Ornaments hung from the spruce; twinkling lights on the roof; earrings dangling from my lobes; new polish painted on my toes; sequins weighing down my dress; borrowed cufflinks on his wrists; champagne fizzing in our cups; to eat, we have a roasted duck; parquet dance floor filled with friends:
These days we will call our best.
Photo courtesy of Unsplash.
Your voices are sweet syrup, but you cut with razor blade tongues. I hear your slimy snickers and see your wicked eyes. I watch my back for stones and sticks hidden in your Prada bags.
You don’t have to pretend. I don’t like you either.
Photo courtesy of Pexels
The cliff juts out below like razor blades slicing up the angry water. I kick a rock over the edge.
I hate this place. You didn’t.
I pull the cardboard box from my jacket and choke back tears.
All we have left are memories.
I open the box and dump the contents on the place you proposed. When I do, a breeze blows in. The ashes fall lightly on me. I smile.
Perhaps even now you will never leave my side.
Photo courtesy of Stocksnap.io.
In response to this week’s microprose challenge over at Yeah Write.
When the temperature rises above comfortably cool, they find happiness in the shallow end of the water.
Bright colors cover their flesh, drenched in summer sweat and the smell of coconuts.
They sing their sweet song and flap their fleshy wings spraying water droplets against the lens of my favorite glasses. I find my smile under an umbrella.
It’s summer, and they are my two tropical birds in paradise.
Photo courtesy of Pexels
In response to Donna-Louise’s Prompt Pot – Birds
She’s already ten minutes late; the bus is gone.
“Let me grab socks,” I say, unfolding a pair. I look at one purple sock and one green. “Did you do this?”
A small hand stifles her giggle. “Surprise!” She shouts.
“Not again,” I sigh. “Guess you need a new chore.”
Eat her pancakes (no butter, how you like). Devour every fluffy bite doused in sticky maple syrup from Vermont. Savor the crunch of bacon, barely burnt around the edges. Drink two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.
Once your plate is barren, admit it’s over.
Smile, walking out the door.
Photo courtesy of Brigitte Tohm/Unsplash
This is in response to this month’s microprose challenge at Yeah Write. Interested? Go over at give it a go! Voting starts at 10pm tonight =)
My daughter shoved her finger at a photo of my mom. “Gigi is up,” she asserted, a story I hadn’t told her.
My mom’s voice echoed, believe in miracles.
That night, darkness unfolded from dusk and I saw her shining among stars.