(Photo: Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash)
He failed but would not let it go.
He would not let things rest.
He has to prod and press and woe
In niggling senseless tests.
He cannot accept evidence.
He contradicts all fact.
His weakness grows in petulance
Yet haggle seems he must.
A pity he’s so insecure.
His desperate noisome pouts.
Yet reason in most still endures
And his time will soon run out.
For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Niggle in 66 words
“Hey! At the bottom of the cliff to the right. What do you think this is?”
Lisa adjusted the focus on her binoculars. “Can’t tell. A bit of junk?”
They were supposed to be cataloguing the different bird species they could find along their stretch of beach, but the seagulls were tiresome, and the sandpipers were too fast, and the wind had whipped so much sand around that she would certainly be carrying another pound of it just in her hair. Lisa wanted to go home. She wanted a nice bath, dry clothes, and a hot cup of tea.
“Perhaps a miners’ rail box.” Deena, binoculars glued to her face and hair tucked under a maddeningly practical cap, seemed oblivious to the stinging sand or Lisa’s rumbling stomach.
“Not a bird,” Lisa tried.
“No, but sure is a mystery!” Deena rose and pointed at the narrow trail. “Let’s go investigate!”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
He left the house each morning as he always had, a bag with his lunch slung over a shoulder.
The harbor was no longer where he had to be, but work never was just an employment. It had been his world. Even more so since Marissa left to roam the realms beyond this world.
To him her current travels were as real as the ships that left for unseen places only to return with goods that others had stacked for his crane to unload.
One day he will sail to where Marissa was.
Till then, he watched each day unfold.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot
(Photo: Adam Nieścioruk on Unsplash)
She was shaking when I entered the room. Hands wringing, lips trembling, her eyes a shade of numb I had rarely seen.
Mary had called me. She had come to check on her and bring a midday repast. Mother being too proud to ask for help, even though her legs no longer held her sturdily or long enough to cook herself a decent meal.
Appearance and stoicism were Mother’s barometers of standing.
Socially and otherwise.
Not that you’d know it from her mascaraed cheeks.
She pointed to the antique book I had gifted her the previous evening.
“I understand, therefore I’ll live,” was scribbled in the cover. “R.B. 1941“
Mother pressed a notepad on me. Scribbled on it were the same words. Same letters. An older hand.
“I forgot,” she whispered, caressing her initials. “But reading what I have just written, I now believe.”
Prompt quote: “Reading what I have just written, I now believe.” (Afterward by Louise Gluck)
For the dVerse prosery challenge
(Photo: CHUTTERSNAP on Unsplash)
So he shouts
At the wind
For blowing
To where he did not
Want it,
And demands
Others swear
There’s no wind
Because he’s so
Quixotic.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Quixotic in 26 words
“This won’t do,” Tina sighed. “You have got to sniff better.”
Spinner tried, but there was nothing. Or at least, nothing he could make heads or tails out of. And making tails was the whole idea.
He shrugged and spun around. Perhaps he’ll glean a clue from his surroundings. Perhaps it’ll settle the tension that trying to sniff things often awakened.
Tina groaned. “Mama was right. You will never amount to anything.”
“Hey!” Spinner whined.
Tina lowered her head. That had been below the belt. Still, it was true, and someone had to confront Spinner now that Mama was no longer there to instruct them.
“Look, Spin,” she tried to soften her frustration with a bit of guilt. “It really shouldn’t be so hard. You sure there’s nothing wrong with your sniffer?”
“I think it’s broken,” Spinner whispered, shamefaced. “What kind of a dog can’t tell the smell of poop?”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Note: Anosmia, or the lack/loss of sense of smell, is a real condition that was made famous by the pandemic but is certainly not limited to the current virus. Nor is Anosmia limited to humans. Like humans, dogs can live without a sense of smell, though for many of them it carries a significantly higher ‘sensory price’, because their sense of smell is 10,000 to 100,000 more acute than that of humans.
“Aha!”
Nate looked at Mr. Banks. The tall man was bending forward, willowy limbs almost touching the pavement, round-rimmed glasses testing gravity.
“Aha, as in what?” Nate asked.
“As in I believe we have a lead.”
Nate felt his eyes fill. False hope was the worst. The desperation with which he clung to the possibility.
“And?”
The detective straightened. He pointed at the photo, then the pavement. “See her ponytail? See this? Her hair tie broke. Runaway or not, she would have tried to get a replacement. The pharmacy across the alley is the closest. They may well have footage.”
Photo prompt: © CEAyr
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Photo: Isaac Holmgren on Unsplash)
When all was said and done,
There was no question
Of whether or when
Or why,
She would be expected
To abide by all
The rules they had
Intended to
Apply.
The law was set.
The outcome clear.
She was to follow
And adhere.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: abide
(Photo: Brunno Tozzo on Unsplash)
There were no two ways about it. The situation was dire.
He pressed his weight onto the box to seal it.
Nailed it shut.
He stood back then to admire his handiwork.
A wall of boxes. Most of them no longer wiggling.
It was do or die.
And it wasn’t going to be him who did the dying.
For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Dire in 58 words
“See that thing?” Holly whispered.
“What thing?” Harold mumbled, eyes barely lifted from the miniature screen of his new smart-watch.
“That thing!” Holly covered her brother’s wrist with her hand. “Over there.”
Harold sighed and looked around. Old metal fences that once cordoned lines of people. Rotten concrete. Musty dankness. A deserted skating rink. What’s to see?
“Nothing,” he shrugged.
Holly exhaled exasperation. “That bird,” she hissed.
“Oh. A brown pigeon. Unusual coloring.”
His sister’s fingers tightened around his wrist and he grimaced at the pressure on his watch. It was new. She’d ruin it before he could show it off. “Hey, let go! What?!”
“I don’t care about its coloring. It is staring at us!”
“It’s just a bird.” He scrutinized the gate. His friends were very late.
“Yeah? Bet you won’t say that when it calls millions of its friends to dive in and peck us to death!”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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