Orphan’s Champion

Whenever she found herself at the bottom of dark-echoing well, she floated back to the gilded chapter of her childhood, “Rodeo Days”.

She’d gazed up-up-up, deep into his denim eyes, and lassoed his heart; it happened quickly, such was the power of a small abandoned child of intriguing mystery, at once innocent and precocious, to captivate the man—a rescuer, hero well-drawn—driven to right wrongs resulting from human frailty.

Destiny, often cast in strangely inexplicable decisive moments, entwined them unyieldingly when she’d first clung to him—sole buoy ‘mid endless midnight sea—on that aqua-sky day; perhaps it was concussion he’d suffered when a recent bronc slammed him to the dirt (crowd-pleasing 85-point ride)—this was his traveling partner Tom’s logical explanation, while trying to reason him out of his impractical (insane) plan to haul the unclaimed pup with them, rather than leave her with the sheriff for delivery to nuns (her parents, likely on the lam, never did make inquiries).

‘Mid-fitfties home-schooling was managed in dusty Ford pickup’s cab, seated between the two cowboys as they drove the rodeo circuit: miles-a-million, meals in diners, sleeping on a pallet beside his bed—arriving at each town, county fairground, she’d exclaim, “You’ll be champion and win the gold buckle!”

But you can’t rodeo forever—exchanging spurs, snap-button shirts for suits and ties, he became a clench-jawed criminal investigator, locking bad guys away; as she matured, they loved each other differently: she’d have crawled through broken glass to rest in his embrace—and he believed she was the only woman he could love without soul’s compromising reservations.

She’d kept him vigorous, though Conscience berated him for painting her uneasy profile—a top-cop’s commendations guaranteed salary but no less danger than riding rank horses; Time is fickle—youthful by decades, dazzling to behold, she watched his splendor gray and stride slow—his final glimpse found her clinging to him as on long ago summer day, wishing for another rodeo season; gold buckles had eluded him, she was his legacy.

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.


Denise hosts Six Sentence Stories each week—her prompt this time is RODEO. Click the link above to join in🙂

Image: Pinterest.com

Dark Kaleidoscope

The season of madness continued its daily turns as if demonic hand were holding infinitely dark kaleidoscope.

Gleefully twisting large cylindrical toy hour by hour, the hand’s eye watched shards of onyx, obsidian, midnight slate display and reform myriad variations of dire events and grim revolving repercussions.

Now skies had opened their winter silos, unloaded sufficient weighty snow to burden nearly three-quarters of the country and call widespread halts to severely compromised ‘normal’.

Freezing temps, white ice walls, avalanches—none bear gifts of peace, nor hope of healing; and provide no balm to quell violence which still swirls like blizzards…at heart, as heated as summer’s firestorms.

Hand giggled deliriously, fingers wrenching kaleidoscope ever more quickly as though in arousal; slavering, it peered into faceted coal shadows which shattered then bloomed again.

‘Twas a night-flowering bouquet’s bleak delight: fever of virus, famine of faith, flaming rage gone rabid; Death-arrows swift-flying, hitting marks, seeding more loss, sorrow and devastation to spirits—pray glorious cathedral hues be restored.

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.

Denise hosts Six Sentence Stories each week, and this time the prompt word is KALEIDOSCOPE.


Image: Pixabay.com

Plowing Through

February again, the month when many couples marry; but Groundhog Day marked 43 years since a judge slammed gavel on her pathetically foolish, but blessedly brief union which had shattered innocent trust and rent last remnant of naïve belief in a benign world.

There’d been a time when she could joke about her Groundhog Day divorce, referencing the comic film about a fictitious weather reporter’s repeating February 2nd.

But now she plowed through that annual reminder the way she recalled snowplows taking out behemoth snowdrift-walls in her short-stemmed childhood, following blizzards which typically cancelled school for a day or two.

Winter was far less snowy where she found herself in this senior season, though torrential pewter rains turned easily to treacherous ice, embroidering chill vista of her chosen seclusion.

Squinting out the window she observed somber twilight, felt her days slipping by in stealthy arrhythmic tachycardia she welcomed.

Too many calendars—glossy pages casting fantasies of escape denied, and packed in faded floral lingerie box—mocked her yearning to abandon Life in the same way it had shown a cold shoulder to her in every awkwardly plowed phase.


Six Sentence Stories is hosted by Denise each week, and the prompt word this time is PLOW.

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.


Heads On Desks!

By no means am I demeaning the legitimate reasons for much of the hostility in the air these days; I mean no disrespect to anyone…just trying to lighten things up briefly🙂


Let’s bring on some ‘chill’

Yes, set aside heat of rage

Clasp peace, unity

Can’t be so impossible

Children (carkers*) learn it soon:

“Put your heads down on your desks!”

*The Word of the Day Challenge is Carker.


©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.



No Fictitious Season

Life’s current season

‘Tis not by least fictitious

Though surreal it seems

Who would write these dour chapters

As if romantic drama


Yes, we will come through

With grit, faith, some survive all

But we need to weep

Not suppress tears, freely flood

Wash out stress-filled fears, anguish


The Lord Himself wept

Old saints’ prayers pool ‘neath their feet

Desperate, fervent pleas

Rescue, deliv’rance, relief

Grateful praise sung at morning

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.


Stay the Forward Course (3LineTales)

photo by Raychel Sanner via Unsplash


The road appeared to go on indefinitely and emptily, which inspired no confidence nor courage.

And even with half-blind (cataract) eyes it was apparent there was a heck-of-a storm fast-descending up ahead, with lightning already striking.

We reasoned, juggled worst case scenarios, percentage chances, and considered philosophical issues for the spare moments of opportunity likely remaining to make a decision; it came down to this:  was there anything (or one) worth turning back for—not really; we were “do or die” ready to stay the forward course, in faith.

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.

Storm’s Comin’, Poet-Love

I feel it, and hear

Psithurism* in my head

Mind’s green willow trees

Gentle sweeping rustle…leaves

Are falling poetry words


They make rich carpet

Where heart’s feet may walk a path

Hands collect phrases

Which breeze swirled this way n’ that

For mystery story weaving


Basket of lyrics

Sorrowful, joyous psalms too

Muse clings to branches

Lest romance be blown adrift

Calls, “storm’s comin’, Poet-Love”

*Psithurism (noun): sound of wind in trees and rustling of leaves


©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.