Photo: Caroline Hernandez on Unsplash
The least of hardship was when
She broke her toe,
Age nine,
Her youngest brother
Then a mewling newborn
In her arms.
She’d been pacing
Through the night
To let Mother
Recover some.
Ever the intrepid
Elder child,
Rose missed but
A step,
Taped her toes,
And walked on
Till the morn.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Intrepid in 52 words
Photo: Javardh on Unsplash
“If it rains,” she said.
“It pours,” he answered.
They laughed and touched palms
Over glass.
The barriers that divide
Not keeping them
Apart.
“And when it shines,” she said,
“It glories,” he responded.
She grinned and then the corners
Of her lips
Shook and her palm pressed
Again
Toward his
And her eyes unleashed a
Downpour of
Longing.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered.
“I’m almost ready
For the transplant.
My cells will welcome yours
Into my own.
As they had
In the womb.
It is like coming home.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Downpour in 88 words
Photo: Lerone Pieters on Unsplash
Where faith remains in morning’s dawn,
There will not fade
The hope of light,
Breathing
Life
On.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Fade in 17 words
Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
They strung up the hammock, and called it home.
There was a tent.
There was shade.
There was view.
There was fresh air.
And in the morning, sparkly tears of dew.
It wasn’t much, perhaps.
With a long trek to get water,
And so a lot to learn. Anew.
Still, they made do.
There had been little time to plan,
After they got the letter.
It was pay up, in whole,
Or let the owed sum fetter
Their everything into
Being a forever debtor.
So they packed what they owned
And drove away
With broken hearts and eyes the wetter.
At least here,
Even with no walls
There was shelter.
Which was, already,
Better.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Home in 114 words
Photo: E.K.
“I don’t know what we’ll do,” she sobbed.
He lifted her chin gently till the brown-speckled eyes met his. “We’ll manage,” he said, surety threaded carefully into his voice. He didn’t want her feeling as if she was weak for unraveling or wondering whether any of what she was feeling was excessive or unreasonable. It was not.
He didn’t have all the answers, either.
Only love.
He had plenty of that.
And it had to be enough.
“Everything’s a mess,” she sighed.
It was. And yet, it wasn’t. Not everything. Their care for each other had not a single tangle in it.
“It’s like this cotton field,” he breathed. “Raw fibers that are nonetheless brimming with nascent fabric potential. We’ll pick through our grief and weave love into a new life.”
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Fabric in 131 words
It wasn’t an easy thing for a Bottom-Feeder to achieve Topper status. Most born to the Lower Gradients remained in the dank shadows of the towers, foraging for what could be found.
But Bronson never took the easy route. Not in birth, where his footling position had almost killed his mama and had left him only one usable hand. Not in growing, when he was often the last to be fed and the first to be beaten. Not in young adulthood, when he decided that wit and perseverance would have to do what his physique could not.
He lurked. He flattered. He kept abreast of Toppers’ visits to the LG’s for the vices, and used his nonthreatening appearance to offer guidance, and sometimes, services.
When Lorena’s ankle broke on twisted pavement, he lent a shoulder, led her home, and stayed. Life was better at the Tops, even as a pet.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
” … And that is when the sun became the liquid gold …” Marianna tucked the blanket tighter around the child and bent to kiss the flaxen head. The short soft hairs tickled her lips. She hadn’t yet gotten used to the severe buzz cut. She resisted touching her own head.
“…and in the morning?” the little one murmured, half-asleep.
“It will turn itself back into an orb and rise into the dawn …”
The almost translucent eyelids fluttered open once to rest on the flaming horizon, before closing, heavy, onto the small cheeks. The girl’s breathing deepened and slowed in time with the surf, arms secured around a well-loved doll.
Marianna stared at the reflection of molten lava on the water, listened to the murmured rush of the waves, rocked on her heels, and hugged herself.
At least the weather’s holding.
The child turned. An arm slipped out of the protection of the blanket and Marianna tucked the slim limb back under the covers, securing the doll where it could not be seen. It was a forbidden toy, yet Marianna could not bring herself to discard it. Not when so much had already been lost. She swallowed, and her hand rose of its own accord to feel the expanse of her head, the hair no longer there.
It was the least of it. Better they be seen as male, anyway.
The sun sank, gold, into the sea. She thought of the bedtime story and of the simple acceptance of young minds. Of the trust, the effervescent hope. Her own breath deepened as her daughter’s face at rest loosened a coil of tension in her chest into tendrils of comfort.
They’d made it this far. The beach was secluded. The trees and darkness offered their own respite. She, too, needed sleep.
May morning come, she thought. She lay her head on their pack of belongings and spooned the child against her heart. The last of the light licked the dampness from her cheek. May we safely see tomorrow’s orb rebirthed.
For Sue Vincent’s Write Photo prompt
Photo: Charlie Hammond on Unsplash
I believe the magic
That is people,
And the unremitting wonder
That is found
Undaunted
In their hearts.
I believe the small,
Persistent,
Staunch soul rumble
That continues
Shaken but unfailing
To grow
Through the hardship,
Making handholds of the worry
All the while.
For the dVerse quadrille challenge: magic
Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein
In the big scale
Of things
Where watershed moments
Froth and fall in
Flush forward,
Each of us but a dot
Drenched in mist
Hoping life
Flows without
A fast-forward.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Scale
One needed a long leash.
One needed to be kept on a short one.
Metaphor for her life, it was.
She adopted both as babies. Whelped at the same time by the same stray dog, they were, and yet they could not be more different. People did not believe her when she told them that the two were litter-mates. Had she not seen it with her own eyes she might’ve doubted, too. She wondered sometimes if it was possible that they were fathered by two different dogs altogether.
A little like her own sons. Who had.
Only that she had survived her children’s births. Unlike the dog, who didn’t.
It had been a cold spell then as well. The roads had become ice-sheets and her breath had hovered so close that it was as if the air itself did not want to leave the warmth of her body for the arctic chill. A storm had been forecast and she’d just returned from the store with extra essentials when she’d heard the whine of something small and vulnerable coming from the crawl space under the house.
The laboring dog did not resist when she’d reached for the writhing pup. Panting and with her head hanging low, she just rose heavily to her feet and followed the pup to the garage. She must have recognized help, or perhaps she was just beyond protesting.
Three pups were born. One large, two small, one of which did not survive. Neither did the birthing mother, who suckled the pups but was dead by morning. Perhaps she bled internally or was too weak or otherwise beyond recovery. With the storm in full force there was no way to call the vet. Or to bury anything. She dragged the mother and babe outside, where the cold would preserve them till she could find a way to properly farewell them. And she took the two mewling wrigglers in. Where they’d stayed. Milo and Martin.
After her uncles. One robust and placid. One short and wily.
She’d padded a box with an old blanket, kept it by her bed, and set a timer. She’d fed them with an eye dropper first, then a turkey baster with a piece of cloth tied on for suckling. It wasn’t till their eyes opened and they’d began exploring that she’d let herself realize that she’d be keeping them.
And that they will be keeping her.
From the plans she’d been making.
Her sons no longer needed their mother. But the puppies did.
So she stayed.
And three years later, they were all still there.
One with his long leash. One with the short. And her, in the middle. Held by both.
A place to improve my writing skills, and that's all.
We're not thriving, we're creatively photosynthesizing under duress.
History of the Bloomingdale area on Manhattan's Upper West Side
A creative miscellany of mythic fantasies
a weekly flash fiction prompt inspired by google maps
A community for writers to learn, grow, and connect.
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
I can't sleep...
Alternative haven for the Daily Post's mourners!
never judge a girl by her weight
original fiction and rhyme
You have reached a quiet bamboo grove, where you will find an eclectic mix of nature, music, writing, and other creative arts. Tao-Talk is curated by a philosophical daoist who has thrown the net away.
A photographer's view of the world - words and images to inspire your travels and your dreams
Life in progress
Straight up with a twist– Because life is too short to be subtle!
WordPress & Blogging tips, flash fiction, photography and lots more!
Light Words
Na'ama Yehuda 
You must be logged in to post a comment.