When I first read the prompt, my mind immediately went to love poetry, not quite my mood today. The winds are fierce and I am practicing a little kitchen witchery with a chicken carcass. Naturally, I immediately thought of soup. I make soup like my Grandma made, boiling left-over bones down for stock. My kitchen (OK actually my whole house) smells divine on this blustery autumn day. On chilly windy days, we made soup and she would tell me the story of “Stone Soup” ah but that’s a tale for another day.
Soup – a meal in a can?
“Soup’s good for you”, she said vegetable, chicken or chili instead served piping hot with cheese and bread. Canned soups I simply can’t abide never knowing what may lurk inside too often thin, tasteless, and bland so I make my own whenever I can
This week’s Sunday Stills prompt is our monthly color exploration, this month – Auburn Many thanks to Terri for the prompt as auburn is one of my very favorite shades
Auburn hair slid beneath his hands hot nights lying on coral sands when diamonds winked from the indigo sky serenade of waves as night rolled by adventures as they rode across the land lost as auburn hair slid beneath his hands
In the forest’s dark shroud stood a wee, tiny house not home to a human, squirrel, or mouse where the fairies came to dance and to play they come out at twilight and at break of day
By the old oak whose bark is all twisted and curled in the dark of the glade lies the fairies’ small world by the light of the moon I glimpsed me a sight of a world half in shadow and half way in light
In the space between heartbeats in the moments between sleeping and waking in the pause between snowflakes drifting aimlessly there are galaxies of light and loss vast seas of cosmos for love to cross here in those unseen spaces here where life renews here for all eternity I will wait for you
Merril is our host at dVerse Poets Pub for prosery.
Prosery is a piece of short prose that includes a line from a poem. I will give you the line, and then you incorporate it into your prose piece. It can be either flash fiction, nonfiction, or creative nonfiction, but it must be prose, not a poem. And it must be no longer than 144 words, not including the title. It does not have to be exactly 144 words. Our prompt is:
“there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles” from “Drawings By Children” by Lisel Mueller
She could still feel the ugly red pressure of the day it happened. The dull grey and orange of the sky, the torrent of air rupturing the early morning stillness like a sonic boom. The day the light died in his steel-grey eyes while he spoke the words that shattered her heart, her world, her soul.
It should have killed her. Pain like that should kill you instantly, like an arrow to the heart. But, alas, it did not. She pulled together the fragments of her shattered self and put them back together. Differently this time. Never again know the pain of love. She built a wall around her heart and to all who knew her, she seemed whole. But there is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles in hollow agony.
Your voice reached my ears and drew my eyes to you with all the force of an electro-magnet my heart followed the way a compass points north and then my mind with unerring precision I know in a manner unknowing precisely where you are
Terri’s Sunday Stills prompt this week is “your happy place” ahhhh, there have been so many. We’re international travelers. Every year we’ve been out of country for some period of time (usually a month or more). Needless to say 2020 has been somewhat of a let down. Like most people, we’re still learning to cope with the “new normal” so very different from the “old normal.” But we’re adapting and there are still hundreds of beautiful places to visit. Cautiously, carefully. So a few of my happy places from right here in my own “backyard” …
Over oceans I have traveled across the lands by plane and car I have hiked the forests green and wished upon a Shanghai star of the places I have been to the happiest by far the only place that I call home is any place you are
Kim from Writing in North Norfolk is hosting at dVerse today and would like for us to write a bit of prosery including the following line from D.H. Lawrence’s poem “Hummingbird:”
‘We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time’.
For an added challenge, we are limited to 144 words.
I take his gnarled hand in mine. Papery skin seeming somehow fragile. Hands that gently bottle fed a newborn kitten also struck fearsome taekwondo punches. Big hands, strong hands that made a little girl feel safe, that wiped away the tears and lifted the child back onto the bicycle. Hands that were meant for delicate technical work, not to be the home for needles and tubes. Brothers are weeping. We look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of Time. Somehow the giant of a man appears reduced by the ravages of years. In my mind, I turn the telescope and see the young man diving from high cliffs into the surf far below. His hand caresses my cheek, wiping away one last tear. He whispers “don’t weep for me my angel” as I watch the light fade from his eyes.