Category Archives: Small Stones

Entries for the Mindful Writing Challenge

by | January 16, 2013

Small Stone

It is still raining.
Mud bubbles up and runs through the herb garden.
Among the sodden brown stalks, buttons of green nose upwards.
It is winter here, but underground, spring is beginning.

(today’s entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

And please do follow the link to read some truly wonderful examples of literary brevity!

(Update: once again, The Daily Prompt is reading my mind. I’ve written about rain, mud, and home for over a week now. Finally, today, January 18, the rain has stopped. For today, at least, I will enjoy the sunshine.)

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by | January 16, 2013

Small Stone

On the wall, shards of the day flash and scatter, scenes of pain, sounds of loss.
I keep my head down, focused on the glossy pages. Compositions of space and purpose, the color and calm of empty houses.

(another entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 15, 2013

Small Stone

The air today is wet and grey.

Heavy, it pools over the water, and scutters away, tendril twining over tendril, from the paddling flock.

(today’s entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 14, 2013

Small Stone

We are walking in the woods. She is looking for wildlife, and the colors of the leaves.

I notice some stones in the trail. When I tilt my head, and if I squint, the textures shift and sparkle.
I point this out.

She looks down and the stones, and back at me. Her brow furrows. “We really see things differently”

Her face relaxes and she touches my sleeve. “Come on.” she says. “Let’s keep walking.

(entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 13, 2013

Small Stone

The rhythm of her day begins.

Eyes open wide, front legs stretch out, then back. Eyes close, her neck lengthens as she yawns to the sky. Her head shakes, and the shock wave moves along her body. Shoulders, belly, and then tail trace circles in the air.

As she springs forward, now fully awake, the glitter of fur flies up into the morning light before drifting back to ground.

(daily entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 12, 2013

Small Stone

I enjoy the time spent waiting . Outside, rain slashes across the glass.  Lights smear across wet metal.  Frantic traffic rocks my cocoon, but inside I am warm in the soft darkness.

(today’s entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 11, 2013

Small Stone

The glittering stones in the concrete catch my eye.  If I look too closely, they become rocks in a desert.

 

(entry for the 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 10, 2013

Small Stone

I’m so grateful for this cup of tea.  Warm to my hands, warm to my tongue.  The label flutters like a moth in the draft.  My nose is cold.

(a 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge entry)

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by | January 9, 2013

Small Stone

Primroses bloom in the dry dirt along the bricks. There is no shelter for their riot among the quiet ferns. The sunshine circus so welcome in spring, in winter distracts like strands of tarnished tinsel.

(entry for The 2013 Mindful Writing Challenge)

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by | January 8, 2013

Small Stone

His face comes into view from over my head. I notice the weather-beaten skin around his eyes.  Gardener? Sailor? Cowboy?  I try to imagine the person inside the mask.  Then I decide that I should practice detachment.  ”Just a pinch, and then a burn” he says.  ”You’ll be fine as long as you don’t try to talk”.  My eyes are open, but covered.  I feel pressure in my neck, wet and gristly, but no pain.  Practice detachment, I remind myself.  I hear voices, but they are not talking to me.  ”How are you?” one asks.  ”Not sure.” he says.  ”My last patient lost her son when he was ten.  So nothing I told her could ever be as bad as that.”

(Mindful Writing Challenge entry)

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