Angels      Daily Prompt:  Broken


Once upon a time, in the land of hush-a-bye, long about the wondrous days of yore, lived a young girl who loved her family. They had been wealthy once, lived in a big house, with all the trappings that wealth brings with it. Each year on December 1 they would break out the huge box of Christmas decorations and set them about the house, singing Christmas songs in the festive spirit of the season. Each year, her mother brought out the golden angels. Gold-leaf ceramic figurines that were her mother’s most prized possession. They were placed in the highest place of honor in their home, the center of the huge dinning table were they were seen and admired by all.

And it came to pass that the family fell upon hard times. They sold the home they all loved and moved into a small rental many miles away. Following what jobs her father could find, they struggled to keep food on the table and spirits up. This December, Father brought home a small and somewhat straggly tree, Christmas trees being scarce in the desert. When they had decorated the tree and played the Christmas albums, it came time to bring out the angels. Mother opened the box and carefully began to unwrap the tissue paper. The girl watched her mothers face fall as tears dropped to the wrappings. There in the box where they had been packed with such painstaking care, lay the angels, broken. The girl saw hope and dreams fade from her mother’s eyes. Mother ran weeping from the room.

Late that night, all unseen, the girl crept from her bedroom and spirited away the broken angels. There night after night with glue and patience she pieced together the ruined jigsaw of the shattered angels. Finally after many nights, she applied remnants of gold leaf that had been carefully saved from long ago craft projects, sealing the entire figurines with thinned glue. Having no other gift for her parents, she wrapped the angels with infinite care in a scrap of pretty fabric she had saved from an outgrown dress. She placed the package under the Christmas tree.

Christmas morning was happy, as Christmas mornings always are; yet somehow subdued. After the children had opened their gifts, the girl ran to the tree and pulling her carefully wrapped parcel from the back of the tree, she held it out to her mother.

“What’s this?” Mother asked.

The girl smiled in reply.

With trembling fingers, Mother carefully unwrapped the gift. Her eyes went wide and she turned to her daughter with a single word, “How?”

Eyes downcast, the girl spoke softly, “I know they’re not as good as before, but I wanted you to have them, somehow.”

Mother carefully set the renewed angels down and dropped to her knees, embracing her daughter. “Oh my precious child, thank you. You give me hope.”

“But Mother they’re still broken,” the girl mused.

“My darling, broken things are beautiful too. They are not the same, they are better. The love you put into them shows in every nook and cranny. They are perfect and more.”

“My sweet child I know it’s true
broken things have dents and dings
but they have beauty too.” ~oep


20170821_113221 (2)Eclipse Photo by Bryan Minear on Unsplash

Daily Prompt:  Juxtapose


The eclipse came on swiftly.  Announced by the juxtaposition of light and shadow from the leaves.  Soon, the sun would juxtapose itself beneath the moon, creating the type of eerie, moody lighting of which nightmares are made.


hourglass unsplash by Aron Visuals
Photo by  Aron Visuals on unsplash

My take on the Daily Prompt:  Laughter


I spent five years in a bottle
when cancer took my Daddy from me
but I’ve been sober
twenty-three years now
cause there’s some things stronger
than whiskey.

Like the sight of him
holding my baby boy
the way he laughed with utter joy
the first day I got up
on those water skis

And the way that he looked
with that smile in his eyes
the way he held me
every time I cried.
The way he was laughing
til the day he died.

You see the last words
that my Daddy said to me,
“There’s one thing
stronger than death
and that’s a memory.”


Rapid – a perfect day


My take on the daily prompt: Rapid

Jules stared down river, at the big bend. Moving at a relaxing pace in the small kayak she admired the river. It was a perfect August afternoon. The summer sun warm on her face, the mountain water still and cold as her paddle cut crystal clear snow melt. Ducks swam in the shade of a weeping willow at the river’s edge. A summer breeze sang through the tree tops and danced with the slender aspens against an azure sky. The day was … perfect.

There, dead ahead, the bubbling, churning, white water of the Mandatory Thrashing Rapids.  Adrenaline coursing through her body, Jules took a deep breath.

Tides of Life

NZ tide pool

My offering for the daily prompt challenge:  Tides

There once lived a young woman who loved the ocean tides. As a child she would walk for hours along the shore. At low tide, she would search the pools that formed in the hollows of the rocks. Tiny fish, sea urchins and shells were magical treasures of incalculable worth. It was as if the seas offered these wonders for her delight alone, and the ocean was her friend. At high tide, she marveled at the power of the moon who brought the mighty tide home, so full and powerful, the pulsing rhythm of the incoming waves.

Many years later, under the luminescence of a grand full moon, she sat on the shore and wept. Her world lay around her like piles of rubble after a demolition. Her heart shattered into pieces so tiny they were like the grains of sand on which she sat.

Broken and shattered by yet another in a line of unfeeling men. Men like failed sailors. Men who loved her beauty, but ran away when faced with her depth. In a moment of despair she cried out to the moon, her reflection a glowing apparition on the sea.

“Why? I yearn for love, yet I find it not. Am I not worthy of love?”

As the ocean breeze dried the tears falling down her face, the moon whispered in the depths of her broken heart. “Oh my child, you are so much more than worthy, but you must have patience. For life is like the tide. It will ebb and flow, with joy and with sorrow. When comes the low tide of sorrow, remember there is beauty in the lows as well as the highs. Look for the gifts of the low tide, the lessons, the beauty, the knowledge that in the fullness of time, the high tide of joy will return.”

Many years later, an old woman sat on the beach at low tide. She looked at her skirt, which held tiny sea shells and stones, gifts of the tide. She gave thanks to the moon for the gifts of the sea and built a tiny mandala of shells. Knowing that the high tide would come again and sweep the treasures away, returning them to the sea. That, after all, was the point.



Weekly Photo Challenge – Lines

The future stretches out ahead of me
as lines painted on the road.
The destination as yet unclear
feeling the urge, the need to go.

To see what lies ahead
farther down the road
follow the setting sun
to watch it sinking low.

My life is like the painted lines
that lead to who knows where.
Following the rainbow’s end
on a journey without care.



Specifically Vague

fantasy-3341586_960_720 pixabay
Thanks to Pixabay – Kellepics

via Daily Prompt: Vague


“What is it?” I asked
tears choking the air from my lungs
“Nothing,” he replied
I saw if for the lie it was

“Do you love me?” I asked
already knowing the answer
but needing to hear it
“I care for you.”

“Why are you leaving?” I asked
strange perfume on his jacket,
speaking louder than words
“I just have to.”

“What is it Doctor?” I asked.
staring at the X-ray
fear gripping my heart
“We want to run more tests”

“How long do I have?” I asked
fear warring with despair
and anger
“It depends on a number of factors.”

Why is bad news always so specifically vague?