For Sonya’s weekly photo prompt.
photo by Raychel Sanner via Unsplash
The turbulence gathered, the spiralling winds whipping forests to a blaze, oceans to rolling mountain chains of water, and the earth opened to receive it.
All the dark matter of pain and suffering concentrated in one huge desert sucked dry of concrete and living things, drawing all roads towards it inexorably.
When all our works had hurtled to their meeting place, with wild laughter or howls of despair, and the sky poured all of its anger into the last great electric storm, the vengeful mouth yawned, drank deep and snapped shut.
Procrastinating again. For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Jonny Caspari via Unsplash
On the highest mountain peak on his stone chair, the Great God sat, a sceptre in his hand pointing at the Earth.
The needle that was to burst her fragile bubble, let her life-giving air leak away, was poised, an army of lesser gods ready to leap into the breach.
But Earth had no need for such hypotheses, and the fantasies broke, flaming torches against the scientific reality of the atmosphere, falling like stars into the blue oceans.
Because it’s Sue’s prompt, and because I like the image.
There’s a lonely hill above a lonely valley, and no one treads the high paths anymore. Once there were forests they say, latterly herds of brown cattle and flocks of sheep, but the soil thinned until the grass grew brown as the cattle.
No one treads the high paths anymore, and in the valley the sheep have gone, the cattle long since bones beneath the bracken.
Only I go there at times, when the air is not too sharp and the glare in the sky not too fierce. I stand on the hill and try to remember what green looked like, the smell of gorse flowers, and the song of the skylark above the heath.
I strain through my mask to hear that music of a dead time, but the only sound is the rattle of the wind in the heather’s dry bells.
For the dverse prompt. 144 words exactly.
The egret picked its way through the reeds to where the open water of the lake began, the stately progression of a Medieval princess dressed in white samite performing some mystery. He shifted his weight; the movement frightened the bird and it launched itself in a shower of droplets into the sky. Envy made her want to weep.
“Oh to have that freedom, those white wings.”
He shrugged. “It’s not freedom. It’s just following nature’s orders.”
“Sometimes,” she said, “the great bones of my life feel so heavy, I could drown in these shallows.”
He took her hand. She knew what he was going to say, the platitude about how he’d always be there to carry her. She pulled her hand away.
“The shallows call with more passion than I’ve ever heard from you.”
“I know,” he said and turned back to the house.
I have a short piece in this month’s Visual Verse. You can read it here.
Thanks to the editors for selecting my entry. Please read the mag from the beginning; there are some really luminous pieces, especially the poems.
This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Diana Aishe via Unsplash
Come back, they shouted from the far bank, the wild woods are no place for a little girl, but the little girl stopped half-way across the river that was supposed to be the river of forgetfulness, the river of no return, and she remembered.
The clamour on the far bank grew louder, imperious, and she heard the words, school, homework, cleaning your room, tidy, respect, obedience and duty.
The wild woods whispered and reached out gentle hands, and she saw they were full of life and beauty and peace, so, she put her hands over her ears, turned around and ran straight back.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales Prompt. Don’t ask what it means. It’s just one of those days.
photo by Ashley Byrd via Unsplash
Paint the things that aren’t there; fill in all the unseen spaces, leaving blank walls pristine.
Shuffle the anxious worms that suck and strip the joy from life into the slippery tubes,
stopper them up, close your eyes and breathe only the white purity of thoughtlessness.
For the dverse prompt.
I often see things in this house, fast moving blurs, fast as mice, out of the corner of my eye. Birds I think, flitting past the window, casting their small shadows into the dim light of the room. I often think papers have been riffled, but then my desk is always so untidy it’s hard to be sure.
Sometimes there are lines written in a poem I left off half-finished, strange lines that don’t sound like me. Sometimes there are slight breathless noises in the night or in the day in empty rooms where dust motes dance. Sometimes a shadow slips into a room. When I look there is only light.
This evening, the rain is pouring in torrents. The shadow is in the bureau, reading what I have just written. I now believe, not in ghosts, but in dead poets and restless words.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Linus Sandvide via Unsplash
Almost five hundred years since the abbey was destroyed because a king needed a divorce and the extra revenues weren’t to be sneezed at either, and still the ruins fascinate.
He wanders the silence where grass covers stone flagged pavements, and birds nest in niches of crumbled stone where once prayers were muttered, lifting his torch to the sky opened by fallen roofs.
There is still so much majesty in the soaring stone that has never surrendered to either fire, cannon or the elements, so much that sings in the stonework and architectural grace—he tosses his torch into the petrol doused kindling—time to finish the job.
I have a few success stories to crow about, so I’ll let them all go here.
First, I’m proud to have three poems in the anthology As the World Burns published by Indie Blue. I get a special thrill that my third entry is the poem that closes the collection. Yes, my desk is a mess but I can’t tidy it because of the ladybirds hibernating on it.
Second reason to be cheerful, a haibun of mine is one of the Ekphrastic Review’s five nominations for the Sonder Press’s Best Small Fictions anthology!
Third—my second collection of poems, birds and other feathers will be available in kindle version from November 27th (husband’s birthday) but the print version will have to wait until I’ve seen a proof copy, and that is in the hands of the postal service.
And last, but not least, I have finished another novel! I know, I do this often and nothing happens. One day though, I hope to be able to say, and somebody has picked it up.