Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
In the distance between
The now and
There,
Rises the stair
We all must
Share,
Step by step to
Anywhere
Before the future days
Declare,
The distance we
May finally
Repair.
For the Lens-Artists Photo Challenge: distance
Photo: Crispina Kemp
“We’re gonna have to scale things down,” The Earl noted.
“Yep,” Monterey scratched the stubble that sprouted, stubborn, on his chest. He was going to refuse the grooming nonsense next time.
“Got the shrink?”
Monterey nodded. He’d put up with the thumping for the last bit of journey. Annoying though it was, the noise did save him the trouble of going into the back compartment to check whether the cargo was still alive.
“Have him at it, then.” The Earl turned and strode back into his cab.
Monterey waited till The Earl disappeared from view before bending to rummage through the vehicle’s boot. He plucked the squirming figure out of its perforated container and held the furious man between finger and thumb.
“You’re a shrink,” he rumbled, pointing another hand at the air-ship’s anchor and chains. “These are too big. Can’t have’em stay this way. So you best shrink this.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
It took him months, but he stuck with it.
It took a lot of coffee, and a great deal of wine, and a good bit of yelling at the keys and cursing at the window, and a heap of crumbled sheets of paper flung across the floor in balls he sometimes let stay there, staring dejectedly at the ceiling as he wished to do, too.
A million times he wanted to give up.
He didn’t.
Not when he had promised her he’d write her story.
One finger at a time or not, he was going to learn how to type.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
Walk with me
Into nature
Where the fresh air
Flows through.
Walk with me
As we shelter
Under skies
Me, and you.
Walk with me
Hand in hand
Muddy boots
Flowers, too.
Let us breathe
And connect
With everything
That is true.
For the Tuesday photo challenge: Connect
Photo: Charlie Hammond on Unsplash
I believe the magic
That is people,
And the unremitting wonder
That is found
Undaunted
In their hearts.
I believe the small,
Persistent,
Staunch soul rumble
That continues
Shaken but unfailing
To grow
Through the hardship,
Making handholds of the worry
All the while.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: magic
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Of all scenes
And joys and sorrows,
Of all the steps
And breaths
And sense,
There is the ebb and flow
And stillness,
That makes this
Movement
My heart’s
Place.
Photo: Amit Jain on Unsplash
She could not have guessed
What is right
What is wrong
So she just muddled
On.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Muddle in 16 words
Photo: Franck V. on Unsplash
You are not welcome
Here,
With your
Contaminated fear.
You are not welcome
Here,
With words that hurt
And terms that mean to harm, divert,
Self-aggrandize, and
Smear.
There is a bigger risk
In hate
Than in keeping
Near.
You are not welcome
Here,
If you weaponize worry
To steer
Away from empathy,
Away from truth,
Away from the real challenges we share
As we ride great distances
On this one
Sphere.
Call this by its name.
Not by the rhetoric
Of racist,
Misinforming
Jeer.
Address it not in
Murky swamps
That deliberately
Throw mud into the
Gears.
Humanity is better
Than your insatiable need
To infect the
Atmosphere.
We’re on to you.
We see.
We hear.
We will hold steady to what
Matters.
We support the hardworking, factual and
Compassionately
Sincere.
But you?
You are not welcome
Here.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS writing prompt: Welcome
Photo: Sue Vincent
They filed into the toothy circle, a long double line, holding hands over the green strip that split them apart.
The stone pillars stood, immobile, ever present, waiting.
There have always been golden fields in all directions. Wild, then cultivated. The rustling of the ripened plants replacing a hush that would otherwise feed unease.
For there will be no voice heard.
No word.
No song.
No shout.
Nothing said.
Just a long line of humility, stepping up the path and through the eye of the ancient circle. Waiting to be cleansed.
To be whole.
To be seen.
To walk on.
Ahead.
Out the other side and down the second path where a widening triangle fanned into the distant horizon, mirroring the measure of relief.
And from the far far spaces, well beyond the hills, the sound of voices, whispers freed, a humming on the breeze.
It would be the last place anyone would look, and the first thing everyone would see.
It made it perfect.
She always gravitated toward hiding in plain sight. There was equity in the blinding effect of what people learned to not see or did not know could be there in the first place.
How long would it take, she wondered, for her cover to be blown?
The longest had been almost four weeks. The closest call had her discovered before the first patch of paint dried. She’d almost lost everything that day, and the consequences were brutal, but she’d learned from it. As she had from every challenge and obstacle. Even those that were not meant to be instructive.
That was how she rolled. How she wrest back some control.
For now, this box of aqua perched on sand, seasonally emptied of its contents, was home.
The surf a lullaby.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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