Photo: Adi Rozen-Zvi
In temples
Festooned
Not for one day
But all,
Glory shines
Festive gold
For good luck
To prolong.
For Photo for the Week Challenge: Festive
Golden Goal
Writing Challenge
Perfect View
Photo: Markus Spiske on Pexels.com
“There!” Angelo pointed.
“There what?” Payton panted
“There if you bother to lift your head.”
Payton scowled but was more occupied with getting oxygen into his lungs than wasting it on responses. He was sure that Angelo-The-Braggadocio had set the punishing pace deliberately to get him gasping. Not everyone climbed mountains for recreation!
The stitch in his side finally subsided enough to allow him to remove his fists from his thighs and straighten to take in the “amazing vista” Angelo had promised.
Dense fog. Vague tree tops. Milky air.
“There goes nothing,” Payton grouched.
Angelo chuckled and the saturated air softened the sound into something almost vulnerable.
Payton glanced at his friend. Glanced again. Was the wet on Angelo’s cheeks mist or liquid feelings?
“It is the perfect view,” Angelo murmured, his oft guarded face as open as a child’s. “To be inside Big Sky is to revisit Heaven.”
For What Pegman Saw: Big Sky Montana
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It is Time
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
It is time to make time
For the truth
Of what happened.
It is time to make space
For what some wished
Not be known.
It is time to take heed
Of the lengths went
To smother
The misdeeds and bad choices
So the fake
Will take hold.
It is time to revisit
Civic duty and justice
And refuse to permit
Free reign for hate,
Greed and lies.
It is time to return
To the truth.
For in fact it has long been
Well way past
The time.
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Late Dance
Photo: Rega’im Menatzhim
Things were winding down. Most tables had been cleared and many guests had left for home. Only the hardiest (or closest kin) still remained. Sated and a bit deflated with fatigue, they lounged, gossiped, tapped phones, and not-so-surreptitiously checked the time. Several small children slept on makeshift cots of pulled together chairs.
Music still played but with more inertia than conviction.
The celebration was officially over, though not for everyone: two boys, oblivious to the late hour and overall exhaustion, danced on.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Celebration (82 words)
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New Wings
Photo: Boris Smokrovic via Unsplash
She clung to the flower and whispered, awe shuddering through with each beat:
“I didn’t even know to imagine how it would feel to stretch wings,
to sense the blood pumping through to the tips, edges fluttering free with the wind.”
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Trestle Wrestle
Photo Prompt: Dawn M. Miller
“Stop it!”
Harry’s voice ricocheted off the cliffs. He could feel reverberations from his running traveling through the wooden trestles underneath his feet. Other thuds shook the bridge as well.
The figures didn’t even pause. Gordon swiped a leg under Thomas and the larger man went to the rails but grabbed hold of Gordon’s clothing. They rolled and the men would’ve tumbled off the tracks if it weren’t for Gordon’s belt catching on a spike.
Harry bent mid-stride to grab a stout stick.
It seemed he’d have to knock the two unconscious to stop them from killing each other.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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A Child’s Cheer
Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor
As chilly nights
Churn cold winds
And unclothed trees
Hold branches
In a yearn
To huddle near,
Cherish the fleeting
Flowing moments
Of memory’s chalices
Filling with cheer,
As a child
Chants a prayer
And gently lights
History’s challenge
To despair
Lack
And fear.
For the dVerse Quadrille Monday challenge: Cheer
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One More Swim
Photo: Na’ama Yehuda
“Time to go.” Ari shook the ground-cloth.
“One more swim to the breakwater and back!” Deni pleaded.
Ari eyed the sky, the flagpole buckling in the wind, the jellyfish tumbling in the surf. “Another time,” he turned to fold their sun-umbrella.
Behind him he heard Deni’s running steps. He reached for the vinegar. That girl never did listen.
For Sammi’s weekend writing prompt: Breakwater in 58 words
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The Chief’s Command
Photo: Ofir Asif
“They are not welcome here,” the Chief decreed.
His eyes regarded the troop that was his to protect. The land was plentiful, but his soul recalled the stories of Times of Famine, when many had been reduced to skin and bone and many more had died. Legend had it that The Others had brought it on, had taken more than was their share, and angered rain from falling, seeds from growing.
He sensed Bannu’s discontent. Chiefs didn’t have to grant permission for anyone’s opinion. Life showed him, however, that good Chiefs balanced silencing with persuading.
“Bannu?” he grunted.
“What if they return with more of their kind?” The youngster’s sparse ruff bristled apprehension.
The Chief nodded. Foresight was rare. The youth had potential. It also made him someone to watch out for.
“If they challenge us,” the Chief bared teeth and growled an answer and a warning. “We fight.”
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I Will Leave The Light On
Photo: Inbar Asif
I will leave the light on
For you and those still lost.
I will leave the light on
For nights when stars hide most.
I will leave the light on
Even if some say I’m wrong.
I will leave the light on
So you know that you belong.
I will leave the light on
During storms and gale and snow.
I will leave the light on
Just so you see and know.
