Respite, the oasis. Ever an illusion out of reach. She possessed an overwhelming yearning to escape the dunes of her self doubt. Each grain: regret, anger and sadness; creating the towering hills of her internal hell. The landscape never changing. Up one sandy crest, only to slide down to the foot of another. How long had she wandered through this desert?
Sometimes, she would get enough energy to run. The sand fell away beneath her dirty bare feet as she raced towards the peak. Her chest burned with each breath, and the dryness in her throat felt like swallowed needles. She kept her focus on the summit before her, pumping her arms in determination. As she reached the apex of the ominous ridge, she jumped, and spread her arms out to take flight.
My brother and I use to fish the rivers to the north. We would make a day of it, waking before dawn and driving up in the mountains that further delayed the sun’s rise. The fish are more fierce there, my brother once explained to me when I was young. I had believed him, because to a young child, anything that could survive under the ice of frozen rivers and lakes were more than just a little awe inspiring.
I remember the peace that would come over my brother as he cast. The natural ease in the motions spoke of his devotion to the craft, and it always motivated me to try harder with my own casts. I could never make the line dance like my brother, but he would always smile at my attempts. He always took the time to teach me, to slow down my eagerness to throw the line as far as it could fly. Through his patience I learned so much. Continue reading
Ashes are all that remain of the flame.
Flames of passion, once a fuel, pushing forth, pushing onwards.
Ashes are scattered, broken dreams are scattered, mind is scattered.
Fractured reflections glare forth, fractures of confidence, fractures of purpose, fractures mended once before.
Darkness beckons, coaxing, begging, pleading, yelling, demanding.
The absence of flame, the inevitable, the fall.
Although she could look to the horizon and see the protective hills of her childhood, the yearning did not ease. Fifteen years of absence, spent in denial and indifference, reversed with a smile from an unexpected source. The ill feelings towards those that had forgotten her suddenly ceased, and the longing for the familiar returned. She realized, as she watched her once family, now strangers, she yearned for what once was, not what now is. The pain of loss, another great patriarch of the family, returned to the ground, weighed heavily on her heart; but the revelation that she missed those she had spent so much time resenting, crushed her soul.
“Why does the willow weep?” the girl asked her mother, blue eyes shining with curiosity. Her mother’s lips curved into a knowing grin and looked to the tree, as if visiting a distant memory. The girl looked to the tree as well, eager for an answer to her question. The girl tugged lightly at her mother’s hand hanging at her side. “Is it sad, mommy?”
The mother knelt to her daughter’s height and brushed light-brown bangs back from the round face of her child. Nodding, she replied, “Yes my dear, the willow is sad. And that is why it weeps.”
The girl furrowed her brow and looked to the tree, then back to her mother, “But why is it sad?”
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt: Silence
Via Daily Post: Silence
It draped her shoulders like a cloak. She wielded it like a blade to sever an appendage. It bent to her will and struck with precision. She had mastered the art of silence. Though he longingly stared at her, willing her lips to part, he knew his attempt was in vain.
The invisible forcefield, impenetrable. His words were wasted, fizzling to dissolve as no response was offered. No, it wasn’t a forcefield; it was a black hole that claimed his confessions. A darkness that he could not understand; a mystery he wished to unravel.
Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt: Hike
Via Daily Post: Hike
Different approach to today’s prompt. An experience from my personal life.
It was our first trip to Saratoga Woods. My German Shepherd, Buffy, led the way as usual. The early morning air was cool and wet. Fog draped the green, needled spires. A sloped meadow met tall, dense cedars and pines, the path beckoning us into the darkness among the trunks. We stepped lightly through the meadow, the disturbance of dew our only tracks. Into the somber thicket we went.
Once among the bark-clad columns, awe illuminated our surroundings. Light filtered through the thick canopy, bright green ferns reached their fronds skywards. Moss clung to branches, rocks, anything offering purchase. Steam rose from the forest floor in columns of light where the sun’s rays could fully penetrate. The silence of the meadow was replaced by bird songs and squirrel chatter. The hidden world within the forest presented itself to us without reserve.
You have the special ability to see the cause of death of the person you look at. For most of your life, you chose to not pay attention to it, but now everyone you look at has the same cause of death
When I was a child, I thought I saw demons trying to possess people. It only happened when I looked into their eyes, and if my gaze lingered a few seconds too long. Sometimes it looked like I was looking at their present self and their future self at the same time. I could see that person both as a young person and an elderly person at the same time. Those were the tame versions. Other times I would see fire and skin turning black and crack to reveal the raw flesh beneath. I’ve seen faces shatter into little pieces, I’ve seen them spew blood from every orifice. As I grew older I was convinced that some part of my brain was broken and if I told anyone about my hallucinations they would lock me up in padded room and throw away the key.
[Prompt: Write a story about a very special cake ]
Her grandmother baked the best chocolate chip cookies and when Jeanne, as a young child, asked what made them better than the anyone else’s cookies, her grandmother had chuckled and said it was because she baked them with love. Jeanne took the words to heart and never doubted them. Back then she had loved watching her grandmother hum and sway to a slow dance reserved for the kitchen during meal prep. She was baking with love, Jeanne had thought while keenly watching to learn the secrets of cooking the perfect cookies.
As Jeanne grew older she found herself emulating the habits of her late grandmother. She would hum to a tune without a name that would fall apart if she tried too hard to concentrate on the notes. Every now and then she would recognize melodies but for the most part it was a mis-mash of music that spoke to her soul and only her subconscious knew all the words. Sometimes she would smile as she cooked, while other times she frowned, but either way she would always hum and lightly sway her hips side to side as if it was the best motion to pair with her busy hands to infuse love into her cooking.