Photo: Inbar Asif
As one year draws to close
And another gets set to rise,
Take a snapshot of your heart
In its joy and woe alike.
As moments tick toward the new,
Remove blinds from your weary eyes,
And let Soul show you who
You’ve been when you were wise.
It will revisit steps you took
So you can plan the next,
And hold the images of good,
For New Year’s light to reflect.
“She insists on coming,” he noted without raising his head and even though I hadn’t worded my question.
The quiet breathed and a soft breeze rustled the leaves and made shadows caress the stones.
“She stands by the gate and belts until I take her,” he added and continued to wipe his already spotless glasses. His fingers trembled, from palsy or emotion or both, I didn’t know.
“She misses her, you see,” he glanced at the goat. “Rejected by her nanny, this kid was. My Mary hand-raised her. She was this kid’s rock. Now all that’s left is this headstone.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Harpal Singh via Unsplash
They rode long through the dark
After closing the park
Wooden horses a-spiral in endless embark.
For the Three Line Tales Challenge
“They do not remember who they are.”
The old man’s voice was somber without judgment. A skill born of patience shaped by the combined weights of history and time.
“It is why I brought them here.”
The elder regarded his visitor. His dark eyes pools of wisdom deeper than the lines upon his skin.
A silence stretched.
“They will not find it in this place,” Sorrowful Skies said finally.
Disappointment filled the woman’s face.
“They will sleep in the lodge tonight,” he added. “Tomorrow, they will walk like their ancestors. In bare feet on breathing land. Then they will remember.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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
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
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.
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)
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.”
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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