Photo by Jorge Flores via Unsplash
“I will wait for you,” she said. “Even in cold ruined places where wind blows in the refuse of the city and where more is broken than is whole. I’ll wait, so you can know I’m here when you are finally permitted to come home.”
Most had left already. Evacuation was taken seriously after the previous storm had wiped out a dozen residents and many homes. Sam stayed. Life couldn’t get much grayer with Meg having drowned. He’d survive or join her. Either way was okay.
She spaced the candles as her grandmother had instructed. Not equally, but with one candle lording over a bigger chunk. “You’ll remember me by it,” Gran had said, “and by the sour faces of the ladies when they see you’d saved me some cake to go.”
There will not be another night so drenched in sorrow, bereft of even the wish for the downpour to turn hope. Yet they held to the moment right before the speeding motorbike intersected their car … and bled their child to no more.
Note: dedicated to those who know this loss, and to the hope that fewer will ever do.
I will not be for sale. Not today. Not tomorrow.
Limit not my conditions. Offer no terms for me.
There’s no deal worth my special. Shelves or fly off – I’m free.
For Three Line Tales
They brought them in at dark, under the covers of secrecy and night.
Children, torn from loved ones, placed behind barbed wire, watched by burly guards.
“Your fault for coming,” they were told. “And now you’re too much work to reunite.”
For Three Line Tales
Photo: Sam Loyd via Unsplash
When she rose from the depths to where the world mirrored dark, she observed the bones of monsters no one disposed of, and the hulks of others poised to glean the phosphorescent plankton from the indigo above.
Photo: Nattu Adnan via Unsplash
He still seeks to speak with fish
Before night claims their beloved beach
But she’d smiled enough goodbyes, to rise into her evening leap.
For Three Line Tales
Photo: Harpal Singh via Unsplash
They rode long through the dark
After closing the park
Wooden horses a-spiral in endless embark.
For the Three Line Tales Challenge
Photo: Jan Genge via Upsplash
They ran around the metal that machines had bent
And right across the bend of time
Into handmade medieval.
For Three Line Tales
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History of the Bloomingdale area on Manhattan's Upper West Side
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never judge a girl by her weight
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