Construction Site Playground

‘Run Gill’ Linda and Delamie shouted in harmony.
I bent to tie my shoe lace and then dawdling, stood again, turned in the direction that all the noise was coming from, hand to my brow to shade the early evening sun from my vision. Then a stillness settled and that strange crescendo rose from the silence, just like it does before a storm is brewing. I watched as if outside myself. The biggest boy picked up a stone, weighed it in his hand.
‘BLACKIEEE’, he shouted. There was just him and me, at least that’s how it felt. That’s how it felt, him, me and the missile, cruising, impossibly slowly towards my third eye.
‘Come on, it’s going to hit you’ Linda Wright’s voice pierced my stasis, and in a split second the target became my brow bone instead of my eye. But it couldn’t have hit me, he was too far away. The red rain told a different story as it rippled through my lashes. In disbelief I placed my index finger to my head, saw the trickle of blood, and finally started running blindly, away from the building site, where we shouldn’t have been.
So very close to blinded.
A pale blue and cream police panda car took me to hospital, to three stitches and a scar I still bear. I don’t suppose the racist bully remembers. No-one punished him, a little nigger girl didn’t matter much in 1967.

Written in response to Bastet’s prompt,
”One of my favorite lines written by Maya Angelou is this:

If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change your attitude.

I’ve said that she’s best known for her autobiographies, so what I’d like you all to do is write a small autobiographical piece.”

http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/06/05/short-story-prompt-june-6-2014/

Morning, for Oloriel

 

 

Oloriel, at We Drink Because We’re Poets gave a simple prompt today, write an ode to the morning. Any morning, in any form and as I love mornings I’m joining in.

Good Morning Devon

The velvet fold of the sky’s gown,

is seal grey and striped with dove.

Light elevates from the eastern horizon

frothy warm candy floss pink,

the lingering mist burns away

and morn’s waking beauty leads me astray.

Silver dew evaporates from verdant fields

where deer startle and go to ground,

in a hedgerow of fragrant hawthorn.

Nettles and fresh cleavers burst forth,

wild garlic a gypsy ransom, red Campion buds

and berries to ripen in season.

Songbirds, whose heavenly chorus sing

a crescendo like a Devon morning in spring,

that is overflowing, ripe with promise

and brim full of joy for each new day.

If you like mornings why not tell Oloriel in verse?

http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/04/28/poetry-prompt-8-morning/