They stand at the entry, grateful, unknown. They’ve come far for this, on a journey not by choice yet still their own. The sound of people’s voices pluck strings in their soul. The light of the fireplace dances on the wall, painting hope, awakening dreams of a home that was never there, yet could be … now … if they allow it in.
Hearts quaking they knock
On the door
To their forever home.
For the dVerse Haibun challenge: Gratitude
They’d fortified the ceiling.
So they said.
The old structure needed periodical reinforcing.
So they said.
The thickness of the walls supported their claims. The deeply recessed windows. The heavy coats of paint on ancient plaster.
‘Twas all a ruse. Of course.
The false ceiling hid a warren of crawl-spaces and narrow hiding places. A stream of escaped slaves was followed by a flood of those fleeing Nazi persecution and thereafter a steady trickle of modern-day refugees.
The ceiling hid them all. Young and old. Broken and defiant. Desperate and bewildered. Men and women and the all-too-heartbreaking child.
Some stayed a night. Others for longer sheltering. Hilda had stayed the longest. A girl on arrival, she was almost a woman at war’s end. She emerged educated. In silence. In stealth. In compassion.
She became the guardian of those who followed.
Fortified with hope of one day needing it no more.
For the Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Note: Dedicated to all the heroes who — often at tremendous risk to themselves — had managed to shelter the needy, the desperate, the voiceless, and the vulnerable during times of injustice, persecution, violence, horror, and hate. To all who do so still. May we one day need to do so no more.
The cells were small. Sturdy enough to keep them separated. Aerated enough to keep them alive. Near enough to let them marinate in each other’s misery.
What the jailers did not foresee, however, was how they were just close enough to offer comfort. Fingers laced through fencing let them hold hands. Almost.
Oh, they moved to corners when anyone came. Pretended to hate each other. Endured each other’s fake bullying that so amused their captors.
But in the silent moments they sat close, back-pressed-through-chain-to-back. Their ‘caretakers’ warehoused them like animals, but the children’s defiance held: they remembered they were siblings.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Andrew Buchanan on Unsplash
“It is just a crack,” she said,
“A splinter off of perfection.”
‘Twas more than that, she understood,
Knowing what effort it exacted of her
To keep her direction,
To balance scales just so
They did not tip life
And hope
Into utter disconnection.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Crack
Photo: Marina Shatskih on Unsplash
All those dreams that he had
As a child
Snug
Under covers
At night,
His tattered teddy
In arms.
His dreams
Parsed out
Into slivers
When
Under stars
At war,
His battered rifle
The only thing
He could
Hug.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS prompt: Dream
“We used to go in through that side door,” Mama said.
I stared at the narrow wooden portal. “Because you are a girl?” I knew that Jewish traditions relegated women to a separate area in the synagogue, sometimes a designated entrance.
“No,” Mama’s voice shook and I reached for her hand. Her tears surprised me.
She seemed reluctant to cross the street. I couldn’t blame her. The building looked forbiddingly cold, sealed shut.
“No,” she repeated, a note of defiance in her eyes. “So no one knew services were held. They’d have come for us if we were found out.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
They came for the car today.
It’s just a car, she tried to tell herself. It would not make sense to keep it. Not with the fees and with the debt on it only increasing. Oh, she tried, but there was no way around the loss of it.
No way around loss. In general.
She couldn’t bear to go outside to see it off. She stayed indoors, her nose glued to the window, her sweaty palms pressing life-lines into the glass, her heart in shreds.
It’s been his car.
And he would not be coming home to drive it.
Note: Dedicated on this Veterans Day (US) and Remembrance Day (The Commonwealth), to all who fought and won and lost and left and returned, or left and did not return, or not in the same way they’d left. And to the many who still are away in uniform. You are seen. You are known. May all come home whole. And may humanity one day learn peace and no more war.
Photo: Kelli Tungay on Unsplash
He couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
Instead he left breadcrumbs. Glowing pebbles on a midnight road.
Receipts. ‘Forgotten’ notes. His boots in the garage, muddy though the yard was not.
Liminal clues in hope she ask him where he goes …
Refugees sheltering in the woods.
Perhaps she already knows.
The mud this morning on her shoes.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Challenge: Liminal in 57 words
Photo: Hongmei Zhao on Unsplash
In the blackest night
She woke
To hear the flutter of her
Heart
Singing melodies of courage
In her ears.
As the hours ticked
Long seconds full of
Ink,
And stretched worries
She had long learned how to
Blink,
She held on to
Wisps of memories
Mirrored in her unshed
Tears,
And recalled the echoes
Of abandon
In the giggles
Of her very early
Years.
For the dVerse Poetics challenge: Black
Photo: Inbar Asif
He did not know how to play
But they knew he’d be
Okay.
He was scared of every thing
But they knew that he was
King.
He had to learn life from scratch
But they knew they’d love him
Much.
He’s the sweetest boy there is
Even unsure how to
Please.
And whether he’s a bit autistic
His kind of love is
Simplistic.
He is now a happy boy
Who gets his life to
Enjoy.
For the Sunday Stills Challenge: Pets
A place to improve my writing skills, and that's all.
We're not thriving, we're creatively photosynthesizing under duress.
History of the Bloomingdale area on Manhattan's Upper West Side
A creative miscellany of mythic fantasies
a weekly flash fiction prompt inspired by google maps
A community for writers to learn, grow, and connect.
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
I can't sleep...
Alternative haven for the Daily Post's mourners!
never judge a girl by her weight
original fiction and rhyme
You have reached a quiet bamboo grove, where you will find an eclectic mix of nature, music, writing, and other creative arts. Tao-Talk is curated by a philosophical daoist who has thrown the net away.
A photographer's view of the world - words and images to inspire your travels and your dreams
Life in progress
Straight up with a twist– Because life is too short to be subtle!
WordPress & Blogging tips, flash fiction, photography and lots more!
Light Words
Na'ama Yehuda 
You must be logged in to post a comment.