Yellow, color of warmth, hope, renewal, was going to be mine to create.
– Written for Shapeshifting 13 (#49). Color Yellow and Photo Prompt. WC 13 – This is the reworked version for official entry. Photo by Hostel Golly Bossy by Studio Up.
Yin Yang
I entered the room. It became yellow with my presence.
Yellow, the color of warmth, hope, renewal, was going to be mine to create. I was honored with this task.
I waited to meet him, my opposite, my Yin.
Gray swallowed the space and then withdrew halfway.
Our union was life-sustaining balance.
– Written for Shapeshifting 13 (#49). Color Yellow and Photo Prompt. WC 52 – I misread and used too many words. See the reworked version for official entry. Photo by Hostel Golly Bossy by Studio Up.
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Poor Judgement
The molten sphere materialized.
Overwhelming heat caused me to feel feverish.
The solar flares reached out in an undulating motion, retreating and returning closer each cycle.
The pull from its center forced me to realize the gravity of my lapse in judgement.
– Written for YeahWrite.me Weekly Writing Challenge 261 Question Prompt “What’s on fire?” WC 42
Photo from NASA in the Public Domain.
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Flourish
“Shall I bloom?”
“Oh yes,” she said matter-of-factly, “with or without your consent, I shall bloom.” And bloom she did, without hesitation, despite his repeated objections.
– Written for Shapeshifting 13 (#46). Word Prompt “Bloom.” WC 26. Photo ©2015 Leara Morris-Clark
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A Fiery Philosophy
I felt awakened from a stupor.
“What’s on fire?” He asked.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!?”I thought but gave no reply.
Taxicab privacy screen was locked in place; I have held myself at arm’s length even from my own family, situating interstates and time zones between us.
I was no longer a reactive object to be manipulated.
I granted myself distance and anonymity to write through my struggles.
After determining isolation wasn’t the answer, I succumbed to existentialism and got on with living.
I felt awakened from a stupor.
I put pen to paper, and the spark of inspiration ignited a flame within me.
Sirens blared as firetrucks scrambled, and the curious cabbie drove away from the burning apartment building.
“Where to, Miss?” the driver asked.
“Home,” I replied as if he knew where that was.
“My soul,” I said, “that is what is on fire.”
I smiled at the reflection in the window and admired the blazing trail left in my wake.
– Written for YeahWrite.me Weekly Fiction|Poetry Writing Challenge 261 Question Prompt “What’s on fire?” and Prompt Up previous line combo for fiction. WC 157
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Trespassers
The doors crashed closed covering us in darkness.
Shawn and I rode our bikes to the old amusement park then tossed them down and squeezed through the bent gate. We chased each other around the midway.
We came to an abrupt stop at an old building. “That’s impossible,” I said. “We’ve been here a million times and that,” I pointed, “wasn’t here.”
We approached an open padlock. Making eye contact, we silently agreed to explore. I pulled the lock and Shawn pushed the doors. With an eerie creak, they flew open. We choked on stale air that instantly surrounded us.
The doors crashed closed covering us in darkness. We screamed as we pounded on the doors that wouldn’t budge.
“Trespassers!” A thundering voice shouted from everywhere in the blackness. We screamed again and banged harder on the doors.
As quickly as they had closed, they opened again hurling us onto the dry, dusty ground. We scrambled toward the gate.
I turned, suddenly confused. “Shawn, look!”
I thought I could still hear that booming voice but I saw no building.
– Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: 58th Challenge. WC 171
Photo prompt provided by Uday.
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One Man’s Treasure
He poured the contents of the tattered pouch onto the concrete and rummaged through them.
Passersby barely noticed him. He had become a fixture much like a fire hydrant or trash barrel.
He was surprised when the child stopped, and his father didn’t immediately steer him away.
The boy asked questions and told a joke, to which he responded with a snaggletooth smile.
The father put money into the can and turned away. He stopped them and pulled a white feather from the assortment of items he treasured. Giving it to the boy, he said, “Never quit trying to fly.”
– Written for Splickety Publishing Group, Bolt Flash Fiction, Photo Prompt. WC 100
Leara writes and other creative things... 