I don't have a topic in mind, so I will close my eyes and blue sky. If that makes sense to you. It does to me.
The water ripples through my fingers in the brook as the ducks quack for the bread I do not have for them today, as the slides click through the shutter. It is not a shutter, but it is the movie reel that plays as I slide in the car and zip it into high, with a bright blue sun overhead and a chill wind puffing my cheek.
It is a bitter wind that cracks my lip and shreds my cheek as I walk through the thicket, the bramble, pushing the thorns away from my face, always looking for evidence of small children who'd come here recently and who'd left crumbs to find their way back.
Always loved that story. That story of death and life, not unlike today, where the bright sky and sun are death, death, death, though they look like life, as crinkly brown oak leaves crumple to the ground and the ducks quack from hunger, then retreat, through their hideaway in the rocks. Today the river is frozen on top. It is death.
Death, death I tell you, as autumn has laid bare her shoulders as she lays her hair on the ground, her hair of red and gold leaves and she has lain her ball gown down for her last rapture.
There were no creaks. There were no soft sighs. There were no tears, no joy. It was death. Even her last rapture. She got up and poised herself to lay down in her soft brown coffin. There were no tears, no shrieks of joy, nothing.
It was death and it was dying.
No. It was none of this. It was a mere transition.
1. Put the following prompt at the beginning or end of your submission, so readers will know what you’re supposed to do.
Wednesday’s Prompt:Write about transitions or use transitional words in your post. Post poetry, prose, a memoir, nonfiction, or an essay.
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4. Include (Wednesday Writing Essential) as part of your title.
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Clearly, I miss the duck pond. Have not been there in nearly two weeks.