In The Blackest Night

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Photo: Hongmei Zhao on Unsplash

 

In the blackest night

She woke

To hear the flutter of her

Heart

Singing melodies of courage

In her ears.

As the hours ticked

Long seconds full of

Ink,

And stretched worries

She had long learned how to

Blink,

She held on to

Wisps of memories

Mirrored in her unshed

Tears,

And recalled the echoes

Of abandon

In the giggles

Of her very early

Years.

 

 

For the dVerse Poetics challenge: Black

 

 

The Bag

Photo prompt: © Ted Strutz

 

She stopped by to check on her elderly neighbor and saw a bulging bag on the curb. Odd. Trash-collection was two days away. Ethel could get ticketed.

She grabbed the bag. The thing was heavy! How did the ancient women lug this? She carried it up the path to the door.

“Ethel?” she knocked. “It’s Belinda.”

Silence. Was Ethel sleeping? Belinda knocked again. Waited. Rang the bell. Used her key.

There was no one home. All personal effects gone.

Heart pounding, Belinda rushed to untie the bag.

A mess of photos spilled out, scattering Ethel’s life to the ground.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

 

A Map Of Reminiscing

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Green Gardens trail in Gros Morne National Park, NL (Timothy Holmes on Unsplash)

 

They’d come to Gros Morne every summer. On “Dad Week.” Camp in a tent that always leaked but Dad wouldn’t replace, every patch and glued seam a map of reminiscing. They’d spend days on the meadows, walk the volcanic beach, go down to Old Man’s Cove.

Sal loved all of it. Even the chill and wet and constant hunger (for there was always more Dad aspired to catch than what he’d actually manage to). Sal never complained. He’d give up everything to breathe the ocean and make up stories about pirates in the coves. He’d even downplay the painful rash and sneezing (they never did find which wild-flower he was allergic to, and he didn’t want to, afraid Mom would say he couldn’t go).

Erosion closed his favorite trail, but not his memories.

He gazed at the ocean and wondered if Dad, whose mind was fading, still had his.

 

 

 

For What Pegman Saw: Newfoundland & Labrador, Canada

 

 

Flight Patrol

flight patrol NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

I watched its solitary fly by

And wondered if it felt

Lonesome for the many it had once

Belonged to

Yet left,

Or if it was a scout,

Holding a memory of a long-ago-known

Place to land

That others had forgotten

Or had misplaced the

Sense of.

Will it circle back to its own,

Flapping on the wing

In fatigued relief,

To let the rest know

It had found this night’s

Home?

 

 

 

For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Anything that flies

 

 

The Perfect Shoes

20190224Photo Courtesy of Susan Spaulding

 

She came across them at the thrift store, squashed in a box along with moth-eaten scarves, a pair of slacks with holes that could tell many stories, two helplessly dented hats, and some fabric scraps.

She was about to lift a shoe to ask about the price when the proprietor glanced in her direction. “Those are by the box,” he drawled. “Take it or leave it. No picking.”

“How much?” She swished her hand inside the box and shrugged, worrying he’d overcharge her if he detected interest.

“Thirty.”

Her eyebrows hiked up on their own accord. The shoes alone were worth ten times as much.

“Twenty, final offer,” he misinterpreted her gesture.

She gazed into nearby containers till her thrumming heart settled down and she could pour something less jello-like into her legs.

“I’ll take it.”

She carried the box to the car fully expecting to hear the shopkeeper’s voice calling her back to point out a mistake. No call came.

Finally at home, she rescued the shoes, stuffed them with tissue-paper, and placed them reverently under Great-Great-Grandma’s bridal gown. Family lore was that she’d had big feet and had to wear men’s shoes. Those were a perfect match.

 

 

For Susan’s Sunday Photo Fiction

 

Woolgathering

snow view KarenForte

Photo: Karen Forte

 

Pause, and

Let your mind wander

In waking reverie

To the places where

Tomorrow’s seeds

Are sleeping

Underneath the snowy

Ground,

Wrapped in the arms

Of memories

Of days

Long passed

And others

Yet to come.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Woolgathering in 36 words

 

 

 

Blue thoughts on Yellow

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Photo: Karen Forte

 

In middle school the uniforms

Were yellow tops and blue skirts

For the girls,

Yellow tops and blue slacks

For the boys.

 

The hue of yellow

In the official

Button downs,

Was a pale shade that made

Even the ruddy

Cheeks of children

Wash out

In the sun.

 

I used to think perhaps

This was the only color

Merchants had on overstock

When the school had first opened:

A fabric rescued

After years of fade brought on

By being forgotten

By everyone.

 

Oh, it was a decent enough school,

With friends I have kept

In touch with since the

Beginning of Sixth Grade.

It was the yellow hue

That had me blue.

 

Decades passed

And while

The beauty and the range

Of it in nature

Does indeed move me to tears,

I’m yet to own

A yellow garment

Even after

All these years.

 

 

 

For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Blue and Yellow

 

Memory Jar

Photo prompt: © Priya Bajpal

 

“Can I take one now?”

“Breakfast first.”

Deena sighed. She ate her oatmeal and drank her milk, but her eyes kept returning to the seashell table Dad had gotten for Mom. Before. To the jar that usually stood on the mantel. Since.

Finally, Grandma rose and put her mug in the sink.

Now that it was time, Deena hung back. She remembered filling the jar, with Grandma, after the accident, when memories were fresh and both their hearts were broken.

Grandma took her hand. “Come. Reach in. Pick one, and you’ll see – the right moment with them will find you.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Heart Memories

Kathtyn and Carol Jan08

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Good friends to me,

To each other,

Their hearts and souls

Brimming love.

A decade passed

Since this photo,

And both had grown

Angel wings.

Sweet moments

Of memories

That won’t ever

Depart.

 

 

Dedicated to Kathryn and Carol, forever thankful to have known you. You are forever in my heart.

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Memories

 

An Arrow Spent

boats trees SmadarHalperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

She used to splice the water like an arrow, undeterred by swells.

She’d always been better than him, though he never admitted it and she was too proud to brag and sometimes too overconfident.

They pretended playful competitions but those inevitably turned into dogged races that left them near exhaustion. Luke even capsized once, far from shore. He was upset by her gaining on him and so tired that all he managed was to slap the water with his oar and spin his boat into the wide belly of a wave. Nearly spent herself, she barely managed to help him into hers.

She’d give everything to race him again.

She gazed into the bay. She could no longer row. Her boat rested, overturned. Perhaps it kept her brother company. He, too, was beached, six feet below.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Arrow in 135 words