Sophia hid in her closet, it was her only safe place. Hanging on a ceiling was a mobile with a handcrafted dragon. She remembered thinking the dragon was frightening, but whenever the darkness in her room swallowed her, the dragon’s eyes flashed; the shadows were obliterated.
She also remembered when her mom first hit her. She scrubbed Sophia’s cut and it was excruciating as was the burning stringent liquid her mom poured on it.
Suddenly, Sophia heard yelling and stomping. The closest door flew open — her mother was drunk again.
Instantly, the dragon’s eyes above her caught fire. He grew into a monster with golden scales and the scent of fire and ash, spreading and filling Sophia’s entire bedroom. He blew a blaze of fire at her mom but only the bottle of Kirkland Tequila (1.75 Litres/$20.00) in her mom’s hand disintegrated.
In words veiled in smoke the dragon hissed at Sophia’s mom who nodded; she understood the dragon’s warning. He breathed out his last plume of smoke and except for the acrid smell, it was if Sophie’s dragon had never awoken.
She crawled out of her hiding place and petted the handcrafted dragon hearing him purr.
Thanks to Bikurgirl for hosting One- Hundred – Word Wednesday.
The frost on the grass is a warning; it heralds winter’s time. It’s sunny and bright walking outside in the late morning, yet I can feel the bitter chill of the snow storm approaching, numbing my skin
There’s a distinct bitterness in the air and it tastes like freshly fallen snow that doesn’t melt, but freezes your tongue. It’s a nip of coldness which makes you shiver long after you’re snuggled by the warmth of the fire indoors.
I know by night, the great pines and paved trail will be frozen and covered in cotton mounds. The frost will becomes a blanket of white remaining until spring seeps into the frozen north.
Words deserted her as fire shot across the sky. She welcomed sunrise casting brilliant light into the dawn, while purple-tinged clouds of white still held wisps of night’s inky black guise.
Beautiful sunrises were evocative for her and could easily bring forth a memory. They had the power to make her eyes hunger and delight, to forget her words. A sunrise’s influence kept her caught in a distinct moment of enjoyment, while at the same time, lost in thought.
The rising sun also inspired prayers of thankfulness. It was a raw moment in nature, primordial to her being. No matter what she was experiencing in life, the sunrise momentarily healed her. Sunlight glazing across the dawn sky mended her body, alleviated her suffering.
Above all she thought, the hope a sunrise brought was vital. Each day it rose, she was graced with another day to do better and be better. To her, this sense of hope was most profound. It was why she cried, tasting the salt of her tears, as the sun finished it’s ascent.
“It will never burn. It’s stone and concrete. People don’t build monumental buildings to burn easily these days,” Trent commented.
“Well they used to and this building is pretty old. I’d say it’s eighteen-hundreds,” Chip guesstimated.
“Yeah, I took some art history so I’d know. Burning this building won’t destroy the whole thing, but it will burn a lot of history within. Maybe it’s like the White House when the Canadian’s burnt it in the War of 1812,” Chip said.
“Pffff . . . Canadians aren’t that aggressive,”Trent said.
“Oh yeah well why do you think it’s called the White House? Canadians and British soldiers burnt it and the states had to white wash it after rebuilding some parts; white washing covered up the smoke damage and scorch marks.”
“But wasn’t Canada more a British colony at that point? So, the fault lies with the British who were leading things,” Trent insisted.
“Many of the soldiers identified as Canadian, Trent,whether or not they were led by Britain; the States shouldn’t have tried to take the Canadas, as upper and lower Canada were known then.”
“Um, that’s a great history lesson but why do you want to burn this building?”
Chip’s eyes grew dark, “Some people just like to watch the world burn; but I’m okay with one building . . . to start.”
Day 22 Prompt: Dangerous “Some things are obviously dangerous, like walking too close to a cliff, and other things, not so much. Free write for ten minutes exploring what is obviously dangerous, not so much, and what dangerous means to you. You could turn this into a rant poem, especially given the times.”
There is always present danger
There is always a need for caution
Caution is necessary
Caution keeps us alive
Alive isn’t enough
Alive means we need to be safe
Safe is a cloudy dream
Safe is an illusion
Illusions we love because they hide cold hard facts
Illusions keep us content
Content is all we can ask to be
Content not to be in danger
Danger hides and danger runs
Danger is wicked and tricky
Tricky because danger is not not upfront
Tricky because danger bides its time
Time waiting to harm us
Time waiting to strike and destroy
Destroying lives with vengeance
Destroying hearts with humourless mirth
Mirth –does it exist in harsh circumstances?
Mirth is it possible when tomorrow could be–
Be the end of life’s dreams?
Be the end of life without heart sight?
Sight to see the world shatter as glass
Sight to see how lost we are in the world
World where we wander feeling hopeless
World where we’re crushed by despair
Despair slips in and brings us to tears
Despair is a weapon danger employes
Employes to target are last reserves
Employes as those serving him as soldiers
Soldiers, mercenaries, to do the bloody work
Soldiers blinded by their own greed
Greed for money until it’s set a flame
Greed for money, not seeing –it’s only paper
Paper, the German Mark in the 1930’s, in suitcases
Paper marks, thousands were worthless
Worthlessness, don’t ever feel unwanted
Worthful, you’re as precious stones
Stones judgemental people throw
Stoning the accused sinner
Sinners we all are, it can’t be helped
Sinner –let he with the least sin cast the stone first