
(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)
Impressed, she was.
The image etched into her mind.
The angle of his neck,
Head bent over the
Guitar,
Engraved
Onto her heart.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Engrave in 23 words
(Photo: Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash)
Impressed, she was.
The image etched into her mind.
The angle of his neck,
Head bent over the
Guitar,
Engraved
Onto her heart.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of Engrave in 23 words
(Photo: engin akyurt on Unsplash)
“He’s not cooperative,” his teacher warned me when I called to find out more about the boy who’d been referred to me for speech-language therapy. “He’ll find a hundred excuses to not do the work.”
“Sounds creative,” I interjected.
“He is,” the teacher conceded, “but it is exhausting.”
For him, too, I was sure.
“You’d think he’d settle down,” the teacher sighed, “but it’s like he’s gotten worse.”
Al* had language-learning issues. He struggled to express himself, to understand what he read and what was read to him. He mixed up letters. He mixed up messages. Exposed to alcohol (and quite likely to other substances) in utero, his early childhood was marked by constant shuffling between foster-care and reunifications with his biological mother, until parental rights were terminated, and he became eligible for adoption. He’d never known his dad. Al suffered from asthma. He had difficulty attending but reportedly “no difficulty misbehaving.” He scuffled. He cursed. He broke things. He kept getting in trouble. He spoke little, read less, and his writing was filled with errors. He was in fifth grade.
The “settle down” was a reference to his recent adoption by relatives of his biological mother. Now that he was in a “forever home with family besides” he was expected to move on. He was expected to “make gains,” close gaps, and be happy. He was undoubtedly happy for stability. He was also grieving, furious, frustrated, and failing at school. He acted out. He shut down. He “did not cooperate.”
He’d had at least four previous speech therapists. The teacher informed me that “he hates ‘Speech.’”
“You don’t look thrilled to have another speech therapist,” I noted on our first session together.
He raised a single eyebrow so perfectly that I wondered if he had practiced the move in front of a mirror.
I smiled. “Speech can be fun …”
“It sucks.” He stated.
I nodded. “I hear ya.”
“So, I can go?”
“Good try,” I chuckled. “We’re stuck together for now.”
He shrugged but didn’t flee.
“I don’t do work.” He warned, testing.
“So let’s not call it work,” I agreed. “Let’s just figure out ways to make the other work you have to do, a little easier. Because I think you’ve had to work way too hard.”
He narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
“I mean it. And … I can understand wanting things to be easier.”
He shrugged. Crossed his arms. Leaned into the backrest of the chair.
I saw it as truce.
The next few sessions were like pulling teeth. His attention flickered. He vetoed some tasks. He tried to sulk. But he listened. And he didn’t disappear into the boys’ bathroom when it was time for sessions. He tolerated me, which was better than what the teacher (and Al?) had predicted.
We took it slow.
Then I brought Shel Silverstein’s poems to a session.
“I’m not a baby,” he bristled.
“It’s not for babies,” I retorted. “It’s also for grownups. The illustrations may look silly, but lots of this is about serious stuff.”
He folded his arms and closed his eyes. On strike.
Or not.
I read.
His eyebrows were knit together, but then his shoulders lowered, and he took a breath. He frowned. He chewed his lip. He listened.
When I finished, he opened his eyes. Held my gaze.
“Cool, eh?”
He shrugged.
“Poetry is like that,” I said. “I love how it can find words for things, sometimes.”
He shook his head. Twisted his lips. Stared at the book. Flipped through the pages.
“Want me to read another one?”
He shrugged.
I did.
I read three more.
He scribbled arrows piercing clouds.
The next time I saw him, he pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. Fiddled with it. Shy.
“You have something?” I chanced.
Shrug. He stared at the poetry book I had prepared for us again. Unfolded his paper. Refolded it. Coughed. Took a breath. Thrust the note in my direction.
“Can I look?” I asked. Consent is tricky with kids who’d had others decide everything for them. I didn’t want him to think he had to show me.
He nodded. “I write it.”
I unfolded the page. Eight wobbly lines of transposed letters in phonetic spelling. A poem.
“Can I read it?” I checked.
He looked up at me, vulnerable and holding up an olive branch of trust, “yeah, but … but not loud …”
(Originally published in the March 2022 issue of ISSTD News as “Arrowed Cloud – The Use of Poetry in Therapy” )
*Name and details changed to protect privacy.
(Photo: Jackson David on Unsplash)
She spun around, with arms spread wide
The tinsel spooling
From her outstretched hands.
Spilling from her golden crown,
And all about her glowing gown,
It glittered and eventually
Bound,
Her body to the very ground
From whence her heart and soul
Made sound.
For the dVerse quadrille poetry challenge: tinsel in 44 words
Margot leaned closer to examine the stake. Her smile grew.
The child should be called Gretel, with such clues.
Then again, Margot was no evil stepmom. Or at least, not evil … The two of them couldn’t help not being biologically related.
Not any more than the girl could help being wild.
The social worker believed the latter a hindrance. Understandable, perhaps, given how many placements the child had lost. The system found it inconvenient to have a lass with more wilderness than tameness, who needed space and took it. Knowing Grenadine’s history, how could they not see why she’d tolerate no leash?
“This child will run away,” the social worker had warned when Margot said she’ll have her. “You’re so rural, you’d have no help keeping her contained.”
Margot had no plan to do so.
The child was free. The sticker meant that she’d be home by dinner.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
This is science. This is humanity. This is potential. This is simple. This is profound. This is truth.
A not-even-eight-minutes video can change the future. Watch it. Share it.
(Photo: Andrés Gómez on Unsplash)
If only they had thought to mark their way, perhaps they wouldn’t have lost it.
Then again, the whole idea of running away was to forgo discovery. Leaving shiny pebbles would have made the whole endeavor be over well before it had began.
They trudged along. Bellies emptier than in hungry nights before.
There was a misery in a scrabbled-for freedom. And yet at least their torsos did not suffer the indignity of another whip.
Eliah’s stomach growled. He sighed. “Only mouths are we.”
“Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things?” Lilah responded, distracting him.
The boy grinned through tired tears. He knew the correct reply. The moon of course.
He pointed at the sky.
His grandmother’s nod was filled with pride.
For one was never lost while their heart stayed tethered to the night’s reigning queen.
For the dVerse Prosery challenge
Prosery prompt: “Only mouths are we. Who sings the distant heart which safely exists in the center of all things? – from Rainer Maria Rilke, “Heartbeat.”
It rained. It hailed. It stormed. It flooded.
It none of it mattered.
They laughed. They sang. They danced. They huddled.
They had a chance to reconnect.
In all the ways that mattered, and in some they hadn’t quite dared hope for, yet came true.
Oh, they were cold. And after a time, hungry.
But still the stories flowed. The tears, sometimes. The laughter. Oh, the laughter!
Best of all, the others who would otherwise pass by,
Who would pass judgment,
Did not.
Because the weather
Protective in its dreary wetness
Let them be.
Let them love.
Made it perfect.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © Dale Rogerson
Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
They didn’t know what they could do. What’s left of what they had.
So they rode the day in minute steps, a hand in tender hand.
They sought the light as morning came.
They danced into the night.
Because they knew no ban could
Fully
Take away
What is allowed.
For RDP Tuesday: Ban
Photo: Yunming Wang on Unsplash
He said the world’s come to an end.
“Not quite,” she noted,
“For it keeps revolving.”
Her hand stayed warm
On his chest.
“Uninterrupted sun and set,
The dawn and birth,
Are their own continuity.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Continuity in 35 words
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