More Prompts: Eagle Boy

OBJECTIVE: Write a response to this image it can be in any form you like,  short prose, micro story,  or poem and share in the comments under the post.    Keep the post short.

(c) June Perkins, Prompt.

Haiku… submitted by Dave Delaney

A boy and Eagle
their spirit now joined as one
soar the hights of life.

© Dave Delaney, all rights reserved.

 

Her Spirit

I saw the wild young Indian boy
So lean and proud of face
Bareback on a wild Palouse
And eager for the chase

They gathered around the base of the ridge
Some twenty or thirty braves
All keen to prove their horsemanship
Or go, to early graves

The sun burnt red in the desert sky
As White Bear made the call
Today there would be, but one true brave
The one, that would not fall

Red Fox, dug his heels in
And grabbed the ponies mane
And with lightning speed they began the climb
Of death, or maybe fame

For he had ridden here before
But not, in this time or space
His spirit had been here a thousand times
In the visions of his race

His pony climbed and scrambled on
As others fell behind
This little mare, would do him well
She’d climb, then slip, then climb

Her heart was beating faster now
So strained, so tired, so bold
So he called upon the eagle spirit
To help her keep her hold

They reached the top with one great leap
His face just filled with pride
Never had he felt such joy
And never such a ride

With joy all over his proud young face
He slowly turned around
To see his beautiful pony mare
Fall slowly to the ground

She’d given him, all of her heart
And even some of her soul
She’d leave him now, but not for long
Because her spirit lives on in her foal

The prize, though won, was worthless
The price of fame too high
The real prize, now, lay by his side
He lived, he learned, she died…

© DJ O’Brien , all rights reserved. (WINQ writers, submitted this by email)

(and more to come from others)

STORY FOUR- FAVOURITE FOOD

 

Life is a box of chocolates - without the description to tell you what they are!

OBJECTIVE: Write about your favourite food, your most delectable morsel.

**

Without the “map” to tell you what each delectable morsel has to offer, you select based on appearance. We make choices every day, every hour, every minute based on the presumptions we have gathered from our life’s experience. Each one is a mystery waiting to unfold. You can love it, cherish it, relish it’s flavour and the surprise it brings. And there is no way you can stop at just one. It becomes addictive and the surprise element is the motivation to keep trying again and again.

Oh for the ever allusive, pure Belgium gourmet smorgesboard of flavours. And yet so often we have to compromise and accept the Cadbury’s version of life.

Let’s raise our hot chocolates to LIFE and all its wonderful mysteries and pray we will always have the choice of our choosing.

My choice is always the carmel toffee – as opposed to the syrupy kind. But then again there is always the Turkish Delight!!! Hmmm, do I really have to choose or can I just eat them all. A glutton for the mystery!

What is your favorite delectable morsel flavour?

(C) for Prompt Melissa Robertson

Bitter sweet, crisp dark chocolate makes me think of those people who really have their lives ‘together’ they are the sophisti-cats of the world.
Strawberry cream and Turkish delight are those emotional people – who if you scratch their surface, all the filling runs out and you get more than you bargained for.
White chocolate people are those who often surprise us with hidden talents. Most of us are dairy milk looking for an exciting inner self or an exciting external event – so exciting it gets us out of our box!
Boxes:
little boxes.
People and boxes.
People in boxes.
Little people
in Boxes

Diane Finlay (C) July 2010, all rights reserved.

Sticky mangoes
Translucent orange dripping down face and hands
expensive in the shops
better from friends
and drive by spaces where people sell them out
front
so many names when you come to know them
oh how I love sticky mangoes!

(c) June Perkins, all rights reserved

Blonde Bananas
A dribble-free fruit
without stones, pips or seeds.
Whose skin will peel off
with the greatest of ease.
Revealing a pillar of
creamy-white pulp
which squashes to slime
that’s rewarding to gulp.

Potassium, Calcium
Vitamin C.
No trace of cholesterol.
It’s mostly fat free.
You have to admit that
it’s simply no drama
to scoff your way through
any Queensland Banana.

(c) Celia Berrell, all rights reserved.

The fat sizzle of grease, meat and caramel onions—spitting hot on the charred blackness of the grill. Sauce on children, sauce on grass, sauce on the dog. The women chatter like birds, spilling white wine on white plastic chairs. The men have beers and an ancient TV—clustering around the aching ember of the barbeque like cave men, hiding in the sausage smoke.

At first they chase flies from the buns and coleslaw. Then mozzies from their arms and ankles. The screaming gaggle of children tear up and down the yard, from the bananas to the trampoline. Already there has been tears from grazed knees and unsharable toys. Sooner there will be another—but that is okay. As long as they’re screaming, they’re not planning anything.

This steak will be the best steak. These onions the sweetest—even if they are charred and soggy. Food, the best food, is never lonely.

It is family. It is friends. It is sharing.

(c) Traditional Evolution, all rights reserved

STORY THREE – YOUR TOWN

 

(c) All rights reserved June Perkins 'Tully Town'

OBJECTIVE: Above is June Perkins’ home town, your job to write about your own town with a series of pictures/images in mind.

My Town is……………………………

(c) Prompt June Perkins, all rights reserved

My Town

My town, my original town is an old town. i remember it as a child: buildings blackened by the coal dust from the fires and heavy industry. I remember the decision to stop burning coal then the clean up began. Buildings covered for months on end as the men slowly worked around the town cleaning off the thick soot. The tarpaulins and scaffolding came down and bright beautiful georgian and victorian buildings gleamed clean. i saw my town in its newly washed state. it marked the end of an era. no more coal meant fewer mining jobs and then they brought in open cast that meant men could be replaced with machines. in my town the people were hurt so badly parts of my town died and never recovered other parts with more resourceful people set to work making silk purses out of sows ears turning the mine head workings into museums to celebrate what was once great about my town.

(c) Diane Finlay, all rights reserved

My town is wet. The air is thick with white—an unceasing mist of winter rain. When the patter of rain stills, the trickle of runoff takes up the daily song, running down eaves, down drains, down leaves and walls and tree trunks. Creek beds chuckle, housing shrimp and small fish, hiding amid the endless tumble of bronze leaves.

The sun breaks, lighting up the crystal dew, burning a rainbow across the sky, but for mere moments. The rain sweeps across again, the mist settles and rolls down the steep green walls of mountains to touch the edge of my town.

My town is wet all over again.

(c) Traditional Evolution, all rights reserved.