Category Archives: WritePhoto

Afar – #writephoto – #clouds

04 Wednesday Dec 2019

Posted by in short story, WritePhoto

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Adrift, like the lone cloud, in the distance, I think how wonderful it could be if I, too, could do just that. Rise above the mountain tops, kissed by the sun, letting it shine on me. Or perhaps, sail off into the wilderness of the skies, to find peaceful surrender, afar, in the light of day. Then sigh, as I marvel at the lush green grass, knowing, winter is not far behind.

I shall take in all the splendid colors of autumn, tinting the land with a copper sheen, praying she would stay much longer, to adorn these old eyes. Once last glimpse, o’er the top of mighty hills, down to the valleys below, quietly lingering, until I am not one, but a blend of all, in the clouds. Serenity settles within, and I am as calm as a windless day. Tranquility conquers! No longer do I dread the silence, for it comforts my soul, drowning the din in my mind.

And once again, I am free. A single entity, flying onward, a vaporous wisp in the blue, a fleeting moment, empyrean, above the land.

 

Photo via Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt – Afar
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved

Murmur – #writephoto – #poetry

22 Sunday Sep 2019

Posted by in Poetry, WritePhoto

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Softly setting, into night

Clouds gather, in the light

Whispers heard, above, in air

Pierce the moment, without care

Speak to twilight, grayish blue

Capture beauty, in its hue

Of golden rays, and orange flecks

To tell the tale, of what comes next

Softly setting, sun’s pure light

Murmur sweetly, into the night

 

Photo via Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt – Murmur
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved

Yearning – #writephoto – #shortstory

30 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in short story, WritePhoto

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I hit a rough patch of water in my journey toward the sun. Perhaps, this was as far as I should go, and yet I had a yearning to go farther, to meet the sea, and travel beyond this piece of land I called home. The shore was so close, but without my boat, I wouldn’t be able to go on.

The land around me was still bathed in darkness, as the sun was just beginning its rise over the horizon. I contemplated getting out of my boat and walking to the shore, to greet the morning, but thought otherwise, as I did not know if I was alone.

For years I had heard stories of the First Lighters, they who only appeared at dawn. I was told they nestled themselves into the bushes, trees and grass that led up to the ocean, lying in wait for whomever happened along their way. I never did find out what happened to people once they found them. No one ever wanted to talk about that part, but it was enough to pique my curiosity. After all, I was never one who listened to the warnings from the elders. It got me into more trouble than I wish to remember.

Climbing out of the boat, trying to be as quiet as possible, as to not upset the natives, or whatever, I found my footing and began my walk to the water. An occasional crunch under my feet made me stop, just long enough to listen for sounds, other than my own. So far I was doing okay. It wasn’t long before I reached the shoreline, the sun a bit higher, and gleaming a golden path, over the ocean. It was then I realized why the elders were so frightened.

I felt a tugging at my heart as I walked back to my boat, dragging it onto the land, and carrying it to the shore. Gently pushing it into the water, I hopped in, and using my oar, I made my way into the ocean, following the path of the sun as it climbed into the sky. I said my silent goodbyes, and never looked back. Now, I too, had become a First Lighter.

 

Photo via Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt – Yearning
©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved

Between the Courtyard – #writephoto – #shortstory

25 Saturday May 2019

Posted by in short story, WritePhoto

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I stand in the courtyard of my mother’s gardens. Always well-manicured, I was never allowed to play in them, but I spent many of my childhood days reading, and just thinking. Being surrounded by lush green grass, and the occasional flower tends to let one’s mind wander to places it should not.

My old home is in ruin now. Time has not allowed a kind transition. Vines have replaced the pristine white facade, and the old oaken door is warped shut. So many memories are held in that small house. How I wish they were all kind ones. I distinctly remember mother telling us we were not to bother old lady Werth. She was the woman who lived directly across from us, her door facing the courtyard, same as ours. It was never open, and we questioned if someone actually lived there. She must have been a hundred years old.

Curiosity got the better of me, one day I decided to knock on her door. The other kids ran to hide, afraid of who or what might answer. But no one did. I knocked again. I was a persistent pain in the butt when it came to getting answers. Sadly, after the fourth time knocking, I gave up. I remember telling my friends, “You big babies, I told you there was nothing to be afraid of! She’s probably long gone by now. She was so old!” They agreed, slowly coming out of their hiding places.

Today, I stand looking at the old house, once again. For laughs, I decide to knock on Werth’s door one more time. I make my way up the steps and upon reaching the dark wooden door, raise my hand to knock. Before I can complete this task, the doors open by themselves. I check, but there is no wind to cause this. Perhaps there is a new family living there, and they saw my approach. However, an eerie sensation comes over me, and I hesitate to go any further.

A frail voice beckons me to come in, and as I do, the dark doors behind me close, with a loud thud. I have made my own transition, no longer in the glory of my mother’s grandest accomplishment, but in the confines of an old house, now prisoner of the old witch who still lives…

Photo via Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt – Transition

©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved

The Sisters – #writephoto – #shortstory

16 Thursday May 2019

Posted by in short story, WritePhoto

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They danced, among the shadows of the grass, as one with the earth they stood upon. Arms stretched out, hands clasped, one to the other, not wanting to break the chain. But something was missing. The circle was not complete. Still, they tried, reaching for their lost sister, hoping to, somehow, get her back.

~~~~~~

Four sisters would always gather in the clearing of a large meadow, overlooking a small town. It was their safe haven, where they could dance, chant, and be one with the spirits. Each midday, they stood in a circle, hand to hand, and prayed to the goddesses. Each had a different goddess, each willing the other three should also be so blessed. Until that one day…

Three sisters showed up at the usual time, but number four was nowhere to be seen. They waited, becoming concerned, and impatient. Finally, one said, “We should just start without her.” The other sisters shook their heads, claiming it wouldn’t be right to begin without her. They waited. As the day grew shorter, the shadows crept in.

The scenery was changing. What was once lush green grass and blue sky was no longer. All color had faded to monochrome. And the shadows grew deeper around them. It was then they decided to join hands and hope their sister could hear them and perhaps join them. Though the sisters remained incomplete, the shadows cast a perfect circle.

“My eyes are playing tricks!” said sister one.

“As are mine!” said sister three.

Sister two said nothing. Turning toward her, they asked, “Do you not see the changes, dear sister? Are your eyes not the same as ours?”

“I see no change about me,” she cried. “I see two sisters grieving over a sister who will never return, perhaps she is part of the shadow world.” She sneered at them, and their blood turned cold. Realizing she must be the reason a sister was missing, they tried to break the triad. Their hands would not come undone. They pulled, and pulled, to no avail.

The seasons changed, the winter came, and the grass had died, as did the sisters, who remained attached to each other, for all eternity. There stands three figures, wicker-like, as if someone sculpted them.  Should you come upon them, standing in the clearing, take heed. While three may be seen, there is a fourth, lurking, in the shadows of immortality.

 

Photo via Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt – Wicker

©2019 Dorinda Duclos All Rights Reserved