Tag Archives: nature

FFfAW – Goldfish

© Sonya O.
© Sonya O.

How big a goldfish gets depends on the size of its home.  A small goldfish lives in a small bowl.  A big goldfish lives in a pond.

She moved from her small town to a big city.  She thought she could be a star.  But when she arrived, her size stayed the same, and the sharks stayed at the top.

Goldfish don’t come from the wild, they are bred.  Goldfish are designed by man to be used as pets.  Only when a goldfish dies does it float to the top.

She died a goldfish, and her funeral was attended by many.  She had made a splash.  Then they flushed her down the toilet.

R.I.P.  Goldie, the Goldfish.


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Mondays Finish the Story – Family Tree

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Obfuscating freedom with obscurity,

Trickery,

Deceptively-

Leading others to misery,

Melancholy,

Gloomy.

Unhappy-

Spindly spindles of sticky,

Tacky,

Gluey,

Lies not of necessity,

And they will inevitably,

Unavoidably,

Certainly,

Unescapably,

Unsurprisingly,

Be the end of me.

This web stuck up in a tree,

Of family,

Captured are he, she,

Me.

We’re all undeniably,

Irrefutably,

Indubitably,

Trapped for all eternity,

In this world we see,

Where things are not as they seem to be.

Our brothers are not brotherly,

And sisters not sisterly.

We never knew if our mothers were motherly,

Or our fathers fatherly.

Our guardians are not parentally:

Neither paternally,

Or maternally.

Those genetically,

Heritably,

Natively,

Naturally,

Evil things are a monstrosity,

That left us be,

Because of such a high fee.

They didn’t care about our survivability,

Leaving us under a park tree,

When our guardians selflessly,

Saved you and me,

From our deceptively,

Gloomy,

Gluey,

“Family” tree.

Sunday Photo Fiction – House on the Sand

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107-05-may-31st-2015

She parked her walker at the side of the old beach bench and reached her shaky hands into the pocket for her sunglasses.  After fumbling through small bags of tissues and her pack of daily pills, she found them and clipped them onto her bifocals.  Her vision isn’t what it used to be, even with glasses, but she didn’t see the point in getting new ones.  Her sight was blurry and the glaucoma had hazed away her view.

She could still make out the children making sand sculptures: castles, moats, faces, and animals.  She watched them play in all the sand they had left in their hourglasses while sitting on wood on pavement.  Their grains of grit will slowly wash away with the creations they’ve built with their time, and they’ll eventually figure out it’s all temporary.

She pitied them, for their houses were built on sand.  Even their castles would not survive against the tide.  For those precious grains to slow their falling, they would have to be burnt to glass – hardened, but the flames take their toll.  It is best just to build your house on the rock.

Raindrops

© Santoshwriter
© Santoshwriter

Rain droplet’s sing in the rain

Our primary source of life

Freely falling from the skies

A gift of sustenance from above

Given to us out of love

Pure tears for lost souls

No salt for passing ones

Wet mildew the angels cry for us?

They cry for each one

The born

The born-again

The sinners

The saints

Tears of joy

Tears of pain

Rainfall down, everyone does

To their knees

For worship

For hopelessness

The ground is our home

And our plants catch the tears

Showere you giving up?

Don’t

The hands that wipe away sadness

Are nailed down still, but

Monsoon they will rise

To wipe each one away

Friday Fictioneers – Howlers

© Marie Gail Stratford
© Marie Gail Stratford

Now the Wilsons lived out ‘n the middle of nowhere- ain’t no neighbor for a good 20 miles!  They owned a good chunk of farmland and the rest, well I guess the state never thought they needed it.

John was tellin’ me that they had a field blocked with a barbed fence at the edge of their property, an’ Mrs. Wilson told him never to go over there.  They never said why.  He told me he often heard howls from that field.  Probably coyotes, I thought.  But he said no- women howling.

Well I wonder if they were blocking something out rather than blocking him in.

Mondays Finish the Story – Changing Tides

First time writing for this community.  Love a more directional prompt that not only includes a picture, but the first line.  Link to this blog here 


© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham
© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

“Arriving at the beach, she reflected on her life”

It seemed like everything had come in waves: a splish of bad here, a splash of good there, and an occasional breeze that swept the branch’s melancholy shade away for a swash of revitalizing sunlight.

*Splish*

She felt the drizzle of salty tears from when her dad passed away.

*Splash*

The spray from squirt guns and water hoses used as watery artillery at her best friend’s birthday party.

Every time the mourning shadows tried to engulf her in gloom, a breath of fresh air placed her back in the sunshine.

Changing tides and winds can bring in anguish or elation, but nothing stays the same: a bittersweet morsel for those currently on either side.  Just remember, the pendulum swings both ways; it will come back.

Your Painted Reflection

All the effort in the world won’t matter if you’re not inspired

Flat greens stretching past visible limitations chained to auburn by unseen growth, a curved azure dappled by bleached veils: a perfect art exhibit.  She sat under a large willow, branches extending down to kiss the grass a very formal hello, dreaming of lovely strokes of various hues which she would unite in her paintings.  As she often did to generate inspiration, she climbed up onto a sturdy branch, perfectly protruding through a chasm in the hanging leaves of the willow (exactly how she had painted it), and looked out upon the array of beautiful scenery.  Everything was artistically molded to its own uniqueness, but from the view atop a mountainous willow, through the void in the hanging green, all the individuality blended into one distinct foundation.  All of this the girl had painted with her enchanted brush on her cursed canvas which was then reproduced, in the exact figure and decorated in every specific detail the girl had painted, in the specific area she had painted it.

She climbed back down into the shadow of the willow, enthused by her own creations.  She picked the enchanting paintbrush up off the grass and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity once again.  She began painting a large tree: the bark colored dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss.  In the center of the trunk she painted an imprint of a hand engraved in the bark; the exclusive signature.  She painted it with birds, each gathering beach grass and pine needles to build a nest.  Then, with foxgloves in bloom; her new creation of beauty, wet across the canvas.  When she had finished painting, she stepped back to marvel at her originality; perfection expressed through a thousand smears of paint and acrylic.  Above her view of the canvas, soaring through the sky came birds, each gathering beach grass and pine needles to build a nest.  As she observed the birds above her, she noticed branches reaching up in the sky, colored a dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss, as if they were trying to catch the birds just so they could be the lucky limbs to hold their home.  She peered around the side of the canvas to reveal foxgloves in bloom, sprouting from the ground near the newly placed tree.  All these things, matched precisely how the artist herself had imagined, now resided in a beautiful array of scenery.  Its uniqueness artistically molded, but from atop a mountainous willow, through the void in the hanging green, its individuality blended into one distinct foundation.  She walked over to the tree and placed her hand in the trunk she had painted, into the signature of the tree, as if she were signing it.

Where do you get your inspiration

                She walked along the edge of the pond, gazing down into the moving water.  Her distorted reflection stared back at her, as if it were her own self-portrait.  She hated the portrait waving in the pond; she had not been able to paint it herself.  In her own world of artistic creations, she felt as if she didn’t belong.  A duck in the pond ruffled its feathers, distorting the unoriginal portrait, weaved through the lily pads, and climbed up onto the grass.  She watched it as it came across another duck, which quacked in acknowledgement of a companion.  Loneliness crept in through her persisting thoughts, so much so that she converted loneliness to anger.  She screamed, causing the ducks to fly away, and ran across the grounds.  She ran past trees of blue she had painted while loving the sky, past boulders of purple she had painted while loving the night, past creatures of green she had painted while loving the grass, and past flowers of white she had painted while loving the clouds.

Everything is a diary

                When she finally calmed, she walked back to the willow.  In the shade, underneath the hanging greens, she held her enchanting paintbrush and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity once again.  She tried to paint herself a companion, someone to love and ease the loneliness that so often crept into her persisting thoughts.  She painted this person by integrating the things she loved: eyes of curved azure, teeth as bleached as clouds, skin as soft as clay.  As she stepped away from the canvas, she realized she had painted herself.  Looking into her own self-portrait, she hated it.  She had tried to create a lover many times before; someone who loved the same things she did.  So she would paint the things she loved: eyes of green grass, of blue skies, of auburn ground; hair of bronzed grains, of gray rainclouds, of crimson rose petals.  Every time it would be a self-portrait.  And after she had finished her portrait, she would look around to see if it had spawned like her other creations, but it never had. She would stare at her painted reflection until it eventually rippled into an undistinguishable smear and then disappeared: the canvas taunting its vacuity once again.

As the sun set in the sky, deep colors of scarlet, orange, and lavender filled the sky.  She lay down next to the trunk of the willow, beneath the hanging greens, and closed her eyes.  Sleep was always hard for her to achieve.  Loneliness crept in through her persisting thoughts: the duck with its twin, the birds of a flock, and the flowers of a garden all made her jealous.  She opened her eyes to the night sky, unoccupied by the moon.  It was a night where she could see more with her eyes closed than open.  She imagined another person next to her, who she could love; someone to share the beauty she had created and to assist in her admirations.  She imagined this person lying next to her, arm around her waist, holding her tight so she would always remember she was not alone.  She imagined the warmth of a companion until she fell asleep.

Pain can be a gift

She woke to sunshine illuminating her surroundings: flat greens stretching past visible limitations chained to auburn by unseen growth, a curved azure dappled by bleached veils.  She looked up at the willow branch perfectly protruding through a chasm in the hanging leaves, then over at the large tree with bark colored dark brown, covered in a turquoise veneer of moss, an imprint of a hand its unique signature.  She stared at the tree with the imprint of a hand, recognizing that it was her hand she had designed it to hold.  Suddenly she was paralyzed by the realization that everything she had painted had been a self-portrait.  Every tree, every animal, every flower, revealed something about herself.  Then another comprehension crept into her persisting thoughts.

She needed to become angry.  She thought of the last time she was mad: near the pond with the two ducks, when she felt lonely.  She thought that if emotion can create a physical action, then duplicating the physical action can re-create the emotion, so she ran across the grounds, past trees of blue she had painted while loving the sky, past boulders of purple she had painted while loving the night, past creature of green she had painted while loving the grass, and past flowers of white she had painted while loving the clouds.  She ran back to the willow and angrily stood in the shadow, underneath the hanging greens.  She picked the enchanting paintbrush up off the grass and walked to the easel, its canvas taunting its vacuity one last time.  She painted a person with hair blonde like the feathers of the two ducks that caused her feelings of loneliness, the eyes dark like those of a bird flying in its flock, and the skin white like the canvas taunting its vacuity.  She painted this person sitting by the pond, staring at its own reflection, feeling lonely.  She furiously painted everything she hated.  When she had finished, she ripped the canvas in half and buried it in the dirt.  She threw her paintbrush at the large tree with the signature hand of the artist, and knocked down the easel.  She turned and walked toward the pond.

Sitting next to the pond, staring down at its own reflection, she saw her painted companion.  He had hair blonde like the feathers of the two ducks that caused her feelings of loneliness, the eyes dark like those of a bird flying in its flock, and the skin white like the canvas taunting its vacuity.  She walked over and sat down next to him.  He put his arm around her waist, holding her tight so she would always remember she was not alone.   They sat and stared down into their reflection.  Neither one had been able to create themselves, and in this way they were both unique.  They looked at their waving self-portrait and loved it.  A duck in the pond ruffled its feathers, distorting the new portrait, weaved through the lily pads, and climbed up onto the grass.  They watched it as it came across another duck, which quacked in acknowledgement of a companion.

Duck