He’ll Do

 

The new hay-bringer was a handsome one. Calm posture. Wild mane. Warm eyes.

The others hung back as Bella stepped forward to inspect. Molly, heavy with foal, nickered a soft warning, and Bella swished her tail in understanding. Yes, she, too, was expecting, but she was not afraid.

She advanced to within a hoof-kick-space. He stayed put, unperturbed.

He carried no fear smell. No twitchy legs. No mouth yells.

Bella lowered her head some, and he held out his hand for a sniff. Sweat. Musk. Iron. Grass. Faint carrot smell.

She shook her mane, and he laughed and reached into an opening in his leg coverings to reveal an orange section of the vegetable. Offered it on an open palm.

Bella nosed it, lipped, chewed. Good.

She approved.

She tapped her hoof and felt the air shift behind her from tension to curiosity.

He’ll do.

Perhaps he even has apples.

 

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

 

 

Underneath

morgan-petroski-t8vEpZNSp4c-unsplash

Photo: Morgan Petroski on Unsplash

 

 

She peeled away the stale layers

Of sorrow,

The sheets that wrapped around the core

Of what had once held

Grins.

And underneath the soot of tears

And grit

And grief

She found the gold that had been

Hidden

Soft against reality’s biting teeth.

 

 

 

For the dVerse quadrille challenge: Peel

 

 

Fallen

Fallen NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

I’ve lost connection

With over-tired roots

Fragile

With the passage of the elements

And time.

I’ve let go

To the shifting earth

And to the rocks

Repeatedly cracked open

By frost and sun.

And toppled to lie

Finally

Atop the ground.

Ready to go back

To that from which

I had

Become.

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Trees

 

 

Halfway Home

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

She never grew tired of it.

Even if fatigue had become part and parcel of her every day. Of her very breath.

It did not matter. Her fatigue didn’t, that is. At least, it did not matter as much as it would have otherwise. As much as she knew it could. As much as it had in the other place, where there was naught but white walls and white squeaky soles on squeaky clean tiles and antiseptic air and officious hands and flickering images on a screen where well-dressed persons babbled about things that did not feel relevant to her in the least.

They’d urged her not to leave.

She left.

No regrets.

Not when the trade-off was brisk air and the smell of just-trampled grass and the scent of rain and the open vistas of the world rolling down into the horizon where the sun met the mountains and the sky kissed the ground.

No regrets.

Not with the play of night and day around her, not with light that flickering on her covers and the sun licking her fingers as she lay in bed. Not with a world that breathed and changed and lived and died and reemerged. With yips of puppies racing down the lawn. The hiss of wind. The chirps of birds.

Sure, others were concerned, or so they said.

She did not share their dread.

Death did not scare her. Nor did the warnings that she’d be too far from hospital to get assistance in time if another crisis came. For a crisis was bound to come, and when it did, she knew she’d be content to face it with her face to the hills and her eyes on the valleys and the snow-capped mountains where her soul would soon roam.

For she was halfway home.

More than half, perhaps, now that most of the sand in her hourglass had been shed.

It did not matter.

She was halfway home, content with whatever lay ahead.

 

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto Challenge

 

The Birth Of Day

sunrise florida

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

May the birth of day

Delight you

In the promise

That it brings,

Even with the clear

Potential

For the pulling of

Heart’s strings.

May you know

The hope of

Morning

As it touches

First light’s bliss.

May the good

Outweigh the painful

As tender dawn

To ocean

Kiss.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills challenge: Birthdays

 

Therefore

dream catchers OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

It has come to her before.

The message that had felt like lore

And made a home

Inside her core.

It ricocheted in her heart

Amidst the four walls

Of her soul.

Her spirit knew it,

And therefore,

She left her door open

For more.

 

 

For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: For/Fore/Four

 

 

All There Is

three line tales, week 135: students in the New York Public Library

Photo: Davide Cantelli via Unsplash

 

She would learn everything about it, she promised herself, and details will no longer catch her unaware. The books soldiered on, and she with them. By closing-time she was educated and heartbroken: She knew what it was. She knew it was incurable.

 

For Three Line Tales, week 135

 

Be A Little Foreign

Mexico1 InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

Be a little foreign

To yourself.

Let corners of not-yet-seen

Within

Take a tour

Inside your mind.

Embrace

The unfamiliar parts of

You

Till they become

Another kind of

Home.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

For The Record

dressup

 

For the record, she is fierce, even if she is in fluffy skirts and fleecy socks and every color of barrette holding on to dear life in her hair.

For the record, she is loving, even if she screams at her baby brother, narrows her eyes to daggers when she doesn’t get her way, and pushes every one of her mother’s buttons till something gives and tantrums fly.

For the record, she is smart, even if she cannot quite “do numbers” the way some of her classmates can and even if her words tend to come out upside down and sideways and in the wrong order and all too often not quite on the topic.

For the record, she has lots to say, even if she shrugs an “I don’t know” or grunts a precocious “whatever” because explaining feels too hard and some words hide and narrative does not form the way she senses that it ought to.

For the record, she is funny, even if she may not laugh at some jokes other people say, because she doesn’t get the puns and is still out to lunch on idioms and doesn’t quite see humor in confusing riddles.

For the record, she is thoughtful, even if she often acts before she seems to think (because she cannot always get the thought in time to matter), and reacts as if she doesn’t care (when she if fact cares more than many).

For the record, she is brave, and utterly indomitable. She works harder than most realize and deals with more frustration than is reasonable. And yet, she does still try. She may do so in frowns and pouts and at times even in ways that appear less than fully loveable. But she has no bone in her that isn’t kind. Just all too many that are over-tender.

For the record, she is a handful and a heart-full. She is bubbling with spirit and wriggling with life. She’d keep you on your toes, but oh boy would you earn a good dance for it! For a little body, she packs some serious soul punch.  She is fabulous personified. A guaranteed-to-wake-you-up-in-the-morning child.

 

 

For The Daily Post