Another day, another prompt.
Mine continue to be strange, slight things, this time about parenthood. I added a second image because following the rules is, in my mind, completely optional.
Today's prompt image is credited as follows: Anthropomorphic sculptures made of mud and algae, Homo Algus is a creation of Sophie Prestigiacomo
Jenny Perrson answered this one in Haiku, and in my estimation did the form justice. Samantha Dunway Bryant gives us something which feels folkloric and, again, has a really nice voice. Kary Gaul gives us a peek into hell, or our own lives. . There's no better way to describe it. And Charles Moore still has us walking, and is nicely weaving the prompts together into.. what? I don't know yet, but the journey is a nice one.
Here's my take.
Off of the Path
Even at ten years old you'd read enough stories to know that I should stay on the path.
You'd also read enough to know that the adventure happens after you step off of it. That the hardpacked earth between trees is comforting, safe, easy. Like a sidewalk transported to the woods.
That as your footfalls land in the softer earth, rich with the faint scent of decay,
brambles stinging at your legs
away from the tame places
That's where the adventure is.
You knew this, so you ignored the voice of your father calling you back
to the path.
You knew this and ran with joy, zig-zagging around tall trees,
crashing through the underbrush,
Scaring away the natural beasts.
You knew this, but walked on until you looked behind and saw
no path
Just deciduous woods, alive with late-summer greenery
Trees wearing their crowns of leaves
waves of ivy clinging to the earth
beneath the green canopy.
You knew this, but you walked on anyway.
And now you knew
that you were lost.
You didn't expect the river.
Later, much later, after this is over, you'll learn for certain that there is no river here.
That your younger self must have seen a small pond, or even a stream. You'll rationalize this, but still know that that's what you saw. A mighty river
broad, slow-moving, half-stagnant and half-clogged with algae. But a river nonetheless. You know enough to not drink from it - "never drink stagnant water" is a much different word of advice than "don't stray from the path". Wordly, practical, implacable.
You don't drink, but do kneel at the water to take a treasure.
Shadows stretched as the sun continued its journey toward the horizon
as you broke into a run
brambles whipping at your legs. No idea
where the path could be.
You had no magic.
No fey creatures to lead you to other lands.
Tom Gordon was not there to guide you home.
Yet you still find your way back, somehow. To a father too worried to be angry. The treasure in your pocket, a single perfect stone, worn smooth by years of flowing water.
You don't go back, even after you hear the stories.
Whispers on hiking-group forums about seeing the creature there, the greygreen color of stagnant water, the smell of decay, the size of a ten year old girl. Alone. In the distance.
Until finally you do return, because that too is the shape of stories. You know that you have to.
And, when your daughter runs ahead, her foot about to step off the path, your hand caresses the smooth stone in your pocket
And you watch.
And you don't know
should you stop her?
Or let her go, finding something
and leaving part of herself behind
in the woods
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