Writing Date VI

Writing Date VI

 

There were stipulations, outlined guidelines, specific instructions, adept lists that he had made, the way that he had always made them, and still nothing had been completed or undertaken in exactly the way that he had been ensured with deep, sincere promises. Few, he knew, would or even could accomplish such an endeavor, so the fact of the matter remains, he had not been surprised by the overwhelming failure of the group. 

 


 

As the planet spins on, away from the warmth of its homebound star, the air cools and the sky lights with the fire and fervor of a thousand torches but only for a moment. This fleeting flash hits the eyes of every inhabitant every single day with the courage and anticipation of night rising high into the firmament with illuminated whispers about the new day sitting just beyond the golden horizon.

 


 

Every day her mother yelled at her about not biting her nails. “Stop it,” her mother scorned; “Get your fingers out of your mouth.” When her mother finally died, the only thing she remembered was all the dictatorial commands, all the nags, and so, as she bites and chews at her nails, she spits out every little piece of keratin and flesh into a jar, and every year, to celebrate her mother’s passing, she walks to the place where she threw her mother’s ashes and sprinkles out the nail bits from the jar onto the ground with an angst-filled satisfaction in remembrance of the person she loathed.

 


 

You probably are not capable of hearing such things as a mere observer, but the truth is that no one can really hear it except the person to whom the thing calls out. If you do hear your own name, you have been chosen, but to hear your own name reveals that you have a secret, a dark, hidden, undesirable thing about which you want nobody to know. And so, if you hear your name when the sun sets beyond the hills, remember or be reminded of the burden you hold, and know that soon, your secret will escape you.

 


 

From high above and only from a view from above, can he ever know the depth and breadth of his impact on the river from whence he came. How he arrives at such an aerial view constitutes the mystery within which he shrouds himself. The villagers say that he rides upon the tops of trees until the winds blow him high enough to perch within a cloud. He would say something about how everyone can fly, if only in their dreams.

 

 

[5 prompts @ 2 MIN each]