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It was merely by a feather,
But nonetheless a
Tether
To a life before,
When friends were at the
Door,
And when she did not have to worry
About honor, trust, or
Glory.
She held on to the underside
Of recollection.
To the roots of love that
Promised a
Direction.
For there had been simplicity to life,
An implicit understanding
That words as given were meant
To keep,
And that the sun will rise in
The morn after a
Sleep.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Tether in 80 words
(Photo: Simona Roubkova on Unsplash)
“What are you going to do with this thing?”
Leah shrugged, and watched as Marty circled the addition to their household, arms behind his back in what she thought of as his ‘Wannabee Inspector General.’
“It is useless,” he muttered.
“It is cute,” she said, and chuckled at the horror on his face. “In its own way, at least.”
For to be fair, the poor creature would win no beauty contests. Patchy hair, droopy eyelid, bloated abdomen. But there was a trusting glint in the blue eye, and a gentleness that sought her heart and hooked it.
“You’d do it mercy to put it down.”
“I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being,” Leah challenged. “If we can be of help, why not even try?”
She reached down to pet the pup. “Her name’s Pat.”
Prosery prompt: “I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility that existence has its own reason for being.” — Wisława Szymborska, “Possibilities”
For the dVerse prosery challenge
He spent the day lying in the field. Waiting.
Eventually someone would miss him, or wonder about how come he is so late.
Eventually they will think of sending someone to check.
For the moment, all he could do was gaze up at the skies, his leg in an angle that no leg should be in, and his breath curtailed to the smallest gasps as to limit the stabbing pain that traveled through him – like a snake’s bite and a red-hot poker combined – if his lungs filled up enough to move the lower part of his torso. He’d never been more acutely aware of how all joints connect.
A marvel, really.
And a pain.
He almost laughed at his own joke only to remember the infinite well of torture that he’s been finding over the hours he’d been this way. There was no bottom. Only crests of agony he could know and not know of, ride and fall off of, let be and let go.
In the first hour after it happened he’d been angry at himself for the stupidity of attempting to leverage boulders that should not be attempted solo. The stick, not sturdy as he’d hoped, snapped in half, sending him to the ground in an way he could not reconstruct for the blinding nausea of torment that had ensued. He didn’t know what part of his leg it was that broke, or not exactly. Raising his head even just a little led to the world spinning and a blackness closing in, and not only from the clouds that seemed to gather.
He wasn’t angry anymore. There was nothing left in him to spare on blame.
The grayness above grew heavy. It would not be long before the rain.
He’d be miserable in the muddy wet.
It would also bring people faster. They would not expect him to misread the weather. They’ll question. They’ll come.
A drop tickled his nose and he suppressed a sneeze, almost crying with desperation to avoid more pain.
A call sounded, and for a fraction of a second his heart soared. But in the next, awareness filled in: it was not a human’s.
He opened his eyes to a quartet of geese flying overhead. Wings flapping asynchronously against a rising wind.
“Fly safe,” he mouthed, eyes overflowing with misery in spite of himself. They could move. He was jealous. He was helplessly alone.
More drops fell. Tears or rain, it did not matter.
He held on to the imprint of the silhouettes against the spitting heavens.
Soon, his family will realize he hadn’t come home. Soon they’ll wonder about it enough to worry where he was. They’ll send someone.
For the moment, all he could do was breathe, and hold in all the sobs, and let the pain wash over him like rainfall.
Photo: Linn W on Unsplash
She’ll refuse, for she must,
The order
To adjust.
She will hold up the laws
And go forth
Just because.
She will not, not today,
Bow to cults
Or obey.
She’ll refuse, for she must,
In her own heart
Have trust.
For the dVerse poetry challenge: Order
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.
Photo: Ofir Asif
Twixt the tethers of Heaven
And Earth,
Swings the trust
In the ropes
That you’d learned but
Perhaps
Did not quite
Yet test out.
For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Action
Photo: Jim DiGritz on Unsplash
She looked him
In the eyes, and saw
A face that tells
Of life and memory
And all the small and
Infinitely scarring
Stories of what he’d done
Because he had to
Even when it wasn’t
What he’d wanted, but
What was necessary to have
Done.
The difficult
Choices.
The privations.
The loss made in
Acceptance of the compass
Of the heart and
Mind.
His was a trustworthy face.
Plowed by honest work
And resigned to
Sacrifice.
One month
May prove to be
Not nearly long
Enough.
Last lines quote used as inspiration for this challenge:
“I looked him in the eyes at last. They were sunken and soulful, and often carried dark circles under them. The man had a trustworthy face.
‘A month?’
‘That’s all. One month.'”
(“Girl Waits With Gun“ by Amy Stewart)
For the dVerse Poetics Last Lines challenge
Photo: Alex Andrews on Pexels.com
He was an amateur in
Matters
Of the heart.
Oh, he prided himself on being
An expert
Of the physiological
Domain.
And perhaps a tinkerer
In that
He was.
But he was not even
A dabbler
In intimacy.
He lacked all expertise
In the understanding of
Connection
Or trust
Or hope.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Amateur in 51 words
Photo: Osnat Halperin-Barlev
It has come to her before.
The message that had felt like lore
And made a home
Inside her core.
It ricocheted in her heart
Amidst the four walls
Of her soul.
Her spirit knew it,
And therefore,
She left her door open
For more.
For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: For/Fore/Four
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