Day: May 12, 2019

Three Line Tales, Week 171

~ thereluctantpoet

Only 100 Words

Welcome to Week 171 of Three Line Tales.

black and white Venice waterfront photo by Philippe Mignot via Unsplash

You’ll find full guidelines on the TLT page – here’s the tl;dr:

  • Write three lines inspired by the photo prompt (& give them a title if possible).
  • Link back to this post (& check the link shows up under the weekly post).
  • Tag your post with 3LineTales (so everyone can find you in the Reader).
  • Read and comment on other TLT participants’ lines.
  • Have fun.

Happy three-lining!

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Three Lines Tales week # 171- A solitary walk

~ thereluctantpoet ~ 1 Comment

Keep it alive

My morning starts with my solitary walk along the quay, each day.

It’s like a religious routine for me to inhale that salty air, hear the gulls screeching overhead and to be invigorated by the bracing breeze coming from the sea.

What the rest of the day brings, does not bother me at this point, now I am happy to be alone with my thoughts and to ponder about life and it’s many many blessings.

In response to;

Three Lines Tales week

The prompt;

Welcometo Week 171 ofThree Line Tales.

photo byPhilippe Mignotvia Unsplash

You’ll findfull guidelines ontheTLT page– here’s the tl;dr:

  • Write three lines inspired bythe photo prompt (& give them a title if possible).
  • Link back to this post (& check the link shows up under the weekly post).
  • Tag your post with3LineTales(so everyonecan find you in the Reader).
  • Read…

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Life In A Cruel World

~ thereluctantpoet ~ 1 Comment

I Write Her

UntitledArmin Lotfi

Being deaf wouldn’t lessen the atrocities I see around me.
Being blind doesn’t shield me from the screams of anguish.
Being mute won’t stop the tears I’d shed in agony.
Being paralyzed can’t keep me from helping when there’s a need.

Being ignorant puts off the inevitable.
They say ignorance is bliss.
But even the ignorant can feel pain.
It’ll come. Just wait for it.

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Those walls

~ thereluctantpoet

Thru Violet's Lentz

CCC #26

Father completed the cellar, and
laid the cement block before he died. Mother, with two small
daughters, and no where else to go, moved us into the cellar. We’d
finish the house when the money came.

The
money never came. We grew up in that cellar, but lived inside those
cement block walls.

Those
walls became castles and classrooms. Dance halls and dungeons. We
became princesses and prisoners. Instructors and ingenues. There was
magic between those walls.

My
sister and I went to have one last look at the old cellar house. But
the magic evidently left when we did.

Photo courtesy of Jean L Hays

Written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge, and Friday Fictioneers

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