I feel the morning peace and warmth of spring, and tranquillity of the waves lapping in the cove. Yet!–it is the horizon that torments me. I am jealous of the floating clouds flying free through the sky from over that line of no return.
My father scrambled up this beach in rehearsal for hell on earth, and I cannot imagine the exhilaration of soldiers disgorging from landing craft and speculating with death, with unwavering conviction.
My inertia wallows on this soft grass as Isabel’s ultimatum invites me to decide.
In solitude, I seek courage to cross over the line.
The uprooted trees symbolised the turmoil in her thoughts, a burning itch of fire ants on her skin. The bitter drink aggravated the snake coiled in her belly, a mixture of freedom with the dread of discovery.
Last night’s tempest thundered like a herd of stampeding buffalo battering the hotel with spears of rain, and the window crashed across the room. She acted on impulse, a frenzied flash of angry until the bedsheets resembled an impressionist canvas of red.
Her cup rattled in the morning quiet. The train departs at seven and she will travel alone.
I am amazed how the BMW in Liz Young’s photo-prompt does not appear to have any damage, considering the wall and railings are in pieces.
You can read more Friday Fictioneer’s contributions and stories here.
She drives wearing high heels, rummages in her handbag and, at junctions, if she stops, she has to text the kids. When we are in the car, she will nag at me. You missed the kids’ school play and games day–-a crime in her eyes. The traffic accident held me up. I didn’t get home until midnight. Apparently, I never liked her Mum. Hell! the poor lady died before we met.
You are wearing the wrong shirt, and Martha will comment on it.
This week’s picture prompt for Friday Fictioneers flash fiction showing an entanglement of trees and their roots is interesting for me. I spent some time trying to determine what the type of tree it was. I came up with–an American Beech or possibly Eucalyptus.
Legend tells of a Green Man and of an underground city dripping with gold and silver. Myth requires the first born in spring as a sacrifice at the roots of the great, grey tree to fertilise the forest and ensure an abundant harvest from our fields.
Everyone in Cronbourne keeps clear of the tree in May and we wear a sprig of silver birch to deter evil.
Martha laughed and went searching for hidden treasure. We continuously called and heard her mobile ring within the tree.
The autumn harvest was excessively rich that year.
This week’s photo-prompt , thanks to CE Ayr, has a sense of isolation and one I am sure many people are feeling in the present atmosphere of Covid restrictions. At the same time there is a sense of peace in the image that I feel when walking along a quite beach early in the morning, preferable on a Caribbean island rather than along a cold, wind swept coast.
John relished the solitude of his dawn stroll. He walked and breathed in time with the natural rhythm of the waves as he listened to the soft adagio whoosh of water washing along the sand. His mind relaxed and emptied of all invasive thoughts as he concentrated on the peace of the moment. Mentally refreshed and calm, he felt prepared with emboldened fortitude and leadership expected from a head teacher.
His knees trembled as he watched. After an enforced break, over excited, chattering children arrived as their pale-faced parents waved anxiously from the gate. He wiped his forehead and smiled.