A Piece of Peace

To ride AmitaiAsif

Photo: Amitai Asif

 
She wanted just

A slice of peace.

A piece of what she’d seen

Available

To others

And advertised as

Something one could

Reach.

She wanted just a taste

Of what it could be like

To know

Release.

Meanwhile she knew

She had to make do

With

Internal

Armistice.

 

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Peace

 

Middle Child

P1010891a

Photo: Keith Kreates

 

Her rooms were in the middle of the castle, hovering above the center of the river, sandwiched between two layers of guard rooms, bordered on both sides with sentinel halls.

Her residence, her very life, was perched between the woods on one bank and the manicured gardens on the other, split between one land and another, between a grand promenade entrance on one side and an into-the-wild entrance on the other, belonging to both and owned by neither. It was so by design.

Oh, she was no prisoner. She had the freedom of the castle and the pleasures of the adjacent lands. She could go riding or strolling, hunting or frolicking, visiting or picnicking. As long as she made sure to spend the exact time on either side of the river, as long as she took heed to show no favor, no preference, no prediliction.

Three of her attendants were timekeepers. One from each side of the river. One from a foreign country altogether. All three carried hourglasses and were charged with maintaining synchronicity. Disputes were rare, for they would mean a cease of all outdoor activities till the disagreement resolved, cause a strain on her well-being, tarnish their families, and lead to possible replacement. The timekeepers kept discrepancies to a minimum.

The comparable reality extended to everything: An exactly equal number of ladies in waiting from each side of the river, exactly the same number of servants, workers, soldiers, guards, and tradesmen who were allowed to live and work in, or gain access to the castle. The same number of her dresses had been made on each side of the river. Half the furniture, too.

The constant balancing act was tedious. It was also necessary.

“You are the bridge,” her governess had explained to her when — still a child — she was fed up with being shuttled across the castle mid-activity, so equal play time on the other side can be maintained. She did not want to have two of everything and be required to play with each equally. “You were born to end five hundred years of bloodshed.”

Her parents had defied odds and had sought alliance instead of massacres. They’d built a bridge over the fear and hate that endless war had fed. They’d began construction on the castle. They’d birthed her.

The people had watched and waited.

She was barely toddling when her parents’ carriage had gotten ambushed by some who’d believed that ending the alliance would enliven the centuries-old feuds. The warmongers were wrong. They’d killed her parents, but not the want for peace. People on both sides of the river came for the murderers. People on both sides worked to complete the castle-bridge and ensured the princess could be raised in its center.

It was on that day, cocooned in her governess’s lap, in the room above the river that had for generations divided her people, that she truly understood: After so much distrust, an exacting fairness had to be the glue that would hold peace till lasting trust could grow.

No betters. No less-thans. Not even the appearance of favorites.

The efforts to keep it so were sometimes so precise as to be ridiculous, but she preferred to err on the side of the absurd, rather than risk her people any harm.

She was the princess on the bridge.

Her rooms were in the middle of the castle, hovering above the center of the river, sandwiched between two layers of guard rooms, bordered on both sides with sentinel halls.

Her residence, her very life, was perched between the woods on one bank and the manicured gardens on the other, split between one land and another, belonging to both and owned by neither. It was so by design.

 

 

For Kreative Kue 238

Time To Unlock

the old city3 OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

Morning bells reverberated in the ancient alleyways, echoing against well-worn stone.

He rose to make his way from the humble room he slept in, to the place of worship his soul knew as his actual home.

The Old City of Jerusalem. The holy place named for harmony, recompense, greeting, and – with hopes for higher roads to be achieved – for wholeness, safety, and peace.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Unlock in 63 words

 

For A Change

Teamwork PhilipCoons

Photo: Philip Coons

 

Provoking change

Need not mean

Torment or insult.

Better growth is

To be had:

Evoke hope.

Inspire trust.

Kindle progress.

Proffer light.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Branch Out

NewZealand InbarAsif1

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

Branch out

Of your comfort zone.

Go out on a limb

To offer someone else

An arm to hold

A place to perch

Above the fray

And find

Some measure

Of peace.

 

 

For The Daily Post

The Words

Dreamcatcher InbarAsif

Photo: Inbar Asif

 

Recite the words you want to hear

Those your heart dreams to

Follow

Recite the words your soul still seeks

The ones that soothe

A sorrow

Recite the words you know are true

They will bring forth

Tomorrow.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post

Glaring Dare

SummerHaze DvoraFreedman

Photo: Dvora Freedman

 

In the midst of what glares

Too-hot stares

Reckless dares

Everywhere,

Find a moment to spare

Take a breath, be aware

Of the beauty

The air

And the hope

That we share

If we care

To embrace all that’s there

And declare

No despair

As we pledge

No warfare

And instead

Seek repair.

 

 

 

For The Daily Post