Like a fledgling in the morning who steps upon the dew The old-timer stops and views it In the blondish amber hue He watches as it canters through fields of wheat and grass Unable to find some solace A grimace at this pass Where will nature take it the babe he looks upon He fears not for its safety Yet waits until it’s gone.
Dominic bowed his head to hide his face. He didn’t want his mug showing up all over the news stations. If his parents found out he was one of the protestors they would never let him live it down. They were not the type to engage in such foolery. But Dominic knew, deep down, that fighting, for what you believe is right, is not foolery; foolery is looking the other way at something that is wrong. This was going to be a night like no other. Dominic planned on watching the looters, finding out their tricks and finding out where they kept all the merchandise they stole. He wanted to help bring these people down but watching and waiting seemed so passive. He strolled through the crowded streets just watching and waiting for it all to begin.
Becky wished she had been alive during the Renaissance because of her love of classical philosophy. She loved the way people came together to meld literature and art. If she could have been there, she thought, she could have come away with gold embellished leggings as a souvenir. But for now, she held her thumb against the fabric of her nylon leggings, trying to tuck the tag back in.
Becky was looking forward to her date that evening with Roberto. She had met him in the half empty train station, and it had been coup de foudre. She knew her best friend Jenna did not believe in “love at first sight.” That particular day Roberto had been standing in the ticket line that was coiled around the pillar in the station. He had been wearing a crisp, new polo shirt and Becky felt he looked sumptuous! If they had met during the Renaissance, they would have fallen in love just as quickly as they had that day. Becky loved that Roberto was as romantic as she was.
I’m taking a writing course “Writing for Children” and one of my assignments at the beginning was to write a 500-word descriptive piece about a childhood memory. I wrote about how my sister and I used to explore through my grandma’s woods and find old trash piles. This photo reminded me of it. Here is an excerpt…
. . . The trail wound down the small forested hill showing which direction we needed to go. In some places the trail became a few inches wider, but most of the time we had only enough room for one foot. We clambered on, one foot in front of the other and followed the path down until it disappeared around a corner of dirt and stone. We crept to the edge of the path’s end before it turned and led in a new direction. Here, we stopped in our tracks. As we turned, our eyes seemed to arrive before our minds as we looked down at the treasure trove of garbage, with its mountain of old appliances hovering over endless treasures and special finds. To some, this was a dumping area, but to my sister and me it was a land to explore and maybe find a valuable someone accidentally left behind.
I did it every time I was there, it didn’t matter who I was with. I’d walk up six steps and put our names. Luckily, having the name Dave made it hard for my girlfriends to think that the other “Dave loves so-and-so” could have been me. Walking up the stairs with Veva I counted in my head. I never told any of them that I went to the sixth step and luckily, they never asked why I stopped there. I always tried to have a different color marker than the last time I was there just in case she noticed the same color and saw that it was the same handwriting. I was hoping this was the last time I had to come to this sixth step. I really loved Veva.