Photo: Nicola Nuttall on Unsplash
They walked through fields
Of heather
Seeking remedy
For those
Soon to be together,
Gathering the makings
Of the broom
They’d use
To sweep away their
Woes.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Heather in 27 words
Photo: Sue Vincent
They filed into the toothy circle, a long double line, holding hands over the green strip that split them apart.
The stone pillars stood, immobile, ever present, waiting.
There have always been golden fields in all directions. Wild, then cultivated. The rustling of the ripened plants replacing a hush that would otherwise feed unease.
For there will be no voice heard.
No word.
No song.
No shout.
Nothing said.
Just a long line of humility, stepping up the path and through the eye of the ancient circle. Waiting to be cleansed.
To be whole.
To be seen.
To walk on.
Ahead.
Out the other side and down the second path where a widening triangle fanned into the distant horizon, mirroring the measure of relief.
And from the far far spaces, well beyond the hills, the sound of voices, whispers freed, a humming on the breeze.
Nikiski, USA (Photo: Elijah Hiett on Unsplash)
“The spirits of water and sun fought with the spirits of snow and ice well before the white man came to this land aiming to tame them.” The old man spoke softly, punctuating his words with silence. “Our people did not fight the spirits. Birth and death. Light and dark. The Tinneh accept them as they do life.”
The elder’s story was met with quiet nods of respect. There was no need for sound when another was speaking. A log crackled in the fire and the hush of waves sang on the shore instead.
“Our Tinneh ancestors have lived here ever since Walrus and Whale were born from the womb of Water Spirit. The white man calls this place Nikiski. It is a fine name, but not as fine as the name it already has. Just like the seal that swims unseen, Kultuk still lives under the new name’s ice.”
For What Pegman Saw: Nikiski, Alaska
“Did Great-Grandpa really fight in the Great War?”
“He did.”
“What made it great, Mama?”
She sighed. This place’s heaviness only settled thicker during the holidays. She’d come every year on Christmas as a child. Too infrequently since. The ocean’s breeze whipped hair into the boy’s eyes and she tucked a lock behind his ear. He so reminded her of herself.
“Grandma Rose said it was because the Heavens everywhere lit with the great number of souls and broken hearts. The Great Loss, she called it.”
“A lot of Christmas angels, Mama?”
“Perhaps so.”
“I think Great-Grandpa is one, though.”
Note: Dedicated to all who are missing loved ones during the holidays, to all who are no longer with us for they’d given their lives (or parts of their souls) for others, in search of peace, in hope of no more war or hate or greed. May we do better, as a species. Let there be true peace on Earth.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
(Thank you Sandra Cook for the evocative photo prompt!)
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Oh, there’s the mistletoe,
The berries
Over green.
The holidays
In olden faiths
Remembered,
Veiled, still seen.
Oh, in the mistletoe,
The Druid,
Norse,
The Greek,
For strength of
Loins,
And sacrifice
For friendship, love
And peace.
Oh, in the mistletoe
A medicine
A kiss.
May it bring
Your heart
Only the best
Of all of
This.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Holidays
“We used to go in through that side door,” Mama said.
I stared at the narrow wooden portal. “Because you are a girl?” I knew that Jewish traditions relegated women to a separate area in the synagogue, sometimes a designated entrance.
“No,” Mama’s voice shook and I reached for her hand. Her tears surprised me.
She seemed reluctant to cross the street. I couldn’t blame her. The building looked forbiddingly cold, sealed shut.
“No,” she repeated, a note of defiance in her eyes. “So no one knew services were held. They’d have come for us if we were found out.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
Ancient stone
Not disowned
By old time’s
Marching on.
Newer walls
Chaperone
To contain
Buddha’s throne,
And only the peak’s
Crumbling bones
Tell of years
Now long
Gone.
For the Wits-End Weekly Photo Challenge: Decay
They would come out when dark was complete under a moon that was yet to be reborn.
First a scout would be sent. One not quite old enough to have their wisdom be missed, but not quite so young that they’d be careless or uninformed. It was an honor and a worry, both. For not all scouts returned, and laws dictated that no one is to follow and the outing abandoned until the next dark comes. The safety of the colony outweighed any singular life, no matter how heartbroken they were over losing one of their own or how many nightmares wracked the communal dreams for many sleeps afterwards.
Most times, blessed be the hidden stars, the scout would return safely. If they confirmed that all was as it should be, any who could walk would funnel topside through the tunnels that honeycombed their underground world, and out into the rocky canyon which was formed a million years ago by a whip of light from the stars.
The colony would climb over hills of leaves and navigate the muddy ponds at the bottom of the canyon, all in silence that only the heartbeats in their collective chests would pierce. For the predators were many and the colonists were small and peaceable. They lacked fangs or claws and were opposed to weaponry. The universe that sprawled beyond the walls of their rock canyon provided the provisions they required. They took the danger with the blessings.
Once beyond the relative shelter of the canyon walls, they’d fan out to forage and gather: edible leaves, stalks of grass for feed and weave and bedding, acorns, nuts, seeds, berries, and the occasional fallen fruit or discovered tuber that required many hands to trundle back into the tunnels where they lived.
They’d work until the elder who tracked the darkness passed the whisper to return, and they would fall in line to carry the final batches home.
The last to enter the canyon would pull a broom of leaves behind them – a gesture of traditional thanks for the sustenance, and a practical act for sweeping away many footsteps. The ancients had tunneled pathways for them to emerge into the night from, but there was no need to make those very pathways highways to decimation. They took care to not be known.
With all returned, the elders would seal the rocky door and bless it closed, and the colony would sigh relief as the rock itself would seem to whisper as it settled into slumber til the next unborn moon darkened the sky.
For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto Challenge
The youngsters always met by The Pillar.
Their parents had. Their grandparents had, and the great-grands before that and on and on till time before time. It was a rite of passage of sort. A congregation-point for those just past the threshold from children to adults.
There was no timetable for how long it was before a set of youths made way for those younger still. Yet the time never seemed to be very long, no matter the outward circumstances.
In olden times such changeover was marked by many youths’ marrying shortly after adult bodies and responsibilities were taken on, as it was believed that matrimony was the lead to sensibilities. Any youths lagging behind in house-making would soon enough stop visiting The Pillar anyway, perhaps as it would feel unseemly for them to be seen hobnobbing with total greenhorns to the adult world.
In modern times, with childhoods that stretched well beyond the bounds any elder would consider reasonable, and with less children in town to nip at the heels of those frequenting The Pillar, youths nonetheless rarely mingled by it for much longer than they would’ve in the past. Just their chronological age had shifted some, from puberty to closer to the end of high-school.
Looking back, few could tell exactly what about The Pillar had drawn them to the location. Sure, the isolation allowed for some actions full-fledged adults would likely frown on (though they’d done the same — and sometimes worse — themselves), but there were plenty other isolated places to find privacy in. Blustery in winter and mosquito-swarmed by summer, the field where The Pillar stood was not exactly the height of comfort. Still by tradition or something more, the youth were drawn to it like moths to light.
It was the fairies, some whispered, magic of the Fair Folk, conjured so they could feed upon the newly discovered energies of youth, necessary to the Fairies’ sustained immortality. Others pooh-poohed the folklore, perhaps unnerved by the notion that anything but their own will had caused them to view as irresistible what later on looked quite the dreary spot.
“It was just the adventure,” the latter would grumble. “Every child in town grew up dreaming of being old enough to go to The Pillar. Of course we wanted to finally do so.”
Still they could not explain what had made them suddenly wish to visit it. Or why it had just as suddenly lost its charm.
When pressed, they’d shrug that “it’s been there as long as anyone remembers.” As if that was explanation enough.
Lore or not, the youngsters always met by The Pillar.
And there The Pillar stood. Slanted by age or forces beyond comprehension. Till another age of the earth would come.
For Sue’s Thursday Photo Prompt: Timeless
Photo: Adi Rozen-Zvi
Up in mountains
Down valleys
‘Midst small villages
Near towns,
Seedlings
Rise
From the water
Neath bent backs
Patient hands
Toward the sun.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Things People Grow
tucked away in the mountains
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