Auchenroddan Forest (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In the deep-rooted shadows upon which the forest stands, where nothing grows except moss and the debris piles of winter-felled branches and twigs, they heard the stuttering k-r-r-r-r-r-k like that of an opening door to a derelict shack.
But around Jerry Lilly and his brother Ben, padding through the shadows, there was no abandoned home except last year’s finch’s nest and the insect domicile within the pine upon which a woodpecker hammered another k-r-r-r-r-k.
“This noise where there’s nothing around creeps me out, man,” Ben said.
“Someday, little brother, you’ll find such ‘noise,’ as you call it, a blanket of quiet comfort, the caress of natural music far from the crash and soul-crunching violence in the city to which you’ll run as often as possible for its peace,” said Jerry.
“Okay, I get it, but it’s so darn dark in here, how the hell are we supposed to see anything well enough to shoot it?” Ben said, shifting the new rifle to his shoulder and swinging it around in carefree arcs.
© Joseph Hesch 2013
This week’s little story is written in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five-Sentence Fiction prompt “Shadows.”
Little red notebook (Photo credit: Halans)
And when he comes home, he calls together his friends and his neighbors, saying to them, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep that was lost.’~ Luke 15:6
Through shelves and drawers,
under the bed and, with cheeks crimson,
to the Lost and Found,
I searched. You could say
it was just a red-coated gathering of paper,
a gift from my daughter of
a handful of such notebooks.
It wandered from my pocket one day
to the unknown I wished to make known
upon its pages.
Akin to the Shepherd leaving the ninety-nine
to search the wilderness for
that one lost piece of mutton on the hoof,
I disregarded all the others.
Like lambs that must be protected,
a notebook is a newborn thing until
you fill it with your heartbeat,
share secrets, truths, lies, and
draw a map through the darkness,
the journal of your journey,
that voyage of discovery and rediscovery.
The other day, while rummaging
through the dark rough country
at the back of my closet,
I found my literary sheep gone astray.
I carried it back to my desk,
where the remaining flock lie in the lea
and opened to where my journey had left off.
No sleep again—Each night I press
my eyes closed and all that comes
I pulled out my pencil and we stepped
into the darkness again.
Reflections Upon the Morning
Canada Goose in for a Landing (Photo credit: wackybadger)
I stood on the porch just after dawn and a lone goose, silent, with gentle flicks of his great gray wings, glided directly over my head, descending in a flat angle toward the empty surface of the pond beyond the pines.
It troubled me to spy this lost piece of a greater puzzle, this misplaced symbol of the power of one in many and many as one.
I wondered if he thought he saw the image of an approaching comrade upon the mirror of water, before he shattered its glassy calm into hundreds of spreading circles, each containing diamond pieces of that figure.
The sun now fully risen, I left him to his rest and returned inside, where I passed the framed photo on the wall of Sharon—the smiling portrait from before she got sick.
And there upon its glass I noticed the reflection of my face—my cheek to hers—and I said, “Good morning, babe,” and didn’t feel so lonely anymore, at least for that day.
© Joseph Hesch 2013
This week’s little story is written in response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five-Sentence Fiction prompt “Angles.”
The Joy of Spring [80/366] (Photo credit: timsackton)
Above the sweet songs of avian choirs
sound some fresh feathered come-on calls,
like rusty gate hasps squee-awking
from within the fresh-popped maples.
In the waves of Nature’s liberated libido
the birds pitch woo and the trees scatter
their dainty DNA in clouds of yellow.
Below, the field is dappled with herds
of robins and crows browsing through
the awakening grass for dormant grubs,
whose husks now litter the lawns
like tiny Chinese lanterns.
New life is en route, migrating home
from below Mother’s equatorial belt.
I stand amid the clamor, no longer content
to wait for my spring to come
and shake me from years of winter torpor,
unwrap me from these insulating layers
of isolation and inertia. I whistle
a tweedle or two of my own,
just to gain a little momentum,
a running start for my take-off.
My wings may sound like old rusty gates,
but at least I’m flapping them. Squee-awk.
Albert Carrying Pogo – Walt Kelly (Photo credit: Lynn (Gracie’s mom))
Sure, I learned at a too early age
that good guys and bad guys
shop at the same hat store and
it would always be hard to tell
the malevolent from the beneficent
by their haberdashery.
And despite the jingo flingers’
attempts to sell you their scorecards
touting who’s who of the white clad
home side and which of the unshaven thugs
in gray deserve the most contempt,
the streets taught me, once dirtied
in this neverending game,
we all look pretty much alike.
I regret not remembering those
days of sweet, youthful ignorance
I’m sure I once wore like
a wee clip-on bowtie.
If it wasn’t hearing nice Mr. B
arrested a few times for whooping
on the missus that infected childhood,
maybe it was my precocious reading skills.
I was slogging through the swampy
newspaper the day old Walt Kelly
in his possum suit taught me
“We have met the enemy,
and he is us.”
They come on with barely a warning,
these blasts to the heart cyclonic,
leaving behind torn life lying scattered
and your scattered lies tearing at life.
When you try to catch one of these
twisted things, you can become
so intent on its skips and feints
you lose your grip on the reins of reality,
bucking the whirlwind like some
pentametric Pecos Bill.
Tossed and broken in its wake,
you think, nah, that was a fluke,
a blink of inattention to the moment.
But within that moment you realize
a tornado can leave a landscape broken
or it can strip it bare of all in its
swirling sweep. You watch it walk away,
knowing it could be worse, piecing together
the debris of what might have been,
instead of starting over with your heart
swept clean as a prairie in August.
This week, my friend Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday prompt was the photo above this poem. She called it “It was a Dark and Stormy Night, after tornado blew through her neck of the woods. I took a somewhat different view of a storm’s aftermath.
Red Maple Tree Buds (Photo credit: photoholic1)
This early spring morning,
my eyes swell gritty and itchy
with the desiccated sweat of maples
withholding climax so fervently
their tiny fists clench tightly red
at the ends of their spindly wrists,
gripping the imaginary sheets of dew
upon which they in shifting breezes
I imagine their sightless eyes
envision skeletons of scarred saplings
in forest pyres or the nightmare
turn upon that hellish spit
lathe of Louisville Sluggers, lest
they rupture in winged vernal rapture
before that one last echo whimper
of wanton winter tomorrow