(Photo: Lorenzo Fattò Offidani on Unsplash)
They told her to not
Make waves.
That to speak out is
Provocative
And that it is
Unladylike.
Unseemly.
And goes against the word of
God
As interpreted by
Themselves
Who see it as their duty
To
Control
Her.
They told her to be meek.
To atone
For the sins
Of
Eve.
She stood.
Unfurled.
Provocative.
As the Goddess made her.
Herself.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Provocative in 62 words
They didn’t know where she was. She preferred it that way.
The windows were all missing. No doors. Graffiti covered the shell of building.
It was far from town, but sometimes travelers stopped to stare, and some used the empty rooms for all manner of unsavory business.
She spent most days in the nearby woods. Foraging. Snaring. Keeping watch.
At night, she kept to the relative shelter of the basement, hanging bits of chain on entryways to serve as warning chimes.
She dreamed of restorations. Of locks on doors.
She wanted more.
But it was home enough.
For now.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Carole Erdman-Grant
(Photo: Bernard Hermant on Unsplash)
It mattered not how many times he’d pressed the issue, urged she ‘see the light.’
She would not deny her own reality for his. She could not worship his Gods. His requirement of absolute adherence to ideas over facts. Over reason. Over voice.
“It’s not about facts,” he insisted, annoyed by her refusal to acquiesce. “It’s about compliance. The lesson of faith.”
“That kind of faith isn’t in my lexicon,” she said.
“Then pray on it till it is,” he turned, locked the door, left.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Lexicon in 85 words
(Photo: Inbar Asif)
‘Tis the season for
Reason.
Time for soul to be
Bold.
Time to oust stale perceptions
And to justice
Uphold.
‘Tis the season for
Reason.
To let true heart
Take root
And dishonesty
Doom,
So the summers of
Tomorrow
May
Sing sunflowers to
Bloom.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: Season
“It doesn’t matter what it looks like on the outside …”
“Yea,” Elianna intoned, “it’s what on the inside that matters.”
“Exactly,” Jennifer winked. To be easily discouraged was a privilege of the young. Something time cured. Or tanned into tough old leather. She chuckled.
“What?” Elianna sounded wounded.
“I was laughing at myself, Eli.” Jennifer tested the length of her chains. Sink to bed to door. “We can do not a thing about that horrid gate or those who guard it, but let’s put some elbow grease into this door and make our inside view a good deal better.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Brenda Cox
(Photo: Sandra Grünewald on Unsplash)
He would not ever harm
Another
Soul.
Or so he claims.
He says he doesn’t see the benefit
Of such a
Game.
His very words
Exclaim
Just how incapable he is of
Admitting blame
Or having even the
Appearance of
Shame.
It is clear to her that what
He purports
To be,
Makes him the very
Opposite of who
She will agree
to see.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Purport in 64 words
They thought it mattered to him that it wasn’t fancy. That he’d care it was damp. Or old. Or cobbled together from what materials could be found.
They were wrong.
All he ever wanted was a roof that did not leak, a hearth that could be lit, food enough to fill his belly, safety in his sleep, a bed that did not bite, walls that did not threaten to collapse about his ears.
The cabin was all that.
And more.
Sure, it had housed horses, and smelled of them, sometimes.
It only made it more a home.
A stable home.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Photo: Roberto Martinez on Unsplash)
She will not become a mannequin.
Her mother may have images of what a daughter looks like.
Her father may hold his of what she must not, at any cost, resemble.
Her teachers may believe she found bad friends.
Her brothers had supplied them.
To all she says –
In mind if not in volume –
That she will not become,
A mannequin.
She will find her own way.
Her look.
Her path.
Her mirrors.
Enough already lost,
As childhood magic
Left,
And stripped
Her life austerer.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Mannequin in 85 words
(Photo: Anna Hecker on Unsplash)
She was, always, in the wrong.
The wrong path. The wrong friends.
The wrong choices. The wrong dress.
The wrong dreams. The wrong job.
Wrong husband.
Wrong … no … not the wrong children.
Just the sometimes-very-difficult ones.
No wonder,
When her every action was judged
Widdershins.
So she chose to listen
To no one,
But the small call
Of her soul,
And the small arms that wrapped
Around her legs
When she reached
Down.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: widdershins in 75 words
They climbed in silence, single file, the occasional foot scraping a bare concrete step.
Lindon pressed his lips. It helped stop the trembling. This was his first ‘trip’ off the ward and he wanted to look around. To look at others for their reactions. But new or not, he’d learned enough to understand that it was better not to. He kept his head low.
A scent hit him. Like Grandma’s house. Last month. Eons ago. He blinked.
The stairs ended. He looked up. His eyes grew.
His heart, too.
A room of books.
Stories. Escape.
He knew he would survive.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
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