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 =)
The space between us is a canyon that has been weathered by storms of time.
Days gust past with dust from yesterday’s squall and I reach to you; my fingertips grasp at nothing but the breath from your lips. The crevasse is so wide, my voice couldn’t reach you. Shouts come out sounding like warm breeze.
I’ll fill this canyon with tears and I’ll swim to you, no matter the swiftness of current. I’ll pray for an earthquake to shake the soil beneath our feet, reminding us of our journey.
I love you, no matter where the dust takes us.
Photo courtesy of Kalen Emsley/Unsplash
The cool air pressed firmly against her skin between the layers of warm cotton. Despite the mountain’s familiarity, her teeth still clanked together from more than just the cold.
“I can do this,” she said.
Exhaling, she watched her breath form a tiny cloud in front of her face. She pulled her Burton mittens farther onto her hands and strapped her feet into place, heel after toe, with two loud clicks.
Using her poles, she pushed towards the wooden seats rotating up towards the sky. Her confident posture returned, gliding on the snow.
Ready for first chair of the season.
The War was over.
After deliberation, a patterned cotton dress was chosen to wear. Blond curls were begrudgingly folded into place and complaints were made against the necessity of clean teeth.
In the end, we hugged. I straightened her backpack and she boarded the bus joyfully.
Photo courtesy of Llywelyn Nys
The rising sun had yet to meet the sky, and hues of pink changed the clouds to delicious cotton candy. She shut the door quietly, trying not to wake her father, then flipped yesterday’s braids behind her, and tiptoed quickly off the deck.
Wet grass slipped between her bare toes as she ran toward the towering tree.
Once there, her small hands tugged at the ropes, pulling herself to sit on the wood, hand-carved by her papa. She tipped her head, purple nightgown soaring behind her like a cape. Her toes touched the coveted sky.
Often, she dreamt of flying.
It was day three of Movement, and everything was upside down.
The crowd around her was a sweaty, bulging mess; moving in rhythm, but somehow each at his own pace. As the music charged through her soul, the bass vibrated her chest and sent shivers down her tattooed back, racing to reach her toes. Her short black hair was wet and matted to her forehead as beads of sweat dripped down her cheeks bringing smudgy eyeliner along for the ride. Her eyes closed tightly, and the music intensified, nearly bringing her to her knees.
In that moment, she was electric.
Photo Courtesy of Resident Advisory