(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
(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: alexandra lammerink on Unsplash
She did not know how
To have her heart
Be known,
Other than to
Let her spirit
Be flush with
Hope,
And to allow her
Soul to
Blush bright
With the
Intent,
Even if
Her words paused,
Timid,
From the moment
She’d left
Home.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: flush
His father declared him hopeless. His mother bemoaned his daydreaming. His brother called the boy a fool. His teachers rapped his knuckles, dressed him in the dunce’s cap, slapped his head. Nothing helped. His mind continued meandering and his pockets remained filled with bauble nonsense.
By the time Bob turned sixteen, the village elders had resigned themselves to him becoming one who loitered by the stream, carried water for the old, and attracted the cruelties of the young.
The last thing anyone expected was that Lord Bailey’s new wife, who hired the young man for the price of bread and ale to repair some fallen stone in her abode, would so enjoy the river rocks and pebbles utilized as repairs by Bauble Bob, that she’d have him adorn her gate, her walls, even her door.
Soon enough there wasn’t a manor around he hadn’t been called to restore.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge #66
Photo: Keith Kreates
It was never about the things he wanted to do.
It was never about where he wanted to go, what pasture he preferred, which direction he wished to head.
Conformity. Yeah, he knew all about it. How it was the only way to herd.
Still he found small ways to rebel: He’d lie down when others were grazing, chew his cud while the Head Honcho was patrolling, turn his backside to the wind when it went against every custom to do so.
“You will get yourself kicked,” his mother, who has long given up on instructing him but still couldn’t help herself from trying, lowed in his ear.
“Or eaten,” his sister, grown and soon to mother her own, added.
Their mother’s eyes were sharp horns of disgust at the sacrilege. One did not talk about becoming prey where one was already primed to be the hunted.
He shrugged and refused to turn his nose into the wind, though he could not control the small twitch of his ears, flattening to try and discern danger.
The cows, one young, one old, left to graze at the edge of the parched field.
He remained with his head petulantly bowed, feigning disinterest in any thing ahead. He’d been born to the herd. Without it, he’d be dead.
But it did not mean he had to be one with the herd.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Make time to write.
A moment. A minute. An hour. A day.
Whatever you can find.
Make it yours.
Have your say.
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
What had happened to you
In the short life
You knew?
Your wings’ rhythm
Aflutter
To a drum
Gone
Askew?
Your beauty imbued
By what could life
Subdue,
You flit on right
Through,
Gloriously determined,
To be you,
To be you.
For the Sunday Stills challenge: A bug’s life
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Some jump out,
Intent on being
Captured
By the lens,
The center
Of focused
Attention,
While others
Fade delicately
Into the blurry
Background
To observe,
Potentially
Just as content.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Focus
Me, telling stories at 10 months
Fifth of seven, all girls, I was born
Telling tales.
Far enough to duck rules
For first, middle, or last,
I grabbed place
To be me
And held on
Talking fast.
As what shouldn’t be
Grew
And real life wove
Impossible,
Words remained
Nonetheless
In my soul
In my brain,
To be clasped
And sustain
Life and joy
Times again.
For Terri’s Sunday Stills Challenge: Fifth
Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor
Roll the dough
And aim to shape it.
Press chocolate pieces
One by one.
‘Tis no product of
Machine identical,
But cookies proud
Of a child’s hand.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Roll
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