Sitting Duck

https://crimsonprose.files.wordpress.com/2021/05/ccc133.jpg

“It has no feathers.”

“Of course it doesn’t,” Molly noted. “It’s a duckling. It has fuzz.”

Duffy was not impressed. The small thing was squeaky and looked utterly too squeashy. She wasn’t even sure it was waterproofed.

She shook her head. She never was good with small squeaky, squeashy, clingy things.

“It’s only for a short while,” Molly’s voice was soft, but Duffy recognized the little waves of irritation that signaled turbulence just underneath the surface.

Best not mess with that.

Duffy sighed and peered closely at the fuzzball. “So what am I supposed to do with it?”

Molly flapped with such relief that Duffy wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or terrified.

“Just keep it out of trouble,” her sister called, already on the wing.

“What kind? How…?”

Silence.

Then a squeak.

The fuzzball waddled, pooped, and attempted to preen its zero feathers. Ridiculous.

Her nephew.

Also kinda’ cute.

 

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Uncanny

 

There was a mystery

To their madness.

An uncanny sense of

Doom.

But she did not flail

Afraid

In darkness,

Whilst she could spot a petal

Bloom.

Instead, she watched

With rapt intention

As life suffused

Their eerie

Gloom.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Uncanny in 39 words

 

Tiny Tidings

 

The dreary times were soon to pass.

No matter that her breath still steamed both outdoors and inside the drafty house. No matter that her red fingers barely bent with swelling and that the chilblains on her toes still burned and ached and itched. No matter that she took so long to warm come night that she almost despaired of sleeping.

The dreary times were soon to pass.

She knew.

True, it was still frosty.

But the cold was dying.

She knew, because the ice formed only on the very edges of her washbasin and because what frost adorned the ground in the morning would transmute into miniature mirrors of dew by the time the sun rose higher in the sky.

And because she saw the primrose.

Blooming.

Out there.

In audacious glee.

If the tiny flowers could endure the remnants of frigidity, so could she.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Look Yonder

Yonder spring NYC 2021 NYehuda

(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)

 

Look yonder and you may see

What has, perhaps, become

Of me.

The good, the bad, we could

Agree,

Had gone to bed and woke up

Free.

Look yonder

And you will find

A key,

To what helps us

Grow

From one, to we.

 

 

 

For Sammi‘s Weekend Writing Prompt: Yonder in 44 words

 

The Orbiter

bulgaria mountains AmitaiAsif

(Photo: Amitai Asif)

 

The sun took her leisure.

It was, after all, the longest day.

She could, till the next time,

Meander

Just a little bit

Across the sky.

Peering down at the blue marble

She raised a ray to salute

The tiny orbit.

Odd,

That one,

In how it keeps questioning

Why.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Orbit in 50 words

 

Spring Loaded

CCC121

(Photo: Crispina Kemp)

 

A steady stream of arms laden with crinkly cellophane bundles traipsed through the narrow entrance corridor, up the stairs, around the bend, and past the out-of-order elevator.

The smells of urine, rust, and peeling paint receded. Giving way to vases, boxes, baskets, floral foams, and rubber bands.

There were roses. Lush buds with intrepid blooms unfurling their blushing petals amidst a proliferation of snowy Baby’s Breath.

There were carnations in white, fuchsia, orange, and a teal-blue hue that nature did not make but lent a Caribbean Sea vibe to the bouquet.

Daffodils and tulips, proud atop their stems, even if their own growth did not commence in frosted ground but in the cushy climate of the nursery.

And Gerbera daisies in a smiling rainbow of colors resting atop greens.

The room brimmed with the scent of flowers.

If she could not wait for spring, they would bring spring to her.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Central Park, New York City

May NYC2 NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

Where waters tide

‘Round canyons

Carved by time

And ice,

Other canyons

Rise

Man-made

To tickle skies.

 

Where greenery

Respite to

Millions

Provides,

Sleep memories

Of others

Who used to there

Reside.

 

Where footfalls mask

The horns of cars

And rustles hold

More sway,

There breathes the city

That like me

Many call home

Today.

 

 

 

For the dVerse challenge: take me with you

 

 

 

To Be Home

ToBeHome NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

To be home

Where the sun kisses

Blooms

On the sly,

And the buildings cannot

Hide reflections

Of sky,

Where new life bursts on forth

Undeterred

Joy unmasked,

And this moment

Outdoors

Is almost all one

Can ask.

 

 

 

For the Lens-Artists Challenge: at home

 

 

Get Connected

Walk with me OsnatHalperinBarlev

Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev

 

Walk with me

Into nature

Where the fresh air

Flows through.

 

Walk with me

As we shelter

Under skies

Me, and you.

 

Walk with me

Hand in hand

Muddy boots

Flowers, too.

 

Let us breathe

And connect

With everything

That is true.

 

 

For the Tuesday photo challenge: Connect