Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Park
Image: © Mara Eastern (Used with Permission)
Weave a tale in which a walk or visit to a city park turns into a discovery. It could be meeting the love of your life?
Meeting your nemesis?
A discovery of some part of the park you had never seen before and has not before seen beauties.
What does the park mean to you? A place to cross on your way to work? Somewhere quiet to have lunch? A meeting place e.g. some parks have communal chess boards.
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30 comments on “Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Park”
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https://pensitivity101.wordpress.com/2017/06/01/tale-weaver-no-122-1617-the-park/
short and sweet from me this week. Memories of past lunches!
Setting my thinking cap on and wondering what will come of a park tale 🙂
Definitely an interesting prompt – a bit unusual to my way of thinking, something so “routine” even in the most urban of settings, so it should make for a good “mine field” from which to play 🙂 Definitely need to sit with this one a bit 🙂
I look forward to reading your thoughts…
still playing with a bunch of ideas that just don’t want to settle down yet – it’s like a rodeo in my head 😉
Yes know the feeling knowing which one to throw the lasso around is always the issue….but as you know you bite the bullet and see what happens…
exactly, and if the bullet is black cherry and you wanted watermelon? you can always spit it out and try again 🙂
Exactly…
Good prompt to ponder.
I hope so Lorraine
Unfortunately, my response isn’t as spritely, smile-worthy, and fun as parts 1 & 2 of yours. Bad timing in this part of the world — a prompt on parks. Not your fault, of course! Someone else (guess who) is to blame for my sour mood.
Don’t worry the mood is sour the world over….
Pingback: Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Doomsberry Park – Part 2 | Morpethroad
Reblogged this on All About Writing and more.
Thanks Henrietta, much appreciated..
You are welcome!
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Pingback: Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Doomsberry Park – Part 3 | Morpethroad
THE PARK WAS JUST A PARK
“What’s in a park anyway?” she asked her stepson. “Stay home and get some work done around here!”
Gordon missed his real mother, the one whom he had never laid eyes on. The mother in the photo albums his father hid in a box deep in the garage. She died giving him life. The guilt of it which he carried all his young life weighed heavily on him. No matter how his father tried, he could not convince Gordon otherwise. Her death for his life. What sense was there in that? He wondered. And this witch of a woman his father married a few years later made him feel too much like a Cinderella boy.
The park was his escape. There he could shake free of her yelling, cursing, and often even her beating him. His mother died so he could live. This woman lived to make his young life so miserable he dreamed of dying.
Knowing she would punish him for running off to the park, he ran off anyway. He’d sit on the park bench, count the trees, search for the birds high in their nests, envious of their freedom. He’d watch the other children play on the monkey bars, fill pails of sand in the sandbox, running, laughing, while their mothers sat on benches close enough to keep them safe.
Gordon wished the park had magical powers that could empty him of sadness, fill him with joy, help him forget his loss at the start of his life and take self-confident steps towards his future.
But the park was just a park and he was just Gordon. He would walk home and face her again. His father would gently take her part and together they finally made it clear he was not to ever go to the park again.
“Stay away from the park,” his father said. “Bad things could happen there.” And Gordon wanted to laugh and ask, “Worse than here?” but he kept silent.
At night he would lie in bed, imagining the park without him. Did the birds still sing? Did the tall trees wave their branches at the children below? Did the grass miss his walk? And his favorite bench, who sat there now?
Gordon would fall asleep and dream of the photograph of his mother. She was smiling, her hand holding his father’s, a spray of shining strands arching around her blond hair like the halo of a saint.
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Beautiful story and lovely contribution to this week’s tale weaver. Thanks for sharing your story.
Thank you, Michael.
Well heartfelt and touching, you’ve captured the sense of loss and longing so well.
Pingback: Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Doomsberry Park – Part 4 | Morpethroad
Pingback: Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Doomsberry Park – Part 5 | Morpethroad
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Some gentleness…
Serenity Square
Pingback: Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Doomsberry Park – Part 6 | Morpethroad
Pingback: Tale Weaver – No 122 – 1/6/17 – The Doomsberry Park – Part 7 – Final | Morpethroad
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