writers & readers, welcome!
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writing friends, i'd love to know what bubbles up inside of you in response to today's photo prompt. creative non-fiction, story or poem: 250(ish) words or less... click on comments below to share. come write with me?
5.7.5.
my lovely cage binds
summer's heat refines, spurns light
freedom conjures sky
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thursday's string around the finger:
remember to share write away every day with a friend :-)
She drove around the last bend and there it was, just as she had left it. She jumped out of the car and hurried to the old farm house just as she had so many times as a child. As she reached the steps to the porch, however, her face changed and she walked us slowly, letting her fingers drag slowly on the wood hand rail. The old house seemed to welcome her into it with opened arms as she stood on the porch. there was a warm breeze and as she looked on the empty fields the grass bowed down to her in a ward welcome. She tried to compose herself like an adult should, but soon her feelings took over. she let out a cry and flew down the steps, fan threw the field to the old fence that separated the land with others. It was older now, like the whole farm, and seemed to have held threw many storms.
ReplyDelete'you are still here my friend, with what you surround. have you waited long? Well, i'm back.'
she looked threw the cracks of the fence and saw the land of her old neighbors, she saw the horses neighing in the pastures. All her horses were gone, but no matter, she would get new ones and build the farm again just like her family had hundreds of years ago.
Beneath
ReplyDeleteResistant bands of sinew form a callous, distant cage.
Creating an environment to comfort and assuage.
A supple outer casing forms a layer to enshroud.
A portrait held between to accommodate the crowd.
This one is often torn from the sine wave through the teeth.
If the one on top is stripped there’s still the one beneath.
There was something very Kate Chopin about the whole thing, she thought, watching Bobo don long rubber boots and prepare to climb into the pen with the pigs. Something from freshman year lit about freedom or cages or a panopticon, but it was all lost to the pig-scented wind, flavored with a hint of Bobo's attempt at cleanliness, a combination of aftershave and cologne.
ReplyDelete"Careful where you step, kid," she shouted to the teetering Bobo, now lifting his left leg, now his right, into the pen to stand proudly among the swine. He turned and gave a smile and a thumbs up, turned back, and stepped gingerly through the muck.
"I've always wanted to work on a farm," he said above the low din of snorts and oinks, "so bless you Beth for letting me hang and help for the weekend." She handed him a slop bucket over the pen wall, and as he leaned toward her to make the transition, he heard a squeak of giving way.
So did the pigs.
With one group movement, the pink oblongs of fuzz rushed toward the offending pen wall, and gravity betrayed Bobo's momentum and the sturdy pen, falling to the pigs'
will to escape. A pink blur tore across the field.
But it was then that Beth remembered.
"Oh! Kate! The fable! 'The door which accident had opened is opened still, but the cage remains forever empty!' "