For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
photo by Girl with red hat via Unsplash
It was spring, the birds were singing madly, the alley was hung with roses, and her feet flew as she ran to meet him, standing open-armed in the doorway at the end.
The future had been strewn with rose petals, a long sun-lit alley of fragrance and happiness, where they would walk side by side, hand in hand.
The alley is empty now; her feet drag through drifts of dead leaves, and at the end, the door is closed and locked, the dream fading.
For Sonya’s prompt.
photo by Sunyu via Unsplash
I can’t write your story, but it’s written in your eyes, the days of tracking, the fear, the fatigue and in the end, the men with spades.
They dig until they reach the heart and drag it out, still beating.
I have seen them, the cubs still blind, tossed in the waste from the cowshed, and whenever in the cool spring night, I hear a vixen call, I think of them, and all the others.
photo by Nimesh Basu via Unsplash
For Sonya’s Three line tales photo prompt
She hadn’t wanted to; he had seen the look of terror on her face and known that fear of the bike had been merely an extension of her fear of him.
“Lean with the bike, not against it,” he had roared when he felt her struggling, but she hadn’t wanted to lean anywhere, just for it to stop, and it had, but not the way either of them would have chosen.
When he saw the black figure rise up among the meadow flowers of the field, he had not been surprised; he had always known what death would look like when it came for him.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
The lavender fields stretch silent and scentless, their parallel banks of gaudy colour disappearing from sight over the hills.
We still marvel at the glorious (unnatural) colour, but the unmistakable scent is a faded memory, the sound of bees relegated to audio histories,
and we never talk about what the lavender harvest feeds.
For Sonya’s Three line tales prompt. A poem. I loved the image.
photo by Claudio Schwarz via Unsplash
She raised her arms and leapt into the morning sky
breaking bonds that fluttered useless
in the wind of dreams
treading free air with feet
that dripped with the centuries
of mud and blood of her cage.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Raúl Nájera via Unsplash
The hunters read the notice and laughed, arrogant, derisive laughter, because they were hunters and they respected no rules but the ones they made themselves.
There were deer in the woods, hare and pheasant in the broad glades, and game was game, wherever it hid.
Shouldering their rifles they climbed the fence and jumped, clearing the brambles and landing in the concealed trench filled with razor wire, their screaming drawing from the tree shadows, the waiting wolf pack.
For Sonya’s photo prompt.
photo by Nathan Dumlao via Unsplash
They gave him a puzzle to put together out of bits of black and grey, sharp and caustic as the put-downs of his teacher and cold as his father’s disinterest.
He struggled beneath their unflinching gaze and the click click of biros taking notes and the glare and the blare of the noisy light.
At the end of the hour he had made a figure of a boy out of five rectangles and a circle, and scattered all around was the howling debris of his world.
Couldn’t resist this prompt. Reminded me of a well-loved film.
He took a crayon from the pot and drew a red balloon, and at the end of the long string, he drew himself.
The master crumpled up the paper and tossed it in the bin angrily, but later, after school, the child met his friend on the corner, and in her hand she held the strings of two balloons, a red and a blue.
She smiled, handed him the red one, and together they drifted away, over the rooftops of the unkind city to the place where balloons and children fly free.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales, on hearing the news from Italy.
photo by NASA via Unsplash
I had a dream last night that I was floating high above the world, so high I could see oceans and continents, so bright, so blue.
I wanted to spread my wings and soar, but my hands were bound, and something was in front of my face as the blue world slipped away out of my line of vision.
The blue, when my eyes blinked open, was the sterile light of a hospital ward, and I stared through a mask, a tangle of tubes and the blur of tears.
For Sonya’sThree Line Tale prompt.
photo by Gabriel Ramos via Unsplash
We all thought he was a crank, with his homemade rocket, out to prove that the earth was flat, Darwin was wrong, God was a spaceman, and the Loch Ness Monster was actually a flying narwhal spawned among the unicorn and mythological beast hatcheries that fake scientists and blasphemers called the Milky Way.
We watched from a safe distance as the captain of the Starship Hergé turned the ignition, revved the engine, opened the throttle, and deployed the flight fins, giggling as the glorified firework burst into the air.
Our laughter turned to astonishment when, with whinnies of alarm, a school of winged multi-coloured narwhals shot out of the bank of cloud as Hergé roared past on her way to Loch Ness in the Sky.