Tiny Tidings

 

The dreary times were soon to pass.

No matter that her breath still steamed both outdoors and inside the drafty house. No matter that her red fingers barely bent with swelling and that the chilblains on her toes still burned and ached and itched. No matter that she took so long to warm come night that she almost despaired of sleeping.

The dreary times were soon to pass.

She knew.

True, it was still frosty.

But the cold was dying.

She knew, because the ice formed only on the very edges of her washbasin and because what frost adorned the ground in the morning would transmute into miniature mirrors of dew by the time the sun rose higher in the sky.

And because she saw the primrose.

Blooming.

Out there.

In audacious glee.

If the tiny flowers could endure the remnants of frigidity, so could she.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Spree Time

(Photo: David Libeert on Unsplash)

 

No wallet? No problem.

He’d lived without one as a child and did not remember being hungry. Or at least, not so hungry that he could not muster energy to wrangle grub from whatever lay around.

His grandmother had taught him. Raised through famine she had become an expert forager. There were few edible things she did not recognize or know how to procure.

“If you’re awake, you can find food,” she’d say.

He was awake.

It was time to dumpster dive.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Forage in 82 words

 

A Rare Root

 

It took her sixty years, but she finally did manage to maneuver the tangled maze of history and silence.

“Why do they make it so difficult?” she had demanded one day, flooded with frustrations.

“Shame, I suppose,” the woman at the records office had shrugged.

And a shame it was.

One that too many women carried, and too many cultures reinforced.

Sealed hopes.

But shame could not, in the end, keep her story from being told.

She watched the ancient lady in the market. Half-bent. Wholly recognizable.

Her birth mother.

A rare root unfurled inside her heart. Sprouted. Took hold.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Brenda Cox

 

 

 

Everything

(Photo: Inbar Asif)

 

It was everything

To her

To tend the naked vines that sprawled

Across her soul,

And through the long cold

Winter

To let the sun pour 

Over

The sprawling expanse of not-yet-sweetness,

As she hoped

And prayed

For fruit

Ripening amidst abundance

Into wine.

 

 

For the dVerse poetry quadrille challenge: Wine

Mary Quite Contrary

(Photo: Andre Hunter on Unsplash)

 

She was Mary

Quite contrary.

She refused to read what others wrote

And claimed all facts are anecdotes,

And when food was on her plate

She’d allow it to stagnate,

And then predictably complain

That she was made to abstain.

Any piece of news she heard

She declared to be absurd,

And if science dared be presented

She turned extra discontented.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Absurd in 61 words

 

Limbo

(Photo: Crispina Kemp)

 

He leaned back and sighed in contentment.

It was never a simple thing, to find comfort. 

He sighed again. Just for the pleasure of it.

A bird chirped over his head, and he lifted his chin to greet it.

“You got it, Feathered Friend,” he smiled.

Birds understood the impossibility of confinement. How one needed room. To fly. To move. To preen. To be. To keep balance.

It was not a simple thing, to find space for one’s wingspan.

Especially not for his.

“Daddy Long Legs,” people had called him, and not with kindness. “Spindly Spider Man.”

He couldn’t help his lanky limbs, how his pituitary did something that made his long bones longer and lacked a way to let them know he was past growing age.

How long? He didn’t know.

Limbo sighed, stretched his legs, and rested his feet on the stump.

One day at a time.

 

 

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Look Yonder

Yonder spring NYC 2021 NYehuda

(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)

 

Look yonder and you may see

What has, perhaps, become

Of me.

The good, the bad, we could

Agree,

Had gone to bed and woke up

Free.

Look yonder

And you will find

A key,

To what helps us

Grow

From one, to we.

 

 

 

For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Yonder in 44 words

 

A Long Way Down

ccc124

 

“This place will never do,” Aaron shook his head.

“It’ll have to,” Ella tucked the edges of frustration back into the crevices that practice had made almost foolproof. Almost. One could not get complacent.

She’d seen what happened when one did, and the cost was never worth the temptation of release.

“We’ll make it work,” she added before Aaron could add argument to what they both knew will have to be managed anyway.

The steep plot of thicket-covered land was all they had. A measly inheritance, perhaps, but better than the debtor’s jail … and the ways one had to pay debts with one’s body. Piecemeal. By the hour. By the man. They could neither of them survive it again.

“It is a long way down,” Aaron acquiesced. “The stairs are rotted.”

“A longer way up for those who do not know the path,” Ella smiled. “We’ll do fine.”

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

His Lamppost

 

They didn’t quite expect him to show up as he had, but most of them who’d known him weren’t all that terribly surprised. Not really.

Not when he had made himself comfortable under that very lamppost, every evening and in every weather, for as long as anyone could remember.

It almost made sense, then, that he would.

Manifest.

From the beyond.

Some began to keep a distance from that corner after dark.

Others, though, just walked on by.

“Evening, Mr. Barns,” they’d tip their head in the direction of his halo.

Even when alive, he hadn’t been known to respond.

 

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Almost Grown Up

(Photo: Mabel Amber on Pixabay)

 

There was a moment between

Childhood and

Being almost

Grown up,

Where she knew that she would

Very soon be

Quite possibly

All tied up.

With chores and duties

Work and house,

Strung like eyes

On knitting needles,

In a knot of adult

Life.

 

 

 

 

For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Knot