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: Jon Sailer on Unsplash
So far all went according to plan.
Part serendipity, part preparation, part desperation. Sheer stubborn, too. She needed all of it.
She slunk around the building, her heartbeat almost drowning out the hum of voices reverberating in the air. She used to find the monotone of prayers soothing. Now it was the buzz of wasps.
Thomas had promised to keep any from straying. Promises were at most hopes in the Commune, but indeed the path seemed clear. Where normally there would be at least one man leaning against the door in fake calm that nonetheless effectively barred the exit, there was naught but empty space. The guards imbibed.
She quickened her pace. She’d have to time it perfectly. The once-daily pass-by train was her only chance at freedom. The rails shook. No one left and no on came on the bare platform. She leaped.
Prosery prompt quote: “No one left and no one came on the bare platform.” Edward Thomas
For the dVerse Prosery challenge: Edward Thomas
Photo: Randy Laybourne on Unsplash
There was something she didn’t share, but knew.
She held it, close, against her heart. A snuggle for her spirit. They could not take away what they did not realize she understood.
So she hid her comprehension. Her perceptions. Her realizations that what was presented as truth, was not.
Real Truth, that which resonated with her soul, was different. It sang.
She’d been quite young when she’d learned how to discern the babble from the song. It hadn’t been easy to maintain Truth, to blanket her face with masks of complacent adoration. Still she labored at it, keeping hope afloat.
For the RDP Sunday prompt: Truth
Photo: Adi Yusuf on Unsplash
“It is my destiny,” he insisted.
“It is laziness,” they countered.
He shrugged and hoisted his belongings.
They wrung their hands and shook their heads and offered dire endings. Yet there was little they could do, short of straitjacketing. And they’d been down that road with others years ago and found it sorely lacking.
Settling down suffocated him. He was Nomad born. He could heed only that calling.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Nomad in 68 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
Photo: Sue Vincent
They built the cone carefully. Everyone knew things like that had to be just so.
“Will they come?” Nelly fretted, slim fingers worrying the edge of her tunic.
“Sure thing,” Dahlia’s nod was as resolute as her voice. “We did it exactly. And it is the right time.”
Nelly nibbled on a lip. Aunt Lorena’s mind wasn’t what it used to be. What if the elder’s confusion extended to passing on instructions?
“There,” Dahlia placed the last stick, straightened, and took a step back to admire their handiwork. She tucked a wild lock of dark hair behind an ear and chuckled. “Looks as if they’re putting their heads together.”
More like a bunch of kindling in a miniature teepee, Nelly thought. She shook doubt out of her head. “Do we wait here?” she scanned the expanse of bluebells that carpeted the ground amidst the trees.
Dahlia twisted her mouth, stuck a corner of that disobedient lock of hair into her mouth, and pondered. The small wood felt quiet. Almost as if the air itself was waiting. “I don’t think so,” she said finally. “We better give them space.”
Nelly wasn’t sure if she felt relieved or disappointed.
After a last scan of the area, the two girls walked away, stealing glances every few paces, lest they miss something when their backs were turned.
“I think that’s far enough,” Dahlia suggested when they’d gone about twenty yards. “We don’t want the fairies to think we left completely.” Or to miss them.
Nelly nodded silently.
An afternoon ray of sun wove through the branches to rest on her cousin’s narrow face, and Dahlia noted to herself how Nelly’s golden braid and cornflower eyes blended seamlessly into the magical scenery. Like a princess, she thought in satisfaction. Exactly what they needed.
She always saw the half-full of the cup. He always saw the empty.
She saw the rain’s potential. The green to manifest. The flowers. He saw mud and wet and ruinous showers.
She saw the sun and warmth. He saw the cancer.
She pointed out the good. He, the plausible con-men in every alley.
She laughed. He frowned.
She hugged babies and puppies, while he kept both at warning distance.
“We’re like the rainbow,” she explained, when others wondered how she kept sane in the face of constant pessimism. “Our perspectives of mist and light blend a full spectrum’s beauty.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
” … 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: Crispina Kemp
It had been their favorite place to play as children. Filled with old tools and lopsided shelves. A leaky roof that hindered the rain from soaking them when the weather turned and they had misjudged the time.
She never would have thought that the shed would become a shelter from a lot worse than the rain. And without end. For there was no place to return.
There will be no welcome in the farmstead. Not anymore.
No warm soup waiting. No blanket. No fire to steam wet clothes as fingers thawed. Instead of comfort, they’d likely send the dogs.
She still could not quite understand how quickly times had changed. How she’d gone from part-of to pariah.
Was she the same? How could she be, when the patch she was made to wear now defined her?
A jew, she was their plague. How long would the shed conceal her?
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Photo: JK Monument, Brasilia; Maurilio Quadros on Unsplash
“Why is he up there?” Santiago shaded his eyes against the glare.
“To be close to the angels,” A-avó said.
“Isn’t he already dead?” the boy asked softly. He didn’t want to offend his grandmother, whose age seemed close enough to dying.
“Ah,” A-avó shook her head with sorrow. “He is with Jesus now some years. But he kept many from joining Heaven too early.”
The boy’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Did he do magic, A-avó?”
“In his way,” the old woman nodded. “Magic enough to me. Your O-avô would not have lived if it weren’t for President JK bringing medicine to us who lived in the country. The malaria and the tuberculosis would have taken your O-avô. As they had taken mine.”
Santiago thought of how it would be for him to grow up without the man he loved. “Obrigado,” he bowed to the statue.
“Good boy,” A-avó smiled.
For What Pegman Saw: Brasilia, Brazil
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