On Full Display

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(Photo: Pop & Zebra on Unsplash)

 

They were going to hem and haw and huff and pout and stare.

She knew, already, from little-disguised cold shoulders

And from frowns

And neighbors’ glare,

That there will be no escaping their displeasure,

Anyway.

Even though they did not explicitly say,

Or outright forbid

Or demand that she

Obey,

She had no doubt that there will nonetheless be some community hell

To pay.

So might as well she do things as her heart designed,

And let her spirit play.

The vivid laughter of her soul

On full display.

 

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: vivid in 89 words

 

In The Block

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(Photo: SHOT on Unsplash)

 

She had a thing for giving names. To things.

It was her personal nomenclature.

The house’s door was “Lettie”… for letting her inside the home.

The bed was “Sleeping Beauty” … for some very long dreams.

Her knife set she called “Sharpenado.” In it was “Sharpenado-The-First”, “Sharpenado-The-Second”, “Sharpenado-Junior”, and even “Sharpenado Senior” … the oldest of the bunch. Like her, it was retired and allowed to spend the rest of its dull days in the block.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Nomenclature in 76 words

 

The Seeing

 

“When I die,” she’d say, “I will not be truly away from you.”

Both sides of the statement used to worry him when he was little.

“Will I see you?” He once fretted. It was the day they had buried the pup who did not last the night. The runt who never whined and did not wriggle by the time the sun awoke. They’d laid the tiny bundle under a small mound of dirt in the yard. And it was lost to sight.

“In a manner of speaking,” Grandma had replied, untroubled. “For not all seeing is done with eyes.”

He did not understand her then.

Or when she died.

He wasn’t sure he understood her still, with many years passed.

Her absence a hole in his heart.

Then he came across the giant burl.

And he felt her in it. Waiting. Smiling. Seen.

He carved her out.

 

 

For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge

 

Her Ants

(Photo: Hans-Peter Gauster on Unsplash)

 

She has ants

In her pants.

Restless thoughts

Writing plots.

No surprise

Her brain fries,

Daily grind

Flying blind.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: restless in 19 words

 

Blending In

Photo prompt: © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

She knew from the moment she walked in that she was way out of her league. Her virgin palette was blinding amidst the well-worn, paint-that-will-never-come-off-anymore held by others. She felt blush suffuse her face and an even deeper shame at raised eyebrows and feigned disinterest. Apparently she did not even warrant curiosity. An outsider. A wannabe.

She almost up and left.

But she’d saved for months to afford the class, and she spent her last on paints and brushes.

The need to create pulsed in her blood.

She stood her ground.

Blending in or sticking out, she’d stay. She’ll paint.

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

 

Carve The Cliffs

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

The calls of people searching for him reached his ears but he ignored them. They’d find him soon enough, and there would be punishment for him whether he answered or not. He preferred making good use of his time till then. Listening to other things.

The gulls dipped and screamed above the crashing surf. A rain-cloud hovered over the water, advancing like the searchers toward an inevitable drenching of the shore. It was his perfect weather. This mist on air. The colors. The expectation.

Did the cliffs welcome the rain or dread it? Sometimes he wondered whether for the rocks, perched above the ocean, there was relief in showers washing like tears down their stony cheeks.

He could see those. Tears. Cheeks. Faces. Hidden in the rocks.

Others mocked him for it. They said he was loose in the mind. Lacking logic. Too dreamy. Insane.

They tried beating it out of him. Did they think their thumps and slaps and lashes could drive away who he was, the way a kick sometimes dissuaded a stray dog from nosing near the chicken coop? There were times he’d wondered, curled in sobbing misery, whether it would not be better if they could.

Yet as soon as the sting subsided and the tears dried and a new morning dawned, he would feel the itch inside his soul awaken, stronger. It could not be squelched. It would no be ignored. There were spirits in those mountains. There were faces in the cliffs. He saw them. Heard their call.

An arm grasped his shoulder. Shook him. Slapped his head. Angry words garbled at his ears. He let the scolding drip to the ground. He let himself be led.

When he was grown, he vowed, he was going to carve the cliffs and release the stone-people from the prisons of ancient overgrown rock. He was going to help, so the rain could wash, freely, down their liberated cheeks.

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto

 

 

From The Rooftops

Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot

 

It was going to be epic.

He could hardly sleep. His feet itched. His toes tingled. His fingers yearned to move.

“Count sheep,” his girlfriend grumbled. His tossing and turning was keeping her up, too.

“I can’t,” he breathed into the nape of her neck. Smelling shampoo and a hint of laundry softener.

When dawn finally neared, he crawled out of bed, exhausted and exhilarated, both.

He checked the locks and clocks. He stretched. Warming up.

His dream was coming true. The details. Permits. Plans. It had felt insurmountable. Yet here was the final countdown for the City-wide Rooftop Dance.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Bauble Bob

tolhouse CrispinaKemp

 

His father declared him hopeless. His mother bemoaned his daydreaming. His brother called the boy a fool. His teachers rapped his knuckles, dressed him in the dunce’s cap, slapped his head. Nothing helped. His mind continued meandering and his pockets remained filled with bauble nonsense.

By the time Bob turned sixteen, the village elders had resigned themselves to him becoming one who loitered by the stream, carried water for the old, and attracted the cruelties of the young.

The last thing anyone expected was that Lord Bailey’s new wife, who hired the young man for the price of bread and ale to repair some fallen stone in her abode, would so enjoy the river rocks and pebbles utilized as repairs by Bauble Bob, that she’d have him adorn her gate, her walls, even her door.

Soon enough there wasn’t a manor around he hadn’t been called to restore.

 

 

For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge #66

 

 

The Error

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Photo: Daniela Holzer on Unsplash

 

She hadn’t intended for it to go this way.

She’d taken pains to be intensely selective of what she allowed. She’d researched every step, scoured barely legible ink on faded notes and prepared for every eventuality. She had kept her eyes peeled for any red-flags that should not be ignored.

She was careful.

And yet. There it was. Completely different than intended.

Her error.

She already repeated all the steps and realized her mistake. Her wonderful mistake.

It did not turn out as she’d expected.

It turned out fantastic instead.

She bottled it.

The aromatic error that will become the star perfume of the age.

 

 

 

For the RDP Monday challenge: Aromatic

 

Windows On Display

On display NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

His artwork,

Carefully crafted by

Little fingers

And a big

Heart,

Proudly on display

At the family’s

Living room,

Like any well deserving

Art.

 

Note: This is one of a series of creations by my nephew, who was about 7-8 years old when he crafted this and other lovely depictions in modeling clay 3D art.

 

For the Lens-Artists Challenge: on display