison, spelled lacking motivation.

Emily liked that stuff.

He did not.

A mismatch more than an actual problem.

For him.

He’d have to find better insulated housing before winter. But in the interim, the camper offered everything he needed.

Shelter. Nature. Quiet. Calm.

Perhaps he’d send Emily a thank you card. Next time he was in town.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Bill Reynolds

 

The Waiting Game

 

“So I sit here…”

“…and wait,” Misha confirmed.

Clara sighed. When she agreed to babysit her nephew, she thought playgrounds and picnics. Not nonstop rain and hours in a gloomy cafe while her car was being repaired.

She looked around for the boy. Yep. There. His red top. He’s crouched behind the same table. Every. Single. Time.

“I give up!” she announced.

“Ta-da!” Misha popped out like a cork from a bottle.

The four-year-old ran to her and wrapped his arms around her torso. “Best play-date ever, Auntie Clawa! I love this Waiting Game!”

Clara smiled. “Wanna hide again?”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © David Stewart

 

 

Hanging In

ray-fragapane-QM5-lbqzREc-unsplash

(Photo: Ray Fragapane on Unsplash)

 

They didn’t know then

Or still

What track life will

Bring.

Yet they hold on,

By bootstraps

Hoping

For just enough breath with which to

Sing,

To the sun

That would rise,

To the hope

That would

Cling.

Till dawn will

Another story

String.

 

 

For dVerse Quadrille Poetry challenge

 

Almost Viable

gabriel-jimenez-jin4W1HqgL4-unsplash

(Photo: Gabriel Jimenez on Unsplash)

 

She was almost there.

The core of her was almost

But perhaps not quite. Viable.

It took so much of her. To form. To build.

To be.

To sift the valued from the wreckage.

The meaning

From the hurt.

That there was little left.

Yet.

For viability.

Nonetheless it was still in there.

Nascent. Waiting.

For the rain.

For the sunlight.

For the nourishment.

For what had already sprouted and was on its way

To the life

She was.

And could

Sustain.

 

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Viable in 82 words.