cheery faces in creamy cafes and yellow-lit clubs.
Hope was never a fragile thing.
Together, we would make it through.
Starlight in the skies
turned to fires burning high
over our heads, we were lost in flames.
The sirens screamed long into the night.
Our stricken hearts would never give up this fight.
When the daylight came to clear the smoke away,
the words on our lips met the tears on our cheeks:
Paris has fallen. Paris has fallen.
94 words
******
(Update: As Neil pointed out, try reading it backwards. It kinda almost works 😉 )
This is a story of how life never goes as planned. Take 2020 for example.
That’s how the poem began and it developed into the Nazi-German siege of Paris on June 14, 1940. I took some creative liberty in my poem.
After four years of Nazi occupation, Paris was liberated on August 25, 1944.
Armed fighters take part in the liberation of Paris. Who might these young people have been before the war changed everything? (Keystone/Getty Images) Sourced from Washington Post
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less, click the frog to submit your flash fiction and read what others have written. Enjoy!
We walked in groups in the sprawling forest that clung to the foot of the mountain. Aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and neighbours gathered for the hike, trampling over pine needles and tripping over knotted roots. Animals squirreled out of sight and up into higher branches to give way to the invading human swarm that was us. We picked pine cones from the musty ground and plucked out the nuts. Tasting sweet and tangy on our childish tongues. Grown ups carried baskets full of baked chicken, corn on the cob, green salads and garlicky bread. We stopped to eat at the stream that bubbled and whistled over pebbles and crawling roots.
Summer’s sun winked
through tree tops.
Smiles and chatter.
We were all together.
I remember a massive community hike in what I think was the Newlands forest in Cape Town, when I was about seven or eight if not younger. The hike ended in a picnic. I remember it as one of the most spontaneous and memorable occasions of my life, as it was a spur of the moment thing for me. I suppose that is what life seems like for kids who are unaware of the plans adults make and find themselves in surprising situations.
In my memory, I clearly remember a lot of pine trees and pine cones. They are not indigenous trees. Settlers to the region created pine plantations that still form a large part of the forest.
The featured image shows what the indigenous forest looks like, more lush and tropical-looking.
Shared with dVerse for their haibun Picnic prompt.
I’m just about getting this in before the link closes!
Written for dVerse Poets Pub open link night. I missed the chance to post on Amaya’s Cascade challenge earlier this week so getting a two in one. It’s not in the exact form, but learned a lot in the process!
Images from hideawayreport.com (1) and wildfoottravel.com (2)
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.
