Porthole

3 thousand, 3 hundred, 30 and 3 days: 3 short musings

"Blogging Circle of Friends "  reaches a milestone of 3333 days of prodding writers across the mini-multi-verse we inhabit. Lyn's a Witchy Woman asks us to "Write about something that brings you joy!"

So, today, the birth day of Prosperous Snow celebrating, I celebrate by 3 short musings with the theme of "The Founding". Tis, after-all, why we gather here. If not to write about this reality... then... perhaps to dream of other worlds.

Contemplating New Isaan

red dust under a purple eggplant sky
no water above ground as far as we can see
home is where we take our hearts
and plant them

[293a]

When in a foreign land

reading the ripples across the brow
i understand the crinkles around the eyes
the breath caught and not released
the furtive look that bores into my brain
i do not understand the language of your lips
unless they say you wish to kiss my heart
— and never leave

[293b]

She Beast

Beyond the forest painted white, beyond the city lights aglow, She lay in a pile of hay contemplating the life within her that did not wish to wait. She wasn't ready to repopulate this world of cold and wonder. She'd waited centuries. The long journey to the homeland fraught with wars among the stars weighed heavy tonight. And now She was no longer sure it was worth it as spasms reminded her that not everything was under Her control. At least the snow had made her visions of arrival seem real. The gathering of trees had parted as She wended her way among them, their branches singing the carols Her ancestors had taught them. Welcome home they wept in an accent strange yet soothing.

By daylight the litter snuggled close, burrowed into layers of sagging flesh and fur. Free of her womb that had kept them safe and secure. Now they would sleep but by morning they would begin to devour her. It had always been their way. She nuzzled each one impressing upon them their mission. They already knew their names. In a week they would leave, each a mini version of herself: the Warrior, the Fire Eater, the Water Diviner, the Mage, the Sage, the Mother-of-Thousands. Each would become a legend, bring forth a hoard of conquerors, as her bones birthed the myth called Mother.

Yes, the city lights would beckon. A pulsating market of flesh to feast on awaited them. The trees would guide the way. The snow would hide their passage. Yes, She had chosen well.

[293c]

Prompts: snow, tree, lights. For "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 

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