(Photo: Daniela Paola Alchapar on Unsplash)
They took the temperature
Of the crowd,
And realized they could
Twist skeins of truth into
Great blobs of knotted lies,
Then sell
As remedy
To now a fevered mob,
A distorted gospel
Bloated with melodramatic
Sighs.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Temperature in 37 words
She stood at the back and tried to make herself as small as possible.
Not easy, with her stature and attire.
Still, she hoped the shadows would afford some obscurity. Bad enough to be made to attend and be tallied. It would be worse to be noticed. To be named.
The speakers roared. The bands played deafening propaganda.
She stood. She clapped. She swayed as necessary.
She stayed alert. Her life depended on it.
But in a corner of her mind, she was a child still, pumping feet toward a blue sky. Still free. To believe. To think. To be.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
They knew they’d need some help. They knew where to find it.
They weren’t very good at building anything, even less at securing it to withstand the snow, the winds, the cops.
Or so they hoped.
It was better to make use of what was already present.
What others, who had better skill and quite possibly better sense, had built.
Sure, some called it squatting. Some found them vagabonds.
But why not when the struts provided good foundations?
It was a pity, really, that so many did not understand.
The cops raided one night. Tossed the tents.
Kept the struts.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
(Photo: Sandra Grünewald on Unsplash)
He would not ever harm
Another
Soul.
Or so he claims.
He says he doesn’t see the benefit
Of such a
Game.
His very words
Exclaim
Just how incapable he is of
Admitting blame
Or having even the
Appearance of
Shame.
It is clear to her that what
He purports
To be,
Makes him the very
Opposite of who
She will agree
to see.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Purport in 64 words
“So the lower level is buried under and the upper level is inaccessible. Apt. Shouldn’t it say ‘Dung View’?”
Darlene chuckled. Mom wasn’t shy about imparting opinions. Darlene was not all that different, even if she didn’t always find words to be necessary.
Necessary. The double meaning turned her giggle into a guffaw.
“What?” Mom insisted. She hated being left out.
“Nothing necessary…” Darlene’s laughter intensified. She clasped at her belly and tried to point. “Or … perhaps it is…”
Mom eyed the outhouse. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
“Drop your snow-pants. I’ll dig you a chamber pot.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt: © LIsa Fox
(Photo: Michael Carruth on Unsplash)
They stumbled
Broken
On the wind,
Dragging behind
A shattered wing.
Still chanting with
The roar of
Mobs,
Dispersed a faction
That from the
Truth’s been
Robbed.
Their memory
Fogged
By lie’s
Remorse,
Will they attempt to
Correct course?
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Faction in 39 words
What are we to do?
They asked,
When all seems to be
So broken-up?
How can we rectify
When the mess
We allowed
Exceeds nightmare
Proportions?
Perhaps,
The measured response was,
Begin with
Cleaning up.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Rectify in 35 words
Photo: Sarah Kilian on Unsplash
There is nothing anyone could say to change his mind.
Or his attitude.
Or his demeanor.
One could hardly expect him to respect those who practically asked to be demeaned, who did not try to rise above their lassitude, who did not take the opportunity when it presented.
So what if his wealth was carved out of others’ misery?
Someone had to do it. Someone had to step up to the plate and be the boss.
What did they expect him to be? A sniveling, prattling sissy like the ones who follow him?! They are lucky to have him.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Misanthrope in 99 words
Disclaimer: No offense intended to any amphibians. I know they are better than that. Image presented for illustration purposes only….
Luke eyed the sign ahead.
“I won’t be allowed in,” he sighed.
Sarah scrunched her forehead. “Maybe they won’t notice?”
Luke raised an eyebrow. He was 6’8″.
Of course they would notice. It was a stupid thing to say. She blushed. “I’m sorry, Luke. I mean, it’s just so unfair!”
He nodded. Such rules often were. Still many tended to accept, even embrace, ‘patriotic regulations’ … until caprice hit close to home. Or in his case, on the way back to it.
He had pooh-poohed the risk. What folly.
He wouldn’t be allowed into the City. Even though he’d been born and raised and lived there. Had committed no crime. He was banished. They’d expel him if he were still home.
The militia could shoot him on sight. Neighbors would be expected to report his presence. As of that morning, anyone above 6’6″ feet was considered a 4T security risk – Too Tall To Trust.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Photo: Karen Forte
They’ll return
To the sky
To the bluffs
To the forests.
They’ll return
To true pride
To the strength
And the chorus,
Of the way
Things can be
When the truth
One can see
And the powers
Of we,
Will refuse to
Agree
To deceits of those
Pretending
To celebrate
Being free.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Return
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