Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Blackout
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Reflections
Slip From Grip
Enslaved persons cutting sugar cane on the Island of Antigua, 1823, (The British Library)
She fed them well so
They would
Sleep,
And silently
She gave the slip,
To all she knew
Yet did not sweep
Away the bite
Of whip.
She fled,
So the child in
Her belly’s keep,
Would not writhe, helpless,
In another person’s
Grip.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: slip
(Note: Dedicated to all who suffered and still suffer under the yoke of injustice, discrimination, racism, and pretense. We can do better than this. We must do better than this.)
Share this:
To Know Good
Photo: Valario Davis on Unsplash
“So how do you,” he asked,
“Know good
From bad?”
“By the heart,” she replied.
“By the actions that
Build
And prop up,
And the words that
Support
And patch the
Cracked places
Inside broken parts.”
“And how,” he pressed,
“Do you know what
Just needs
Giving up?”
“By the soul,”
She patted the warm place
On her lap.
“For breath
Matters,
And hope
Matters,
And kindness
Is superior to any
Pass-by-night
Emperors
Full of promises
Of might,
Touted
For our good
But seeped in
Falsehood meant
To bring on
Plight.”
He shuddered
And she stroked his wet cheek
And held a cool
Palm to his brow.
“Now sleep,
And let spirits
Of light,
Hold back the bad
And
Fill your cup
With good
Till the world grows
Up.”
Share this:
Resolute Rose
Photo: Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash
The least of hardship was when
She broke her toe,
Age nine,
Her youngest brother
Then a mewling newborn
In her arms.
She’d been pacing
Through the night
To let Mother
Recover some.
Ever the intrepid
Elder child,
Rose missed but
A step,
Taped her toes,
And walked on
Till the morn.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Intrepid in 52 words
Share this:
Temptation
The sun beat on his nape and his shirt stuck to his body, too wet to do any good in absorbing the sweat that trickled maddeningly down the center of his back and soaked the waistband of his pants.
His arms ached. Granite did not easily yield.
The soft ripples of the water mocked him, parading a breeze he did not feel. The pillar blocked what small air movement could be had. To add insult to injury, the hot stone reflected the stifling heat back at him. The path was an oven.
A dragonfly skimming the river caught his eye and he paused, mallet in mid-air and chisel in position, muscles bunching under the folds of his damp sleeves.
What if? he pondered.
He shook the thought out of his mind. Let the mallet land.
Who knew what lurked under the surface of seemingly inviting water. Better hot than drowned.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Share this:
Carve The Cliffs
Photo: Sue Vincent
The calls of people searching for him reached his ears but he ignored them. They’d find him soon enough, and there would be punishment for him whether he answered or not. He preferred making good use of his time till then. Listening to other things.
The gulls dipped and screamed above the crashing surf. A rain-cloud hovered over the water, advancing like the searchers toward an inevitable drenching of the shore. It was his perfect weather. This mist on air. The colors. The expectation.
Did the cliffs welcome the rain or dread it? Sometimes he wondered whether for the rocks, perched above the ocean, there was relief in showers washing like tears down their stony cheeks.
He could see those. Tears. Cheeks. Faces. Hidden in the rocks.
Others mocked him for it. They said he was loose in the mind. Lacking logic. Too dreamy. Insane.
They tried beating it out of him. Did they think their thumps and slaps and lashes could drive away who he was, the way a kick sometimes dissuaded a stray dog from nosing near the chicken coop? There were times he’d wondered, curled in sobbing misery, whether it would not be better if they could.
Yet as soon as the sting subsided and the tears dried and a new morning dawned, he would feel the itch inside his soul awaken, stronger. It could not be squelched. It would no be ignored. There were spirits in those mountains. There were faces in the cliffs. He saw them. Heard their call.
An arm grasped his shoulder. Shook him. Slapped his head. Angry words garbled at his ears. He let the scolding drip to the ground. He let himself be led.
When he was grown, he vowed, he was going to carve the cliffs and release the stone-people from the prisons of ancient overgrown rock. He was going to help, so the rain could wash, freely, down their liberated cheeks.
Share this:
Out Of The Blue
Photo prompt: © David Stewart
The streets still shone with wet but the dome of sky stretched clear above. The wind had swept away the clouds.
She shivered even though the air was warm. Perhaps it was the damp that had her reaching for her shawl.
She hugged herself and wondered if she’d ever know whether he had left because he wanted to or because he had no other choice or because he did not know any better.
“Where are you?” she whispered.
She jumped when the fountain unexpectedly came to life and bathed the roundabout in blue.
It felt like a hello. From Hugh.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Share this:
By Heart And Hand
Photo: Amitai Asif
There is water
For the thirsty
Even
In the desert,
Where heart and hand
Were put to work
With foresight of what
Must be done,
To hold
What would otherwise
Be lost
To shifting sands
And blazing sun.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Manmade
Share this:
Treasure In The Sand
Galway, Ireland (photo: Fum Bally on Unsplash)
He leaned on his elbows and watched, periodically checking the clock and the tide-chart that hung next to it. Any moment now.
The briny air tickled a sneeze out of him, and he debated whether he had time to go fetch a handkerchief or if he could just use his shirt. Laundry day would not be for another full week. The handkerchief won. He rushed back to the window, flushing with a combination of exertion and embarrassment.
It was sobering to be faced with his own obsession.
The waves hissed and brushed against the beach. The ocean sighed. The breeze picked up. It would rain tonight. He believed his bones.
Then he saw her, walking on the exposed strip of rock-spattered sand. Her head was down, searching. She held a plastic bucket in her hand. It had seen better days.
They both had.
She was his treasure in the sand.
For What Pegman Saw: Galway, Ireland
Share this:
The Reporter
Photo: Sven Brandsma on Unsplash
He reports first thing in the morning.
He reports again every night.
There’s little that could dissuade him
From being absolutely forthright.
He records every scene with a flourish.
His voice reflects every sight,
As with journalist’s flair
He spells data in ample delight.
He would not be distracted from telling,
The minutia has got to be tight.
After all, he is in potty training
And to him no discharging is trite.
Na'ama Yehuda 
You must be logged in to post a comment.