Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Sunshine above
Tasty gold below.
A horse in a city field
Is contentment aglow.
Photographed worlds away
And a mere year ago.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Animals
Tasty Gold
Reflections
Her Heart Be Known
Photo: alexandra lammerink on Unsplash
She did not know how
To have her heart
Be known,
Other than to
Let her spirit
Be flush with
Hope,
And to allow her
Soul to
Blush bright
With the
Intent,
Even if
Her words paused,
Timid,
From the moment
She’d left
Home.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: flush
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Not Obsolete
Photo: Jorge Lopez on Unsplash
“I am not,” she insisted,
“Obsolete.
Or not yet.
Not as long as I can
Vote,
And thus
Use my
Voice,
To oust threat.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Challenge: Obsolete in 24 words
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Not Ready To Launch
Photo: Crispina Kemp
It was going to take some training, but he was going to have his crew ready in time for the summer. Earlier, if the weather decided to cooperate.
Sure, there were issues of sea-worthiness in both prospective staff and designated vehicle, but he’d made up his mind and would not be blown off course. There were rivers to cross, lakes to traverse, seafaring and fishing to consider.
To be on the safe side, he collected piles of floaters. Not the glass “witch balls” his grandfather had left in the attic, but the highly visible red plastic ones.
“This way if you drown,” he told the kids, “it’ll ensure the Coastguard can find you before the toothy fish do.”
“After such an introduction,” his wife noted, knitting needles clicking in time with her rocking chair, “what did you expect? Of course they chose to train with Cousin Bob, the bush pilot.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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Almost
Photo: Sue Vincent
“I wonder how many had spent a night in this place through the centuries.”
Dennis looked up from his walking boots. The laces had knotted and he was adamant about untangling them without cutting, even though he had a spare. Mirna’s chin rested on a palm propped on an elbow, the remainder of her body already cocooned in her puffy neon orange sleeping bag.
“You look like a giant orange slug,” he smiled.
“Oh, but thank you!” she giggled, wriggling playfully. “I’ve always wanted to achieve slug proportions.”
“I bet thousands upon thousands,” Dennis added.
“Of what?”
He gestured with his head at the space that sheltered them. The ancient stones still fitting together after multitudes of years.
“Yeah,” Mirna sighed. She turned onto her belly and peered out through the mossy rectangular opening. The moors stretched, bleak, to the horizon. As the day waned, the vista appeared increasingly forbidding. “I wonder who they were.”
“Shepherds. War refugees. Travelers. Hunters. Peddlers. Serfs. Messengers. Families seeking safety from the elements,” Dennis tugged on the knots gently as he spoke, and for some reason the controlled movement reminded him of the concentration involved in getting embers out of fire-sticks. He’d tried that once, out of sheer boredom, and the effort had left him out of breath, sweaty, and highly appreciative of the convenience of flint, not to mention lighters and water-proof matches.
“And now, more travelers,” Mirna noted. She rolled over and sat up in her sleeping bag, feeling very slug-like. “Here, let me.” She reached for one of Dennis’s boots, pulled out a hair pin and used it to loosen a knot, releasing one long loop of shoelace, then another.
Dennis shook his head and handed her the other boot. “So much for my skills,” he grinned sheepishly. “At least I know I’ll manage to light the field stove and make tea. Then we can watch the sunset, snug as bugs in a rug in our matching sleeping bags, and can be almost like all those who’d rested here before us …”
A whiff of wind puffed into the shelter and a straggling ray of light licked the mossy stone above Mirna’s head. A late-day cloud raced across the bog. A bird called.
A shudder traveled down Mirna’s spine.
It felt like a hello.
Almost.
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From The Rooftops
Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot
It was going to be epic.
He could hardly sleep. His feet itched. His toes tingled. His fingers yearned to move.
“Count sheep,” his girlfriend grumbled. His tossing and turning was keeping her up, too.
“I can’t,” he breathed into the nape of her neck. Smelling shampoo and a hint of laundry softener.
When dawn finally neared, he crawled out of bed, exhausted and exhilarated, both.
He checked the locks and clocks. He stretched. Warming up.
His dream was coming true. The details. Permits. Plans. It had felt insurmountable. Yet here was the final countdown for the City-wide Rooftop Dance.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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The Order
Photo: Linn W on Unsplash
She’ll refuse, for she must,
The order
To adjust.
She will hold up the laws
And go forth
Just because.
She will not, not today,
Bow to cults
Or obey.
She’ll refuse, for she must,
In her own heart
Have trust.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: Order
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What Is Allowed
Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
They didn’t know what they could do. What’s left of what they had.
So they rode the day in minute steps, a hand in tender hand.
They sought the light as morning came.
They danced into the night.
Because they knew no ban could
Fully
Take away
What is allowed.
For RDP Tuesday: Ban
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According To Plan
Photo: Jon Sailer on Unsplash
So far all went according to plan.
Part serendipity, part preparation, part desperation. Sheer stubborn, too. She needed all of it.
She slunk around the building, her heartbeat almost drowning out the hum of voices reverberating in the air. She used to find the monotone of prayers soothing. Now it was the buzz of wasps.
Thomas had promised to keep any from straying. Promises were at most hopes in the Commune, but indeed the path seemed clear. Where normally there would be at least one man leaning against the door in fake calm that nonetheless effectively barred the exit, there was naught but empty space. The guards imbibed.
She quickened her pace. She’d have to time it perfectly. The once-daily pass-by train was her only chance at freedom. The rails shook. No one left and no on came on the bare platform. She leaped.
Prosery prompt quote: “No one left and no one came on the bare platform.” Edward Thomas
For the dVerse Prosery challenge: Edward Thomas
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The Truth
Photo: Randy Laybourne on Unsplash
There was something she didn’t share, but knew.
She held it, close, against her heart. A snuggle for her spirit. They could not take away what they did not realize she understood.
So she hid her comprehension. Her perceptions. Her realizations that what was presented as truth, was not.
Real Truth, that which resonated with her soul, was different. It sang.
She’d been quite young when she’d learned how to discern the babble from the song. It hadn’t been easy to maintain Truth, to blanket her face with masks of complacent adoration. Still she labored at it, keeping hope afloat.
For the RDP Sunday prompt: Truth
Na'ama Yehuda 
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