On Maya Angelou - a writing prompt
Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a
sure beginning.
Maya Angelou
Mine like musk
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
The other, the end of a
sure beginning.
Maya Angelou
This is my Wednesday Evening Writer Group post - we were given a Maya Angelou prompt and told to write a story based off her poem. I share it, not sure that it is all that good, but I am a mommy-blogger, so this really is an outlet for me. Enjoy or not, my 20 other readers will do the same.
He was young, virile. His skin sun-kissed by caramel dew. He'd been running, the days too numerous to count.
Her shop was filled with sweets, glamoured in the window store front.
His stomach growled with the force of a summer storm. His mouth watered opposite the pedestals of powdered goodies, taunting him.
He scanned the road, right to left, beside his foot rested a discarded brick. No doubt from the construction site down the road. They had turned him down earlier today. "Too young," they'd said, "Go back home." He was strong and willing to work hard and wanting to be good but the hunger drained his will power.
His hand, not more than 16 years strong, picked up the mortar and smashed the fragile barrier between he and the succulent sweetness.
She stirred from her bed at the sound of broken glass. She heaved-off the several afghan blankets that covered her, despite the summer nights being warm.
She sighed an aged sigh, lamenting the ache of her bones, protesting her rising out of repose. The odd angles of her knuckles, unforgiving arthritis, contorted her once lovely fingers. Years of kneading and rolling, flattening and spreading, permanent white flour lined her ridged, yellowed nails.
She rose and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. The hem of her nightgown fell past her white calves and she slid her terry-clothed slippers over her gnarled toes.
She shuffled and braced herself to descend the stairs. Thinking it might be time to retire. Live the one story, country life. A small home with green grass and roses. She loved roses. One of those places where they took care of the old ladies.
As she rounded the corner, she saw the boy. His eyes popped like a raccoon caught digging through a bin. His clothes were dirty and the meat of his wrists were thin and ropey. Like the sinew of a young buck.
"My, My," she tisked, "You must have some milk with that."
Her shop was filled with sweets, glamoured in the window store front.
His stomach growled with the force of a summer storm. His mouth watered opposite the pedestals of powdered goodies, taunting him.
He scanned the road, right to left, beside his foot rested a discarded brick. No doubt from the construction site down the road. They had turned him down earlier today. "Too young," they'd said, "Go back home." He was strong and willing to work hard and wanting to be good but the hunger drained his will power.
His hand, not more than 16 years strong, picked up the mortar and smashed the fragile barrier between he and the succulent sweetness.
She stirred from her bed at the sound of broken glass. She heaved-off the several afghan blankets that covered her, despite the summer nights being warm.
She sighed an aged sigh, lamenting the ache of her bones, protesting her rising out of repose. The odd angles of her knuckles, unforgiving arthritis, contorted her once lovely fingers. Years of kneading and rolling, flattening and spreading, permanent white flour lined her ridged, yellowed nails.
She rose and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. The hem of her nightgown fell past her white calves and she slid her terry-clothed slippers over her gnarled toes.
She shuffled and braced herself to descend the stairs. Thinking it might be time to retire. Live the one story, country life. A small home with green grass and roses. She loved roses. One of those places where they took care of the old ladies.
As she rounded the corner, she saw the boy. His eyes popped like a raccoon caught digging through a bin. His clothes were dirty and the meat of his wrists were thin and ropey. Like the sinew of a young buck.
"My, My," she tisked, "You must have some milk with that."
I love it Marcy!!! I'm so glad you are enjoying our meetings. :-) <3
ReplyDeleteYour writing is beautiful.
Love it! Thank you!
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