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.
With gentle force, she pulled the tattered sheet off the ornate dresser. A cloud of dust plumed into the air, swirling around the wooden beauty. It was full of curves: soft to look at, but hard to the touch as she traced her fingers across each hand-carved detail.
She imagined her grandmother’s perfumes that once were displayed upon it: potent and flowery. Its finish had been worn from it being opened and closed, battered and bumped, over the years. It was her plan to give it life, once more.
She opened the smooth plastic container of chalk paint, and a new, clean smell filled the space. Gentle brush strokes covered each camber and cranny with paint. Once the paint dried, she used the coarse edge of her sanding block and found her rhythm. Sweat dripped down her forehead and onto her temples as she distressed and sanded each edge to perfection.
Once she was done buffing and shining the sticky wax, she stopped to stand and marvel that something old was new again.
Photo courtesy of Nathan Anderson/Stocksnap.io