He came to escape. Refresh. Clear his mind. Where better than a lodge out in the Botswana bush? Archer checked his phone for the fiftieth time. Only her screen-lock picture smiled back at him.
Outside, a masked weaver bird worked diligently on his nest. A female fluttered by and slipped inside the hanging nest. Archer knew if she liked it she would stay. Within seconds she popped out and flew off. Just like that. No warning. No goodbye. Leaving the weaver bird staring after her wondering what he did wrong.
“Chin up, buddy. The right one will stay.”
The prompt reminded me of the bright yellow weaver birds that are prominent in Botswana. There’s one that tears the leaves off of my palm tree into thin strips to weave his nest. They are such clever little things.
Honestly, I’m not sure if the females inspect the nest to their liking. Some bird species in the world build elaborate nests, complete with fancy bottle caps or shiny pieces of litter, and the female arrives to inspect it all. If she approves she simply settles right in. If not, she continues on her way.
of my army, working the oars through the black water
towards a destination far beyond
what we could see.
Inspired by the very real historical Viking Warrior, who was first assumed to be male upon excavation in 1878. (And also inspired by a song with the same refrain). Due to the remains being buried with an arsenal of weapons and a game set, used in strategic thinking, it was clear that it was a warrior’s tomb.
It took more than a hundred years later for someone to examine the bones and confirm that the lack of Y-chromosomes indicates the remains were female. This caused much controversy. But the evidence speaks for itself, and the myth of the female Viking warrior became fact.
The artifacts in the tomb indicated she was a high ranking warrior. My poem tries to capture life through the eyes of this dead warrior, in the Viking village of Birka.
Geography plays a major role in the activities and organisation of a community. In this case, Birka (located in Sweden) was a major trading post between Northern Europe and the rest of the world.
Anthropological and historical studies show that much of what the modern world perceives as uniquely masculine or feminine gets debunked by findings such as these. Where medieval and sometimes ancient customs do not have the same roles and customs assigned to specific genders as we do today.
When your caged heart was free and lived with gusto.
With the Pen in your grasp
Switch genres, change the title and unclasp
the yoke around your neck.
Write one word, then never look back.
In my google search, it turns out a quadrille is also a dance.
I was not familiar with the use of the verb ‘spike’ as in rejecting something. Usually used in publishing where a manuscript is considered and then rejected and put on the spike. So I thought I’d use it in my attempt at a quadrille.
This was nothing short of a mental crossfit workout… Hope you enjoy it.
“Remember this place?” Andy said, spreading his arms out over the cobblestone streets.
Delilah marveled at his crinkle-free eyes. As hazel as the day they met forty years ago. A pair of women in strappy dresses smiled brazenly at Andy. Boldly flirtatious. So different from her day. She wasn’t mad. They assumed she was his mother. How were they to know Andy stopped aging at twenty-five?
Miraculous, the doctors had said.
“How could I forget? This is where we first met.”
“You mean when you almost bumped me over with your scooter!” Together they laughed, eyes shining and hearts fluttering.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Join the group and submit your story through the link below.
Summer rages on his deathbed, fighting off the change in atmospheric pressure. Minute turns of an invisible weather dial, the sun beats mercilessly down on dust, tar, bricks and sweating scalps. Children delight in a deceivingly endless warmth, only the old feel the new chill in the breeze. Winter arrives unannounced, freezing the greenery till they drop to the ground, brown upon brown.
This is my first attempt ever at a haibun. Very challenging, but rewarding too.
March is blazingly hot here in Botswana. But it is the month when it starts to shift into Winter. And so, it feels as if Summer is turning up the heat in defiance of the coming season. (So very Dylan Thomas) We hardly have an Autumn or Spring to speak of. Literally one day it is Summer, the next thing it is 3 degrees celsius at night.
I look forward to your feedback, so I can learn and improve my poetic craft.
I’m with you on the mutual hate of updates, Rochelle. Have been resisting the new editor on wordpress too. I struggled to submit to the link up this week. Eventually, switching browsers helped. When in doubt, switch browsers. 😉
Her favourite flower was roses. Various mediums depicted Dorothy’s unapologetic floral partiality. Printed fabrics of light and dark hues dressed her windows and tables and crocheted patterns draped over her armchairs in stern solidarity.
A ceramic, gold-tipped single rose pendant dangled at her throat.
Another strange and eccentric old woman to the outside world. She knew what people said about her.
Her mother was named, Rose. Died giving birth to Dorothy. Years later, her daughter had been Rose too. She remembered the tiny coffin that took all the love Dorothy knew to its equally tiny grave.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. Submit yours by clicking the frog icon and read other’s flash fiction.