Weekend Writing Prompt #313 – Stitch

Wow!  This has to be the shortest WWP to date!  If not, maybe I missed it 😉  I remember a 12-word one…  Obviously, I could not resist and I wasn’t overly imaginative but hey… What else you gonna do with ten?

WWP 313 Stitch


Will you ever finish?

Only two inches of stitches left!


Pieces of My Father in Song

Back in March, there was a dVerse challenge to use a list of titles of songs with the words Dad, daddy or father in them.  I started to write and then realised, no… I must save this one for today.  I am still struggling with the fact that it has been ten years today since my father chose to stop “our” suffering.


Today marks the tenth anniversary

of  My old man leaving this earth on his terms

His sideways glance and grimace at such term

meant, of course, to discourage us,

didn’t work


My father’s eyes twinkled blue

with mirth (mostly)

or turned steely grey

in anger (rarely)

How did none of us inherit them?


My Daddy’s hands were the standard

all my boyfriends’ were judged against

(few could compare)

His were capable of many things

and in my father’s house

was proof of his prowess


He always thought he wanted boys

to pass on his name, father to son

but soon realised how much he was blessed

to have not one daddy’s little girl, but three


My dance with my father was as special to me

as it was for both of my sisters

and he never hesitated to say

Your daddy loves you


For ten years, I have missed you, Daddy

and still go to pick up the phone

to share news or ask your opinion

So here is a a song for dad

I think of you every time I hear it




Way back on Monday, Lisa hosted Prosery on dVerse.  We are to use the following chosen line from a poem in a piece of prose, not more than 144 words.  The rule is that we cannot insert any words within the quote but we are allowed to change the punctuation.  It’s one of my favourite of the dVerse challenges.

On this day without a date,
On a back street, dusky
— Charles Simic, from My Friend Someone

Over time, we become used to certain things.  Big. Little.  Some don’t even warrant a glance, never mind a thought.  We take them for granted.  Is it human nature to do so?  What, for many, in the beginning, thrilled us to have someone else do, we now expect. When do we become so nonchalant about our circumstances that we no longer pay attention and appreciate the little everyday things that are done for us?  It just is.  And then one day it isn’t.

Today, on this day without a date, on a back street, dusky, and away from the madding crowd, I ponder as I stroll.  My to-do list is ever lengthening and now, too late, I realise I didn’t express my appreciation enough.

With each task I accomplish, once done by another, I feel pride mixed with sorrow, and not a little remorse.

*One of the many things I have had to learn to do… 

Daydreaming – Friday Fictioneers

Very sneaky, Rochelle!  You go to great lengths to get me to play Friday Fictioneers!  And it worked, too!  If you’re inspired to write a 100-word story based on my photo (thanks for choosing it, my friend), please do so by clicking on the frog below and adding your link.  G’head, it’s loads of fun!

"Frog flying in the sky with clouds " Stock image and royalty-free ...

Click to play


She stepped away from her cottage onto the grass, cool and springy beneath her feet. She lay on a small hill, crossed her feet and interlaced her fingers to cradle her head.  Gazing up at the blue sky, her thoughts drifted with the clouds, dreamily.  What I wouldn’t give to be able to ride one of those clouds or up and fly to diverse destinations with the birds.  To experience new cultures, go on adventures, to see—


Right on her forehead.

“Thanks a lot!” she shouted to the now empty sky.  “This better be a sign of good luck!”


If You Could Read My Mind, Love

“If you could read my mind, love
What a tale my thoughts could tell…

~Gordon Lightfoot

I’m so tired I can’t focus on anything so I decide not to resist and go to bed before 9:30

I brush my teeth, wash my face do my nightly five gratitudes, turn off the light and snuggle into my sheets

And wait for Morpheus to come

And wait.  And breathe deeply

I turn over, flip onto my back – that never works – flip to the other side

Do breathing exercises:  inhale four counts, hold four counts, exhale four counts

Repeat and yawn during the hold.

For fucks sakes!  Sleep already! I’m obviously tired.

I’m not even thinking of anything in particular, either


Go to the bathroom and glance at clock on way back

Really? Eleven PM?  An hour and a half I’ve been trying?

I give in and pick up my phone and start scrolling



Gordon Lightfoot passed away a couple of hours ago

I must be getting older as I find 84 to be too young

I go to YouTube and start listening to

If You Could Read My Mind

followed by

Early Morning Rain


Rainy Day People

Choosing them one by one and holding the phone to my ear

Did She Remember My Name


Next thing I know, it’s midnight and I’m feeling that each song

has something that touches me deeply.

Good song writers do that.

“So if you should ask me what secrets I hide
I’m only your lover, don’t make me decide”

        ~ Gordon Lightfoot


Late Spring? Not Quite Up Here

For Haibun Monday, hosted by Linda Lee Lyberg on dVerse.   Since Spring has finally sprung, why not, eh?

I am asked to write a Haibun about late spring.  Problem is, we are merely at the beginning of it up here in the Montreal region unlike my fellow writers below the 49th parallel who have been sharing photos of their blooms since end of February, beginning of March!  Up here, we go from temps begging for sundresses and sandals and the next, it’s full-on garb, including coat, hat and gloves (for those of us of a more delicate nature).  Exposing toes at this time would be foolhardy.

How can we ask for crocus and daffodils when we expect them to be covered in snow?  And yet, they do just that.  They take the risk to pop up out of the partially frozen soil next to naked branches and we delight in it.  During my latest walkabout, I am delighted to see yellows and blues and every shade of purple with some pink interjected here and there, just because.

I’m particularly beguiled by the random pops of sweet violets, striped squills, and Siberian squills that seem to scatter willy-nilly wherever they please.  Not that the more formal gardens with hyacinths, daffodils and the early tulips don’t have their own special charm, of course.  It is the wild ones that captivate me.

Frozen ground holds on

Battle royale in progress

Blooms unrepentant