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Friday Figments: THIN THREAD

A white thread hangs from the sky. People on the street walk past it, hats on their heads, hands in their pockets, eyes on each foot fall. One tug and clouds might spill down like a waterfall of iridescent bubbles, floating as they fall to pop on the ground. One pull and colorful prisms could illuminate the sky the way a light switch enlivens a ceiling of chandeliers. One pinch of that silent thread and a flock of captive doves might be set free, their wings beating a breeze as fragrant as pink petunias. The thread may not even know what it's for. 
      Someday someone will notice it, after the strand lingers on someone's cheek just long enough to wake them from their stroll on the street. And that someone will look up to know how he, or she, came to be touched. It may be raining, or the sun relentlessly heating, but a hand will lift, find the thread among its fingers, grab hold and discover. 

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Photo: "Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Les Grands Boulevards" by Pierre-Auguste Renoir - Les paysages de Renoir, 1865-1883, catalogue de l'exposition. The National gallery, Londres, 21 février-20 mai 2007, Musée des beaux-arts du Canada, Ottawa, 8 juin-9 septembre 2007, Philadelphia museum of art, Philadelphie, 4 octobre 2007-6 janvier 2008, Milan : 5 Continents Editions srl, 2007, p. 163. ISBN 9788874393732. Licensed under Public domain via Wikimedia Commons -


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Sleepy baby panda naps on a dolphin and drools into the sea. The dolphin has tied to the bear's tail rosy red ribbons that float on the waves. At the shore, sandcastles wash away with the tide. Sleepy baby panda rolls through their gates.
Stop snoring, Panda. The salt from the sea is drying stiff and gritty in your hair. Your paws will feel sticky! You'll smell like fish dried on the beach. The dolphin has long slipped back into the dawn-lit water. Wake up, Panda, and be on your way.

Photo Credit: Tux-t-penguin on Deviant Art

Friday Figment: FINLESS FISH

I found a finless fish…well, fishtailing, I guess, along the bottom of my pond.
I asked him what he was doing in there (cause I was planning to drain that pond and set up a trampoline instead, though I didn’t tell him that).
He said, “I’m living; what does it look like I’m doing?”
“Can’t you live somewhere else?”
He didn’t answer.
“Where are your fins?”
“Really? You’re going to hint that I should leave then ask a rude question like that?”
I kicked the gravel, asked if he needed something to eat, but he silently slithered along.
When I checked on him before bed, the pond was empty.
Photo/Public Domain:

Friday Figment: ANTSY ABANDON

The ant asked the caterpillar, "What are you doing?"

"Building my chrysalis," the caterpillar answered.

After a grunt the ant said, "Butterflies don't eat leaves, and I love leaves, especially rose ones, and man, I'd never give that up for anything."

The caterpillar had been working for hours and talk of leaves, rose leaves especially, made her stomach growl even as she defended the butterflies, explaining how they get to soar across the world on their beautiful wings.

"I hope mine are blue," she said.

"But the slow way you walk is so cute," the ant said, "I like you the way you are," and after an hour or two of that talk, the caterpillar left her chrysalis and feasted on rose leaves with the ant.

A week passed, and the caterpillar whispered, "I think I'm sick."

"Don't worry," the ant said, "I won't leave you," and the caterpillar was comforted as she fell into her final sleep…