Quote For The Day 5-26-2018

“Experiential reality is a pure reflection of your own state of being. You see what you believe. It is that simple.”
Raphael Zernoff, Being Yourself, Riding the Wave of Change

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Response – JSW Prompt 5-21-2018

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 word (recommended, not law). I will re-blog your post to my site.


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Families walked by the statue day after day, glancing over once in a while, maybe more if a child happened to love horses, but often not even a glance. Inside were AC, bathrooms and enough food vendors to keep a family of seven more than happy.  Outside when it was hot and muggy or cold and damp, windy, rainy, any kind of weather really, inside was a lot more  interesting than the horse in the garden.

Besides, it didn’t look like a real horse. Who’d of ever heard of a flat horse, or one with holes in its body. The deer statues by the door at least looked like real deer, for heaven’s sake.

Roger didn’t care. Roger loved the outside. He loved the heat of the sun and the light of the moon. He loved the cold and the rain and the fog. He loved the bustle of the day and the quiet of the night. In fact, Roger loved everything about his world.

The fish statues near to the parking lot burbled their own kind of laughter as the wind whirled them on their huge weathervane. The old oak statues clustered by the drinking fountain pretended to sway in the wind (but they weren’t really). Still, when Roger pointed that out once, they harrumphed  and hawed for days.

Roger paid no attention to any of them. He enjoyed his patch of the gardens, the sweet smell of flowers in the spring and the occasional scent of a hot dog when the doors opened from inside. And sometimes, when a little girl did sneak beyond the hedge to give him a pat, he would smile down at her and whisper horse love into her ear.

Between him and her, that was all that mattered.

Response – JSW Prompt 5-14-2018

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 word (recommended, not law). I will re-blog your post to my site.


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He hesitated for a moment, staring through the brush, trying to determine what the red and blue on the creek edge might be. It couldn’t be what he thought it might be. There was no way. No way in all the world.

Yet, he couldn’t walk way. He had to be sure. Doubly sure. Triply sure. And so he walked through the brush, winding his way down to the creek. Kneeling. Reaching out a shaking hand.

It… the thing of red and blue…. half hidden in the weeds… partially in the water…. was a small backpack. A child’s backpack.

Red and blue. Thomas the Tank Engine.

The backpack dropped from nerve-less fingers and he stumbled back, through brush and thorns, tearing flesh and cloth, the low sound of some hurt thing issuing from his throat.

He fell, rolled down a short slope and lay at the bottom. He hadn’t done this, but he couldn’t remember. Everything was so confused. So much blackness and dark. So little light.

Johny. Johny. Little hurt thing Johny.Where’d he gone? What’d he done? Why was his backpack here?

Little Johny. He loved his little brother Johny. Loved him. Loved him. Loved him.

And hated him. But he’d never. No, never, ever, do this. Not to his little brother Johny.

He ran until he couldn’t run any longer. Until the pain in his side crumbled him to ground and he curled up around himself to hold out the lack of memories.

He couldn’t have done it.  Couldn’t have. Repeat it enough and he might believe it. Might. Might not.

He woke in the morning, rain-soaked and freezing. Still curled into a ball. Lay there letting the rain wash away memories he couldn’t remember.