Posted in friday fictioneers

Knotted Hands

My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war.
His father watered it, the seed which came before.
My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber.
This tree grew ever higher.
Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me.
She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down,
Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground.
It falls to me, as this tree must be fed;
A living sacrifice of a life never lead.
I toss my children as far as I can;
Mutter the same empty words my mother offered
Over knotted hands.

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

Word Count: 100

A write for
Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.

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Posted in Word Prompt

Forest Pyres

WordPress Daily Prompt – Age

Inside the meaning of time the trees journey,
Standing tall, impassible walls, the forests hold steady.
Roots burrow through the soul of this world,
Holding fast, dirt pasts, the forests stand furled.
Bark peels reveal fates beyond the wood,
Kindling for fires, forest pyres, this is where they stood.
Ages before realization set fast into minds of men


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