Photo: Tetyana Kovyrina on Pexels.com
She climbed atop the hay
And called
“I am King Of The Hill!”
And then she paused
And frowned
And said,
“I am the Princess
I’m the Queen!
No dress
No crown
But still!”
For the Stream of Consciousness Prompt: Affirm
It had been a long night. It will be a long day and night still.
The old man sighed and watched the spirits paint the sky.
The youth had spent the night secluded in silent contemplation. The elders had kept vigil not far from the tent.
Some elders frowned at the arrangement. “Right of passage should require complete solitude,” they’d argued. “How else will there be quietude enough to hear the whispers of the land?”
“Times had changed,” he’d stressed. “The current world requires the tent’s protection as well as our watchful eye. Surely the spirits, in their wisdom, understand.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo: Amitai Asif
In the slowest hour of the night
She came in robes
Of dreams
To weave the nearest future
Into light.
She swished along the desert
Roads that only
Deepest yearnings
Take
And whispered:
It shall be.
You’ll find the path
To follow when you
Wake.
For the d’Verse challenge: Harbinger
Photo: Amitai Asif
They gazed forlorn
Into the light,
Into the lumber
Burning bright.
All that they’d known
Before this plight,
Now kept them warm
Through heartache’s night.
*Dedicated to all who’d lost homes, lives, memories, and loved ones in fires and other disasters.
Photo by Pixabay
It wasn’t going to work.
Didn’t matter. She was going to make it work. Somehow.
She threw a bit of this and that into the pot and set it. She hated that slow cooker from the day he’d given it to her. Nightmare to clean.
Down at the basement, she dug out the red four-wheeler. Dragged it upstairs. Helter-skelter added in clothing, shoes, and what-not. Grabbed her purse. Almost forgot her passport. Searched for it. Panicked. Had he hidden it?
Finally found it in a shoe box. Found money, too. Keys to who knows.
On the way out, she checked the pot. Least she could do is leave a last meal.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Helter-Skelter in 111 words
Photo: Inbar Asif
Old it stretched
Brooding shade
O’er neat furrows made,
Watching new rows reborn
And the greens
Field adorn,
Growing tall, rising now
Making lush, anyhow.
For the dVerse Poets Challenge: Shed
Photo: Chagit Moriah-Gibor
“What did this?”
Calvin gulped.
“What?!” Eric insisted. “A jeep?”
“Not a car.”
“What then?”
“We better turn back.”
Eric squinted at the muddy furrows.
“Nothing you want to meet in the dark,” Calvin shuddered and revved the motorcycle’s engine.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Furrowed in 40 words
They didn’t mean to.
They had to think fast.
“What in God’s married name is that?!”
Gary glanced at Gloria. Mom only used the expression when the you-know-what was about to hit the fan.
“I told you this was stupid,” Gloria hissed as they ran to the door. “It only made it look worse!”
Gary shot her a “shut-up-and-let-me-handle-it” look.
“Hi Mom,” he announced and swung the door open so that (hopefully) only the taped side was visible. “Do you like it? It’s a Christmas tree duct tape art. To remind you of the holidays!”
For Rochelle’s FridayFictioneers
Photo: Karen Forte
In middle school the uniforms
Were yellow tops and blue skirts
For the girls,
Yellow tops and blue slacks
For the boys.
The hue of yellow
In the official
Button downs,
Was a pale shade that made
Even the ruddy
Cheeks of children
Wash out
In the sun.
I used to think perhaps
This was the only color
Merchants had on overstock
When the school had first opened:
A fabric rescued
After years of fade brought on
By being forgotten
By everyone.
Oh, it was a decent enough school,
With friends I have kept
In touch with since the
Beginning of Sixth Grade.
It was the yellow hue
That had me blue.
Decades passed
And while
The beauty and the range
Of it in nature
Does indeed move me to tears,
I’m yet to own
A yellow garment
Even after
All these years.
For Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge: Blue and Yellow
Photo: Simon on Pixabay
“This is too much.” Prama frowned at the heaped cart. “I don’t know how he’ll manage.”
“He will,” Abhi responded. He did not like the meddling of women in his business. Never had. But now that one of his eyes rested in a trash heap, he knew that customers found the presence of his wife reassuring. Better they talk to her than stare into his eye-patch and worry about the evil crouched behind it.
“Gaju is no longer a young man,” Prama insisted.
“Do not try my patience, woman!” Abhi growled. “Gaju feeds his family by the kilo-carried. Let a man earn a wage.”
“You could pay him more per kilo,” she shook her head at him, unimpressed. “You know he is too old to be hired by someone else and cannot lose this job. You overload his cart. Take care you aren’t also overloading your Karma in the process.”
For What Pegman Saw: Mumbai, India
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