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

We Lie In Close (Twiglet)

We lie in close

As years decline

And pity those

Whose hearts resign

Foreswearing fond

They sought beyond

Found there despair

Misky’s prompt options: “we lie close”/ “lie in close”

Ha’sonnet form, check out this link: https://muttado.com/

©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.

Mark of No

Once, far decades ago, love was more than a dream or hope…it was an unscheduled expectation; a promised someday….perhaps even a divine obligation waiting to be fulfilled.

But evidently not for her.

No, on some obscure list her name had been marked through with a heavy black line.

A thorny-bracelet mark on her heart was seared brand yet oozing, gall wending through arteries up into her aubergine-clouded eyes, painting the message for all to read: “damaged goods, beware”.

She stands, back plank-rigid against the coastal wind, gazing undecided at incoming dark sapphire tide.

She could vow a million times that it doesn’t matter, “tell almost the whole story” to herself…but the sirens ever call her, a serenade of sea’s soothing depths.

~â™ ~


Denise hosts Six Sentence Stories each week.  Her prompt word this time is “mark”, and she includes the quote by Anne Sexton:  “Tell almost the whole story.”

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.