Maybelle Annabelle Lee

She hummed and danced then danced and hummed, though only Maybelle Annabelle Lee would have called her actions musical. Perhaps a passing bumblebee might’ve appreciated the art, so similar to his own buzz-buzz to nectar from one drunken dip to another.

For that was what Maybelle Annabelle Lee was doing as well: dip, dip, dip into this leafy patch and skim, scoop, skim from that berry bush. As she wavered and wove down what may have been a path she somehow collected enough for her basket.

Then, just as coincidentally, she returned home; gatherings ready for a refreshing sunset.

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Whimsied up for Carrot Ranch‘s prompt this week:

May 30, 2019, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes strawberries and mint. The combination evokes color contrast, scents, and taste. Where will the combination take you? Go where the prompt leads!

Respond by June 4, 2019. Use the comment section below to share, read, and be social. You may leave a link, pingback, or story in the comments. If you want to be published in the weekly collection, please use the form.  Rules & Guidelines.

 

Photo Credit:
Image by Photo Mix from Pixabay

 

© 2019 Chelsea Owens

The Teacher’s Child

The teacher’s child is up too soon,
Eyes a-rubbed and cereal spooned.
He’s all his clothes laid in a line,
All washed and pressed with Mother’s iron.
He knows the sun, both ‘rise and ‘set,
He knows who’ll be the teacher’s pet.

The teacher’s child can never shirk;
Can’t hide the notes about late work.
Can’t even hide behind his name;
The teacher’s clearly called the same.
And all his friends know this too well
When he’s greeted by the principal.

The teacher’s child must quietly chew
Another meal from the drive-thru.
“How was your day?” is not his own
When they fin’lly meet his dad at home.
Then he will always share his desk
With thirty other pupils’ mess.

The teacher’s child will wash his sheets,
Will feed the pet, will brush his teeth.
He’ll tuck himself into his bed,
Will tell himself a book he’s read.
And, though her time is far and few,
Will cherish his mother’s, “I love you.”

Sundown Stroll

Humidity cushioned their sunset movements. Emiline sensed it, always, in the dense Jamaican air.

“I feel like something’s pressing on my arms and legs,” Mark said, though with a smile.

Emiline answered with her own, with a light hand pulling wisps of beach-blown blonde from her eyes. Their aimless ambling soon led them within the resort gardens.

Each breathed deeply in. Clusters of pinkish blossoms blushed boldly against darker green. Snow-white Oleander winked from wall bushes. Their gaze drew skyward to admire a riot of orange.

“Nature’s bouquet,” she whispered. Speechless, he followed her through a tropic twilight.

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Carrot Ranch Writing Prompt

Padded Room

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I’d love to have a padded room. I could lock myself inside and stretch and smile and maybe even giggle a little crazily.

“I’m free!” I would whisper, then say aloud, then SHOUT. All that might answer could not, for the padding.

Inside would be a beautiful wood floor, supporting a comfortable chair and desk. Perhaps I’d have plants, too -a sort of alien variety that maintained itself despite neglect. Naturally, they and the furniture would sit before two glorious, turreted windows.

Didn’t I mention the windows? The view they afforded would lay your concerns about a full wall padding to rest; since, from it, one could see the rather lofty and inaccessible position of the room. It would need to be; to afford me the grandest sightings of brickwork buildings, iron-wrought balconies, French cafés, lushly summered parks, and tiny walking people far below.

Of course, it would always be sunset. The weather could change, and the seasons, but reddened rays of fire must continually warm my panic room in calming inspirations of color. ‘Twould be just the right shade to set the wood floor glowing.

As I’d sit smilingly before the computer, the finest quality audio equipment would begin to play. For light, thoughtful prose, realistic strains of instrumental genius would do. Dubstep film remixes would work well when deadlines were near and thoughts were far. Angry yell-songs could be perfect, justified irritants when life outside the padded walls might threaten entry.

My distractions, however, could not get in. I’d be blissfully unaware. I would read and write for hours as the world revolved in its real-time mundane monotony. How lovely, I’d note, that the padding is on the outside.

 

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