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?


20170605_185332via Daily Prompt: Authentic

I once heard it said that scars are just tattoos with better stories. I’d agree with that. They’re more real, more authentic . Not that tattoos don’t have good stories. I’ve heard some great ones, some funny ones, some sad ones. But for genuine authenticity, you can’t beat a scar. You get to choose a tattoo, choose how that memory or that story will be represented. Not so with scars, you get the reminder that you get, crooked, deep, pale, thin, you don’t get to place a custom order.

I’ve grown fond of my scars. They tell my life’s stories, authentic stories. I know there are scars that are never seen. Emotional scars that we all bear, but I’m talking about the hard core, torn flesh scars.

I carry many scars. Like old memories, each one tells a story of the lessons I’ve learned.

The four inch cat scratch that laid the wrist bone bare, reminds me to stay out of fights that aren’t my own.

The star shaped scar from the bicycle chain reminds me to keep my eyes on the road.

The thin line at the base of my throat tells me live fully every day, because you just never know what tomorrow holds.

The eight inch twin scars on my knees say louder than words can ever say, “just keep moving forward, getting stronger every day.”

You see, they may not be pretty, but they are authentic.

Parallel – blog prompt


Blog prompt Parallel

My life ran in a straight line. Like a stiff thread headed straight for the needle’s eye, I followed a straight line toward my destiny, or so I thought. Friends, family and lovers came across my life’s line on strange vectors and transversals. Intersecting momentarily, then off in their own direction, as I traveled on at the speed of light, headed straight to my ultimate destination of nowhere.

And so my life passed, always certain, a single direction, never varied. Until I hit the pothole. That great chasm in life known as “chronic disease.” I stared into the vanishing depths of it, into the oblivion of uncertainty. My straight line wavered, my path became indistinct and I wobbled back and forth, to and fro like a seismographic line measuring the after shocks. Continue reading “Parallel – blog prompt”