Here’s my latest entry into the dVerse Open Link – why not take a look at everyone else’s wonderful responses?
This is about wanting time to move quickly, and not making the most of now.
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Category Creative Writing
Cold – VisDare 43
Here’s my latest offering for Anonymous Legacy‘s photo-inspired prompt, VisDare. This week’s prompt word is ‘Memory’. The rules are simple:
150 words – or less.
Post entry to your blog and “link in”.
(Please – no erotica or graphic violence.)
DON’T FORGET to read and comment on others’ entries!!
The photo is below, and my piece follows. Let me know what you think, and give it a go yourself, why not?
– Cold –
“What is it?”
“They called it a butterfly.”
“And what did it do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, everything must have a use.”
“Is that what you’ve been learning in classes?”
“Everything in this life must have at least one purpose.”
“… Because that is what went wrong before? Is that what they taught you today?”
“Yes, Mother. We have learned from our mistakes.”
I take one final look at the etching before closing the book – a remnant of times past. I should be pleased that my daughter is such a good student. And yet…
“Mother?”
“Yes, Lucy?”
“I will call you by your first name from now on. Sentimentality serves no purpose. Not in these times.”
“As you wish.”
I hold the book close, yearning to feel the whisper of butterfly wings on my face, just one more time.
My daughter is as cold and hard as stone.
What Lies Beneath – Alastair’s Photo Fiction
Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below. Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?
Copyright – Kattermonran
– What Lies Beneath –
The four seasons are a distant memory – those days are long gone. Now we have The Dry and The Wet. I miss the crunch of autumn leaves underfoot, the mists hanging in the valleys at sunrise.
The onslaught of rain is tough at first. One day, the sun is high and fierce enough to leave us all parched at each ragged breath, the next the air is heavy, clouds low and pregnant with water. After a few weeks, the downpour ceases for a while, puddles lie still. It is this time that will find me, toes touching the very edge of one of these glistening pools, watching, waiting, staring.
“Alison? Alison! I’m here.”
The voice is faint, as if my imagination is playing cruel tricks. But this is real, agonisingly so.
The Washed Away, they call them. Most believe that they were drowned in the Flood Times, when the heavens opened for four long years. But I know the truth. Yes, they were washed away, but not drowned. Just taken down; down to The Below.
“Mother! It’s so good to see you!”
We smile, making do. It’s all we have.
Freya Writes... 