Sorry to take a cynical view of this photo, but that’s life, for some.
photo by Melanie Dretvic via Unsplash
‘When I’m too big for my pony, Daddy’s going to sell her and buy me a real horse, an old, used one like you, that I can practice on until I get good, then he’ll buy me a better one.’
‘And when you get a better one, little girl, what will happen to me?’
The little girl shrugged and said, ‘You’ll go to the knackers, I suppose, where all old horses go.’
For Sonya’s weekly photo prompt.
photo by Dave Herring via Unsplash
Sometimes, you step outside your own neighbourhood, and the world changes from Mad Max to Narnia, a place of silent comfort, where no old cars clutter the kerb, and no kids and dogs run screaming after balls across the unfenced lawns.
You walk across the rainbow path that leads through the expensive residences, and you wonder if the people who walk happily hand in hand along this path to church ever know pain.
You shrug, wrap your arms around your secrets and turn back to your own neighbourhood, where even the rainbow-coloured chalk dust on the soles of your shoes could earn you a punch in the face.
For Sonya’s three line tales prompt.
photo by Rikki Austin via Unsplash
Miranda had taken up her place in the centre of the henge on a campstool to keep her robes off the damp grass, facing the east and the rising sun, when dawn was still only a paling of the darkness along the horizon.
The air was in movement with the faint presence of ancient lives that still vibrated in the holy place, and she was certain that this sunrise would reveal the arcane mysteries of the stone circle.
She held her breath as the first cold rays shot across the hillside and probed the entrance stones to touch her dew-damp feet then her knees, only letting it out in a gasp of disappointment when thick cloud smothered the sun and a light rain began to fall.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales.
photo by Neil Armstrong (via History in HD on Unsplash)
He stands, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, his circumscribed vision fixed on the blue planet hanging in the vast darkness, and he wants to weep with the beauty of it.
This is the greatest moment in the entire history of mankind, he thinks, no one, nothing has created anything to equal this achievement, and I am part of it.
Then his gaze drops to this unknown ground, earth, dust, a world where he is the first man to leave his mark, and he sees the footprints.
The Three Lines Tales prompt is reflecting my WIP now. Even the photographer has the right name.
photo by Richard Clark via Unsplash
The river’s fury subsides, and William le Maréchal drags himself onto the bank, gasping, his fury the equal of any natural or magical phenomenon.
Striguil, so close, almost within his grasp—he could almost hear the feeble cries of the woman he would take, by force if she resisted, in order to legitimate his claim—and to be denied it by the unholy workings of a succubus.
From the lake, calm now in the evening sun, a woman’s voice rises in a gale of bright laughter—For all your toadying and flattering of kings, your line will never possess these stones, de Clare’s bones and the inheritance of his daughters.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Kong Jun via Unsplash
In the café the local radio talked about nothing else, the tiger shark, possibly, and the preparations to ‘deal with it’.
“No going in the sea for you two today,” they said, the parents, settling down under the beach umbrella where mother took out her book and father promptly went to sleep.
None of which stopped the twins going down to the water, just to look, and paddling into the shallows where nothing big could possibly be lurking.
Inspired by Sonya’s photo prompt.
photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen via Unsplash
Two small faces press up against the glass, laughing.
Cubs, she thinks. Mine gone. Nothing left. Empty water.
The attendants hustle the children away when the bear beats her skull against the glass until the bones break.