(Photo: Beth Hope on Unsplash)
She became an essence.
A sliver
Of her dreams.
Nothing near the child
She’d been, who played
A fairy’s magic theme,
With arms a fledgling’s
Widespread
Wings.
Life tossed her
From the nest.
Unhinged.
She a feather now.
A mere sliver
Of a being.
For the dVerse Quadrille challenge of: Sliver
(Photo: Molly Blackbird on Unsplash)
They say she gets to choose to be obedient, or face the consequences.
They say she gets to choose to accept her fault, or be blamed anyway.
She gets to chew on what she’d done. Even if it was done to her. It is still somehow her doing. Her consequence. Her crime. Her punishment.
She cradles what is left of her. Tucks it away. She will not be allowed to be. Or flee. Or seek a help. Or have a voice. Or make a choice. Not really.
It does not matter what she needs. It never did.
Her body just a vehicle for others’ machinations. An incubator for others’ agendas.
The growing despair is meant to put her in her place. Clip her wings. Keep her there.
She never mattered. No matter what words they pretended to say.
She gets to choose what they say she must do. Any other path is deemed a sin. A wrong she does.
She has no right to choose. They choose for her.
And if she dares seek freedom for herself, dares to try and claim back what is left of her body, she’ll be, to them, a killer.
For Linda’s SoCS prompt of chews/choose
(Photo: Intricate Explorer on Unsplash)
His chest pumped high
In disrespect
He struts
And spouts,
Magniloquent.
Follow his every word
They must,
Appease or face
Scathing wrath.
Bombastic peacock
Heading
Cult.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Magniloquent in 26 words
Twenty kilometers. His heart thumped in his ears. His muscles screamed for relief. He pushed through. Almost there. A bit more. One last hill.
Done.
All he needed to do now was get to his bike. Pedal home. Thankfully, mostly downhill.
He’d have a warm shower while the coffee brewed. Get some oatmeal going. Fry an egg. Make toast. His mouth watered.
A distant rumble sounded, and he looked up. The heavy bank of clouds that followed him, finally caught up.
Light flashed. Whoa! So close! A second wind propelled his legs as he sprinted, suddenly energized, to his bike.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: @ Dale Rogerson
(Photo: Stefan Spassov on Unsplash)
His claim was
Impartiality.
In practice he exhibited bias
So pervasive
As to blind him.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: impartiality in 15 words
(Photo prompt: Brenda Cox)
She saw the red bus nearing. Her eyes stung. Must be the jet-lag and little sleep. Home seemed far. Unreal, almost.
Or was this home?
She pressed her bag against the fullness in her chest.
This question was part of what she’d come all this way to explore.
The crush of people carried her onto the vehicle. Up the staircase. To the top.
She leaned into the seat and let the sounds of a language she’d forgotten wash through her. Awakening belonging. Remembering despair.
She’d been four when her adoptive parents came.
One day she belonged here. The next, nowhere.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Photo: Uwe Conrad on Unsplash)
She cried into the onions, peeled the taters, chopped the carrots, minced the garlic, seared the chicken bits.
Around her a cacophony of coughs.
A prodigious sneeze.
She wiped. She washed her hands. She stirred.
The panacea simmered.
There’s nothing chicken soup won’t fix.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Panacea in 44 words
(Photo: Tom Pumford on Unsplash)
Her fingertips betrayed her. Flitting over the edge of her shirt. Spinning the loose string that twirled and fluttered in loops of tightening and release.
He might come. He might not.
Her quiet hope.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Flutter in 34 words
(Photo: Duncan Kidd on Unsplash)
They were all of them going to the fair. But her.
She had to stay home. Tend the fire. Knead the dough. Rock the cradle.
She still recalled her dreams of growing up. The independence.
The folly.
She went from burdened by her folks, to burdened by her husband.
The dream now an albatross.
A wail rose from the other room. The baby.
Could have been her own dejected cry.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Dejected in 70 words
She placed the heavy chairs just so. Added a table that was dumped in front of the Crumble Cafe when the owners changed and the new management did away with all the old stuff. Staff included.
All of them kicked to the curb.
She had no job, but could be a foster mama to a table.
Especially as she had already two chairs waiting. Cast iron to pair with the castoff.
“A table for two,” she told Harriet.
Harriet made herself comfortable. On the table.
“Really?” Mattie laughed.
Harriet swished her tail in feline approval.
Cream and crumpets.
Perfect pair.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Rowena Curtin
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