Abandoned – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Abandoned
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt # 153 – Obsolete
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 24 words

gray truck near mountain

Photo by Dan Meyers on Unsplash

I considered myself young, but my mirror and capricious consensus disagreed. Without compunction, they relegated me to the pasture with the other obsolete workhorses.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Wisdom Re-Imagined – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: Wisdom Re-Imagined
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt #98 – Impervious
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 99 words.

Photo by Dave Ruck on Unsplash

Like the mountain goat, Moritz selected his footing carefully. He scouted the rugged terrain, searching for a spot impervious to the winter snows and spring mudslides.

The villagers in the valley below laughed, but Moritz remained steadfast, immune to their taunts. He trusted the overhanging wall would protect him. He dragged building supplies to the narrow strip of land next to the sheer cliff face.

He worked his dream, his structure took shape, and the winter snow proved his case. Those in the valley saw Moritz’s wisdom. With work finished on his new home, they called him a genius.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

To New Friends – Weekend Writing Prompt

Title: To New Friends
Source:  Weekend Writing Prompt # 96 – Seashore
Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 59 words.
Word count: 59 words

lighthouse on a rocky seashore on a misty day

Photo by Erwan Hesry on Unsplash

Francois walked the rocky seashore daily. Passing the lighthouse, he hoped to spy the keeper. The old man was reclusive, reluctant to make new friends. Undaunted, Francois waved whenever he saw him.

Today he stood, surveying the misty gray horizon. Francois waved and smiled with delight when the old man laid his finger to the rim of his hat.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

The House Whisperer– Weekly Writing Challenge

Title: The House Whisperer
Source:  Weekly Writing Challenge #176
Word count:  270 words

Photo by Nolan Issac on Unsplash

Removing his baseball cap, Wyatt wiped his sweaty forehead on his shirtsleeve.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked the empty room. The house creaked and a tree branch scraped the windowpane behind him.

A gentle breeze blew through the open window, the only one not painted shut. Sheets of peeled paint littered the floor. Losing their battle with gravity, they released their tenuous grip on the ceiling and floated to the floor. The welcome breeze sent a small piece scudding along the exposed and rotting subfloor like an albino fall leaf.

His rational side told him to reject the project and walk away. The house had other plans.

It was the geezer’s fault Wyatt was attempting the impossible. He wished he hadn’t gone to the lumberyard, hadn’t talked to the grizzled, toothless man, hadn’t listened to his story. He told Wyatt the house’s history, its legacy. It was a beloved family home and a social gathering place. People traveled from faraway places to attend parties and hobnob with the family.

Wyatt asked the fateful question.

“Oh? What was the family name?”

“Newberry,” the geezer said with no hesitation.

“Newberry? Are you sure?”

“Sure as I’m standing here,” was the confident reply.

“But, that’s my name.”

The geezer laughed and walked away, leaving Wyatt wondering.

They said he was crazy.

Wyatt intended to alter the floor plan and update the historic home to accommodate his family’s modern lifestyle. Enlarging the back windows would maximize the natural light and the lake view. He would repaint the front facade in period-appropriate colors, colors his great-great-grandfather selected.

The family legacy would continue.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Artistic Reverie — Weekly Writing Challenge

Title: Artistic Reverie
Source:  Weekly Writing Challenge #175
Word count: 220 words

Photo by Jacqueline Day on Unsplash

The charcoal stains my fingers, marking me, convicting me to a labor that consumes me. Working with broad gestures, the blackness swirls, sifting across the large format paper and floating into the air. It settles in my hair, on my clothes, and dances in the gloom.

I blow. My breath lifts a dark cloud and sends it spewing misery wherever it falls. My thumb smudges into the mire, arching along the curving line and creating a homogeneous shade, a sharp contrast against the pale paper.

Pausing, I interrupt my fevered race to behold my creation, if only for an instant. The lingering stillness questions me. Do I wake from my half lucid plight or succumb to its madness?  I close my eyes, feeling emotions coursing through every fiber, my senses heightened, they claw at my throat. Demented wailing pounds upon my skull and shreds my gossamer resolve. My fingers twitch, and they dance to a master I do not know.

Another fluid gesture rips the completed sheet from the pad. The piece flutters, with a lightness that belies the burden it carries as it settles into the land of the forgotten. Pristine bleakness taunts me, coaxes me, concocts hollow promises fed with saccharine lies. In the safety of the siren song, I find shelter from the terror of the light.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

What the Butler Saw — Weekly Writing Challenge

Title: What the Butler Saw
Source:  Weekly Writing Challenge #170
The five words: LIVE, KNEEL, PLAN, EGO, LINK
Word count: 150 words


Lady Colin Campbell (1897)
by Giovanni Boldini

This was no way to live. Her marriage was a sham, orchestrated by her mother to raise her social status. Her mother insisted the wedding would take place even though her husband was not suitable. The road brought them here.

Gertrude watched the jurors kneel on the floor and peep through the keyhole of the dining room door. The judge charged them with determining the accuracy of the butler’s testimony. Could the butler, peering through the keyhole, see Gertrude In flagrante delicto with Captain Shaw?

The plan, of course, was a divorce. Prove the infidelity of a wayward wife, establish her dubious moral standards and suspect character, and sooth the great lord’s ego.

In the end, the judge denied the divorce refusing to sever the matrimonial link. Ostracized by society, she forged a new path, gaining acclaim and genuine friends. But, still, each day she prayed for her husband’s death.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Dark Clouds — Weekly Writing Challenge

Title: Dark Clouds
Source:  Weekly Writing Challenge #170
Word count: 370 words


Photo by Brandon Morgan on Unsplash

“Mom, we’re gonna be late,” Carrie yelled as she ran to the minivan. The large equipment bag hung from her shoulder, bouncing on her hip and her leg as she ran. She gripped the strap of the backpack slung over the top of equipment bag to keep it from sliding and crashing to the ground.

Missy stood under the gym canopy with the other moms while the girls chatted. She clicked the fob, unlocking the door for Carrie.

“Looks like it going to storm,” Rina said pointing to the dark clouds on the horizon.

Missy nodded, worry lines creased her forehead. She had checked her phone, finding angry red blotches on the radar display. It projected the storm would run straight at them.

“Mom lets go.”

Missy said goodbye to Rina, waved to the girls and hurried to the van.


The van’s windshield framed a massive lightning strike. Missy jumped, and Carrie screamed then giggled nervously.  Blinded by the brilliant flash Missy felt the hair on her neck and arms stand on end. She blinked, trying to focus on the highway in front of her.  Thunder cracked and boomed around her, slamming through her chest and rocking the van.

More lightning flashed, rippling across the sky, pulling giant chains of thunder through the sudden blackness it left behind. It was morning, but the sky was dark as night.

“Oh man,” Carrie said as she rubbed her hands over, her bare arms.

Then, almost on cue fat raindrops pelted the windshield and obliterated their view of the highway. Missy slowed the van and turned the wipers on high. The rain rose to the challenge and fell harder as the wipers danced. All around them the storm raged, and Missy slowed the van, pulling onto the shoulder before she stopped. It didn’t take long for the windows to fog as the temperature changed.

Carrie dug a hoodie from her bag, wrapping it around her in the sudden chill. They sat, huddled in the van and watched the greatest show on earth.

As the storm diminished Carrie reached over and held her mom’s hand.

“What a cool reason to be late.”

Missy smiled at her daughter and pulled back onto the highway.



Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Carol of the Bells — Weekly Writing Challenge

Title: Carol of the Bells
Source:  Weekly Writing Challenge #167
Word count: 217 words

The cacophony of voices ascended to the church’s vaulted ceiling, swirling into the gilded dome, reaching toward heaven then echoed back to earth. With a sharp “click, click, click”, the director tapped his baton on the black metal music stand. A hush descended. The silence lay thick on the marble floor, muffling small movements as the group took their assigned places.

The director surveyed the group, assessed their readiness, commanded their attention and smiled. He lifted the baton, and everyone inhaled in anticipation. On the first beat, they sang with one voice, a singing bell supported the ostinato and angels reflected perfection to the mortals below.

The director led them through practice twice more before he was satisfied.


Sister Bernadette was called to serve long ago when she was a young girl. Today’s mass was special for her, it marked the anniversary of her ordination. She watched the director raise the baton, the music swelled, and she closed her eyes. Sister Bernadette felt her soul soar with the music when she opened her eyes she gazed upon the face of an angel.

“Please,” the word was barely audible harmonizing with the bells. “May I have a hint? One tiny clue?”

The angel shook his head causing the pealing of tiny bells.

“The answer lies in your heart.”


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Barre Work — Weekly Writing Challenge

Title: Barre Work
Source:  Weekly Writing Challenge #166
Word count: 372 words

Photo by Renee Fisher on Unsplash

“Ladies, ladies. Your places at the barre if you please.”

Madame de Valois clapped her hands and ten pink tutus bounced and flounced as the ladies scurried to the barre.

“Today we will work on each pose. I think some of you have forgotten the basics. So, we will drill.”

At the barre, eyes rolled and at least two ladies hung their heads and a few giggled. Vera was the exception. She stood straight, heels together, feet turned out and her arms correctly positioned in first.

Madame de Valois moved along the barre, addressing each one lifting a chin here, straightening a shoulder alignment there and adjusting everyone’s turn out. When she reached Vera, she made no adjustments, only stared at her for a long moment before moving on.

“Now, we will flow into second…” Madame moved her feet and extended her arms as she sang her words to the class. She led the class through each position in order, repeating the positions, reiterating the correct postures as she moved to each lady at the barre.

“You must strive to blend one movement into the next,” Madame demonstrated as she spoke, and the ladies mimicked her. She instructed them in their drills for almost an hour before she allowed them to break.

“Okay ladies, rehearsal, tomorrow, nine am sharp. Do not be late,” Madame clapped her hands as she enunciated each word. Her ladies squealed with delight in being released and some groaned at the thought of tomorrow’s rehearsal. Pink tutus jostled and flapped, and pink leotards shuffled pink ballet slippers toward the door.

“Remind your parents,” Madame called after them. “Nine am.”

At the door, Vera paused, turned and rushed back to Madame to fling her arms around Madame’s slim waist.

“I love ballet, Madame de Valois,” Vera said as she crushed Madame, squeezing her so it nearly took Madame’s breath away.

Madame de Valois petted Vera’s blond curls that had escaped from her tight bun and gave her a small hug before Vera turned and skipped out the door. Alone in the mirrored room, Madame brushed the sudden dampness from her eyes. Without thinking, she took three running steps performed a Grand Jete en Tournant and stepped from the studio.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer