Delicate Balance – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Delicate Balance
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #123 – Delicate
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 106 words.

My soul cried, devoid of meaning, lacking joy. The city droned with an insistency I could no longer hear, while my failed dreams echoed through my skull.

By some miracle, I discovered the nymph clinging to a single swaying reed. My entire focus centered on the green darner while his concentration was the process of his metamorphosis and shedding the shell of his naiad existence.

He breathed life into his new form. He waited patiently, as delicate latticed appendages unfurled. Opaque wings lightened, expanded, reaching for a vision of beauty that lay hidden deep inside.

Hours later he launched his maiden flight, and my world changed.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

https://ko-fi.com/johawkthewriter#

Tree Museum – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Tree Museum
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #122 – Museum
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 147 words.

***Description on Caleb’s photo: The Boardman Tree farm in northern Oregon was an incredible place to visit. The 25,000 acres of poplar trees made for an almost otherworldly experience in the fall. The farm was sold in January of 2016 to be cut down and used for cow pastures and agriculture. This photo was taken during during the autumn of 2016 before the bulk of the man made forest was removed. Small sections reportedly still remain, but not at the mind blowing scale of a few years ago. ***

“They once grew like this?” Ro let his fingers touch the rough tree trunk.

“Not exactly. Forests were much denser. There were multiple layers, areas of undergrowth so thick you couldn’t walk. The ground wasn’t level. There were countless rivulets, streams, they merged, forming great rivers which ran into oceans. And animals.” I paused, letting images develop in Ro’s mind. “The books describe deer, bear, fox, squirrels, and a multitude of birds all roaming wild.”

“Wild?”

“They claim there were no fences or cages. Some beasts had a yearly migration. They travel, on their own, thousands of miles, searching for food or breeding grounds.”

“Not anymore?”

“No. They only exist in museums. Most animal and tree species are extinct.”

“What does that mean?”

“They don’t grow or live anywhere. We, your ancestors saved, nurtured these. When I am gone, it will be your responsibility to guard them.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

https://ko-fi.com/johawkthewriter#

Loving A Classic – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Loving A Classic
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #119 – Tinker
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 75 words.

Chevrolet Corvette Stingray 1963 'split window' in Amsterdam

Photo by Marc Kleen on Unsplash

My baby needed work, but the estimate made me cringe.

“It ain’t worth it. Ya wanna sell?” The office manager was all about dollars and cents. There was never any doubt, whatever the price I would gladly pay.

The mechanic smiled, happy to tinker with her engine.

“You don’t see these anymore,” he said, looking at me, he understood our connection.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll treat her like my own. She’ll be good as new.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Forgotten Songs – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Forgotten Songs
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #118 – Song
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 102 words.

Photo by Jenny Yang on Unsplash

Jing-sheng’s cane clicked on the cobbled street. Pausing he lifted his head, scrutinizing the cages hanging between the buildings like forgotten laundry.

It started in the mid-15th century. Privileged elite gathered in tea houses, gossiping, drinking tall tales, and discussing the intricacies of feeding, raising and training their pets.

When his grandfather died, Jing-sheng embraced his legacy and his flock. No one would call him elite. A simple working man, he carried his treasures to the park every morning.

Vanished from the wild, the devoted ones slipped away. The exotic song of birds became a memory that faded with the winter wind.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Stolen Freedom – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Stolen Freedom
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #116 – Amateur
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 51 words.

Photo by Anuja Mary on Unsplash

In the reading circle, I waited impatiently. At last, I speak, finishing far too soon. Condemned to waiting again, I skip ahead, being careful, so my teacher doesn’t see.

I am no amateur.

Late at night, I sneak my flashlight and my favorite book under the blanket and read with abandon.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Cultural Counterfeit – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Cultural Counterfeit
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #115 – Judge
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 95 words.

“I educated the uneducated. Facts are indisputable, provable. Nothing else matters,” I said.

There was an imperceptible head shake.

“I am surprised, how have you missed the truth?”

“What more could there be?” I asked.

“Love?”

“Overrated.”

“Friendship?”

“Not worth the effort.”

“Beauty?”

“Subjective.”

“Art?”

“Do you have a point?”

Silence followed.

“Go ahead. Judge me. I have lived my life without regard to others.”

“That’s the problem,” the cherub said.

I opened my mouth to speak as the angel raised a finger to his lips.

Silenced, I finally saw a light in the darkness.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Sharing Secrets – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Sharing Secrets
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #114 – Grimace
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 33 words.

Photo by Alfaz Sayed on Unsplash

He didn’t answer my question. Instead, his face erupted into a toothless, syrupy, centenarian, grimace which accentuated every crease and wrinkle. There was a twinkle in his eye, and I swear he winked.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Caught in Illusion – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Caught in Illusion
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #113 – Enthrall
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 54 words.

Photo by Joe deSousa on Unsplash

Now, when I think of her, I realize we danced on a precipice. The creature’s supple body, her distant eyes conspired to enthrall me. Her siren song consumed me. Blackened daylight seeped into desolate nights. My world did not exist.

The heavenly nightmare breaks, and I wake, yearning for a face I cannot remember.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer