The archivist typed really fast on her tablet, recording each fallen petal, while his job was to store them in the vault, transitioning them to the next cycle.
They stood below the cherry blossom tree. Each cycle of bloom and fall was one life. Life after life.
I wrote on Substack for about two years -- mostly to get repetitions and good habits as I am working on a book. During that time, I became acquainted with Jeannine so I was pleased when I made my occasional peek at Substack to be directed here. This seems like fun.
I found Mom sobbing, the sink full of dishes, the floor unswept, dust everywhere, her precious houseplants withering away. "It's too much, I miss him so. Where do I start?"
"Dad loved you. C'mon, Mom, let's begin, I'll help," as I filled her watering can. And as Mom joined me, I saw the tiny smile kindling in her sad eyes.
Aw, thanks Miguel. Congrats with the book, btw. Glad to see some Fiction Dealer strutting out into the world. You and HG are true creative inspirations!
Nope. HG gave me the confidence to start writing fiction here back in April. You’ve kept the neurons firing quite a few times. Credit where credit is due. Not to mention you’re both pretty phenomenal writers!
The grape vines produced summer gathered sunlight in abundance. Wine bottled fermented in casks. Fall arrived with chilly nights. Stained curled leaves rust to droop in wrinkled masses; expose withered fruit way past prime-plump raisins, but offers flock of sparrows-vultures a last buffet feast where claws clutch twisted tendrils on wires with life’s last fulfillment squeeze.
Graduation day you’re in full bloom. By retirement you’re dusty, wilted and parched. Not swallowed up in a single gulp as if by Joey Chestnut but depleted spoon by spoon like Prufrock. Like a crisp, blue shirt forgotten on a laundry line to tatter and fade. Sure as lettuce you’ve got a shelf life, so don’t hide in the crisper!
Some time on the eighth day of the journey, Tanaz noticed the grass starting to thin and dry out. They were getting closer.
There were mountains here in the dry country, too, to the east and the west of them. They were not as tall as the Brul, but their red-clay color made them somehow even more imposing. This was a hard place, only suitable for a hard people.
Rose in bloom has its glory moment
But time controls the blossom
until it withers away
only a leafless knob remains
Petals on the ground
The circle of life going round
He gave me roses for my nineteenth
birthday
We talked of marriage
But talk is cheap
He disappeared and I felt nothing
Still mourning my first love
Gone too soon
That's hauntingly beautiful Theresa thank you for joining in.
Thank you , Miguel.
So how do you turn a duck into a soul singer?
put it in the microwave until it's Bill Withers
badum...TISH
Thank you, Im here all week... try the veal.
sorry... i just couldn't get that joke out of my head on this one.
PROMPT: WITHER
THE TREE OF LIFE
They first noticed it when it was just a sapling.
And as it grew, they grew together, too.
Soon after it began to bear fruit, they had their first child.
And when it started to wither, they followed.
They say we all have a tree, that knows the path our lives will take.
But most of us never find them… 🌲🌳😎🌳🌲
Microdosing - 60mg of Wither
===
They were in the sacred garden.
‘See, they don’t wither. They just fall.’
The archivist typed really fast on her tablet, recording each fallen petal, while his job was to store them in the vault, transitioning them to the next cycle.
They stood below the cherry blossom tree. Each cycle of bloom and fall was one life. Life after life.
Beautiful imagery!
Thank you!
While I don't hate it the word wither is lacking
A word as foreboding as wither is actually just about nature
Nature is grand because nothing really dies just food for what's next
So the next time you fret about wither -- remember the glory of the next step
Nature recycles everything and the best is yet to come -- wither come hither
Thanks for joining in Mark!
I wrote on Substack for about two years -- mostly to get repetitions and good habits as I am working on a book. During that time, I became acquainted with Jeannine so I was pleased when I made my occasional peek at Substack to be directed here. This seems like fun.
Nice! I especially like the last line.
This morning, watching cacti collapse
in my xeriscape yard, I remember
when summer meant something different,
before the Strip became a cemetery
of neon dreams and dead palm trees.
The scorched tourists still stumble,
their sunburned hopes melting
like ice cubes on casino floors,
while my neighbors' pools evaporate
into memories of water restrictions.
I found Mom sobbing, the sink full of dishes, the floor unswept, dust everywhere, her precious houseplants withering away. "It's too much, I miss him so. Where do I start?"
"Dad loved you. C'mon, Mom, let's begin, I'll help," as I filled her watering can. And as Mom joined me, I saw the tiny smile kindling in her sad eyes.
And you told me that my story was sad 😭
I'm sorry. I tried to give a little hope out at the end, though...
When Jonathan stumbled back through billowing ash, her screaming stopped. A deep calm spread. It was over. Her dark love was gone.
Coughing, Jonathan bent over her. A pale hand rose to his cheek, fingertips sparking memories.
As her skin began to flake, she wanted to tell him not to cry. But the words withered and died, along with her.
It's so good to have you back Ken.
Aw, thanks Miguel. Congrats with the book, btw. Glad to see some Fiction Dealer strutting out into the world. You and HG are true creative inspirations!
You're being too kind :)
Nope. HG gave me the confidence to start writing fiction here back in April. You’ve kept the neurons firing quite a few times. Credit where credit is due. Not to mention you’re both pretty phenomenal writers!
The grape vines produced summer gathered sunlight in abundance. Wine bottled fermented in casks. Fall arrived with chilly nights. Stained curled leaves rust to droop in wrinkled masses; expose withered fruit way past prime-plump raisins, but offers flock of sparrows-vultures a last buffet feast where claws clutch twisted tendrils on wires with life’s last fulfillment squeeze.
that's really lovely Richard. im totally in that vinyard. great stuff 🙌
Graduation day you’re in full bloom. By retirement you’re dusty, wilted and parched. Not swallowed up in a single gulp as if by Joey Chestnut but depleted spoon by spoon like Prufrock. Like a crisp, blue shirt forgotten on a laundry line to tatter and fade. Sure as lettuce you’ve got a shelf life, so don’t hide in the crisper!
Haha nice one.
Thx. Great topic for the older folks in the crew!
Wow, that was a sad one... very well written though, you got their whole marriage in a nutshell. I need some time to mull this one over...
Thank you! Looking forward to see what you come up with!
Some time on the eighth day of the journey, Tanaz noticed the grass starting to thin and dry out. They were getting closer.
There were mountains here in the dry country, too, to the east and the west of them. They were not as tall as the Brul, but their red-clay color made them somehow even more imposing. This was a hard place, only suitable for a hard people.
(https://shieldbreakersaga.substack.com/p/epilogue-seeking-shelter-in-the-scorpions)