#Friday Fictioneers — Back to Nature

Genre: Humour
Word Count: 100

BACK TO NATURE

The rising sun cut a crimson strip between the oak and ash. A well-sprung tuffet of moss by the stream picked up its positive vibes. Sun now. Rain later. Perfect.    

All is well, called out a blackbird.

I’m the greatest, rasped the magpie.

Cawed blimey, croaked the crow.

The moss zinged from its rhizoids up through its iodine-rich gametophytes and sporophytes. It was well and truly among friends.

Or so it thought, in its elemental mossy way.

Until a humungous hairy human arse* descended like a shit-smeared moon out of nowhere, to wipe and disinfect its arse on yours truly.

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[*The UK spelling. In the US, it is an ass, whether a human posterior or a domestic donkey, which presumably would make an ass’s nether region an ass ass!]

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Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories
Photo Prompt: image copyright (c)  Trish Nankivell

#Meditation for the Day (02): Components of the Whole

Where is your main focus?
the tree tops, or the sky beyond;
the songs of individual birds, or the bird orchestra;
the breeze on your skin, or the rustling of leaves in the trees;
the aroma of last year’s detritus, or of this year’s verdancy;
the path’s jagged flints, or its earthen firmness.

Or do you focus on the whole?
as a backcloth for your thoughts, or an escape from your thoughts;
as a place of solitude, or a place to share;
as a place to raise your pulse, or a place to lower your pulse;
as a place to seek creative inspiration, or simply a place to be,
as a place from which to zone in, or to zone out.

Who cares to analyse it?
There’s you, there’s me, there’s the woodland,
and it’s one big miracle that we’re all still here,
considering…

Neglected Structures & Overgrown Places #14 — Old Tin Dish

Old Tin Dish in Woods

At first glance, when I saw this tin dish atop a tree-stump in the woods, it played tricks upon my eyes and I mistook it for an impressive piece of fungi. It has obviously been there for some time as the ivy is doing its tenacious best to bind it to the stump until the last piece of rust has crumbled to red dust.

I wonder who put the dish there in the first place. A forgetful camper, perhaps? Or someone kind enough to leave the birds a bath? Maybe a litter lout? Who knows?

Whatever the answer to these questions, I’m glad to note that Nature is winning the battle with this particular piece of junk.