The monarch butterfly spreads her wings I see orange church windows Arches inside arches Delicate yet resilient Darkness and light merge
Thick black ridges separate each part Translucent to let light in To let light out Protect or to conceal? Tiny white specs Purity
Enticing the curious among us to delve beneath the wings Go behind the orange windows Is it true that you carry a spirit? We whisper We listen for a message from the spirit We don't always hear one
We leave you be monarch butterfly We leave you to fly free Monarchs behind orange windows...let us fly free Leave us be
This post is in response to Esme Salon’s Picture Prompt #6 Join in with the monthly prompt and let your imagination be a rebel.
‘Mother, where’s the thingamajig for opening jars?’
‘In the knife drawer.’
I open the knife drawer, which has no knives in it. I rummage through all sorts of instruments; peelers, weird scoop things, funny scissors, whizzers and all shapes of silicone. A slip-on spout? Gadgets with attachments, blades and prongs. A spork and a chork? What happened the chopsticks?
Ah… here it is. The yoke for opening jars!
I suppose mother needs all these accoutrements. How else would she peel fruit, slice avocados, zest her lemons, measure spaghetti, spiralize veggies, flip her lids, and beat her meat? I wonder!
Petra on Pixabay
In response to Charli Mills’ 99 Word Flash Fiction Challenge. In 99 words (no more, no less), write about tools. Whose tools are they and how do they fit into the story? What kind of tools? Go where the prompt leads!
He walks our hay meadow often, with his camera, binoculars and a lunch box. He crosses the stile, then stops to smell the honeysuckle. He closes his eyes as he inhales the sweet pungent fragrance that emanates from the pale yellow tubular flowers. He’s appreciative of the natural things in life, I imagine.
He whispers to the birds and the bees as he rambles through the wild rebellious grass. Sometimes he lies among the buttercups to stare at the sky, photographing the clouds or a passing jet. Then he sits in the shade for a while, eating his lunch.
He wears a silly hat when it rains and a different silly hat when the sun shines. Perhaps he comes here because it’s peaceful and serene—most of the time. Sometimes the thrashing of farm machinery in the distance disturbs the serenity, and Farmer Tom’s noisy old tractor passes by now and then.
He caught me watching him one day and I fled to the old farmhouse that is my home. I hoped he wouldn’t follow me; yet I didn’t feel afraid…only shy. He seems a kind gentleman, not likely to cause me any harm—like some of the others.
He didn’t follow me but he came back the next morning and I watched him again; out of sight, shielded by the foliage of the hedgerow. Red Fox slinked through the meadow and the man took lots of pictures of him. That made him happier than the time he got a shot of the melodious Blackcap warbler. I wondered if he’d like to take pictures of me. If that might make him happy. I know he’s aware of my presence.
The noisy machinery will soon make its way to this uncut meadow and he might not come back here after that. It’s time to give him what I know he wants, even though I know that when I do, I won’t see him again. But that’s okay because I too will soon leave the meadow, and my adoptive parents.
I called out to him. He looked all around. I called again, teasing him. He took off his silly sun hat and craned his neck, as if pushing his ears forward so they could hear me more clearly. A funny little man indeed. He stood in the middle of the meadow peering through his binoculars.
Then I showed myself…in all my glory. ‘Cuckoo’, I sang. ‘Cuckoo.’ I perched on Farmer Tom’s rusty gate and dared him to come closer. He did, very slowly, with his mouth open and his eyes as bright as stars. His got down on his knees and positioned his camera.
I ruffled my grey barred feathers and opened my pointy wings. I gave him more time than any bird ever did, I guessed. But I think he deserved my attention, and I trust that his rendition of how he captured the rare cuckoo in the lens of his camera, will glorify his ego—and mine!
Gloria McBreen 