The Right Gift #writephoto

Photo, Romance

shadows

The Right Gift (119 Words)

No, not flowers. He liked flowers, but it didn’t seem right.

She sat, looking down at the quiet ground that was so unlike him. Davy had never been quiet. He had never stood still. Even in sleep, he was always tossing and stealing the blankets for himself. Peg’s mouth crooked in a smile. Darn it, she missed him.

But he wasn’t here.

Marble Garden #writephoto

Fantasy, Romance

remains

Marble Garden (822 Words)

A silent, solemn figure to steal through the graves, his long cloak trailing in ebon folds as if he hurried night into the evening’s blue mists. Past the disconnected lines of wooden crosses he walked, mindless of the old and pausing in a moment’s fixed grief at the newer. His glance swept the cracked marble of aging stones but never for a moment did his purpose falter, and his direct progress led him straight to the gnarled cherry, shedding vibrant color in sharp spring wind.

Going for a Walk

Photo, Poetry

One of Wallie and my favorite poems.

Dreams from a Pilgrimage

I will see cherry blossoms today
dancing lightly in the April breeze
crenellated puffs of softest pink
jostling, welcoming, anticipating
meetings under the arch-browed branches:

where petals scamper round the feet
of once deplete, now wealthy hearts surfeit
with delight not won, but given
in sweet abandon from the Lord of heaven:

and sweet angel, I will think of you.

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Worth It

Fantasy, Spiritual

melissa-graves-brown-jewel-river

Worth It (225 Words)

It was a beautiful sight. Daria leaned over the boat edge, letting her hand trail in the water. The current pulled past her arm, troubling the reflection of fireflies and starlight. The moon shone clear, and the silver glow lit the world like another kind of day, bright and enlivening.

“Do you think it’s worth it?” she asked.

Ruad was barely awake, resting in the boat. At her question, his eyes half-opened.

“What do you mean?”

The Patron

Fantasy, Spiritual

sacrifice

The Patron  (275 Words)

There was an artist who was known to paint one picture. Always it was the same, the same distant gray-green mountains and the dark, hilly plateau where the city had once stood. With only that one image to offer, people lost interest in the man’s art and his house would have fallen to ruin if it wasn’t for the attention of one customer.

She visited him every day to see how his new work was coming. Whenever he finished, she bought the piece, giving him a high price without waiting to hear what he asked for. No words were ever exchanged between them. That, like his art, was a ritual never forgotten, never changed. Who the woman was in her rich strange clothes, with her frightening piercing eyes, no one knew. They knew the artist, and knowing what he had lost and the disorder in his mind, they were afraid to ask him.