Birthday - tanka

one early spring dawn

the sun bloomed as I was born

I too Christ be

I celebrate this knowledge

in deep stillness and wild joy

~~~

Is Consciousness the Unified Field?

A slow convergence of science and spirituality explained in a wonderful video in this article.

John Hagelin : Is Consciousness the Unified Field?

Is Consciousness the Unified Field?

Is Consciousness the Unified Field?

~~~

Sensuous Sundays - leaf magic

Leaf magic - haiku

a wind caressed leaf

breathes out a green magic

worlds dance inside me

~~~

Prisoner

(100-word flash fiction)

He steps into the square, barred patch of sunlight, feeling its tremulous warmth upon his face.

He can hear spring winds sweep away the remnants of autumn like he has had for 20 years. He reaches up and plucks the crinkled leaf stuck at the bars.

It reminds him of the parchment on which he had written his inflammatory letter denouncing the Royal family’s debauchery. Fool! He should’ve known it would land him in this remote prison.

And now, he doesn’t know the King is long dead. There is democracy in the land.

And, he has been completely, totally forgotten.

~~~

After a gap of a couple of weeks, I return to Rochelle's literary bar for my weekly fix of flash fiction. This week's photo prompt is -

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E. Ayr

Educating the heart and mind - Peace Summit 2009

Some of my favourite people in a panel discussion.
The 3 new Rs of education - reflection, relationships, and resilience.

(I hope I have put up the right video this time)

The link - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suojNzKZ8ew

Educating the heart

The Patience of Ordinary Things

by Pat Schneider

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

~ Pat Schneider

"Another River: New and Selected Poems"

Sensuous Sundays - Brewing nostalgia

Brewing nostalgia - tanka

the pot on the stove

bubbles up aromas from

childhood. Warm, soothing

comforting, like Mother’s touch

like a loyal puppy lick

~~~

Awe

"The next time you are awed by something, let the feeling flow freely through you and do not try to 'understand' it You will find that you do understand, but in a way that you will not be able to put into words. You are perceiving intuitively through your right hemisphere. It has not atrophied from lack of use, but our skill in listening to it has been dulled by three centuries of neglect."

From the book "The Dancing Wu Li Masters.

Sensuous Sundays - Eddies of memories

Eddies of memories - tanka

fleeting sandal scent

like a rogue wind whirlpools leaves

stirs up memories

chasing the light on your skin

all the way into shadows

~~~

It rains inside me

(100 word flash fiction)

It had been raining that day when you ran from my arms and down the driveway to the waiting school bus. So eager you had been to show off your new raincoat, you had not even turned back to wave goodbye.

Every year, I bought new clothes for you just a little bit bigger. Added one more candle to your birthday cake. Redecorated your room, changed the posters. I hope you like Jennifer Lawrence.

They said you’re dead. But they didn’t find your body, did they?

Today, there are 21 candles. Who could be at the door in this downpour?

~~~

It is spring here and we are tired of the rain, wanting only fine, sunny days, but Rochelle has to post a rainy night photo just so that we don’t forget to feel grateful for the rain.The weekly party just started over at Friday Fictioneers with this photo prompt –

(photo © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields)

Grace

"The grace of god means something like:
Here is your life.
You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't be complete without you.
Here is the world.
Beautiful and terrible things will happen.
Don't be afraid."

~ Frederick Buechner

Sensuous Sundays - Kiwifruit

Kiwi fruit - haiku

mini bursts of

sunshine turn into honey

did I hear a bee?

~~~ 

image source - internet

Suspended

(100-word flash fiction)

The chair topples on the first kick. As if on cue, she steps outside herself.

She is amazed at how the body is wired for survival, as she watches the legs, puppet-like, kick into thin air. Chest straining, by habit, trying to suck in air, so abundant outside. Face crimsoning as blood rushes to her brain. Bells going on inside, screaming ‘Mayhem!’ ‘Mayhem!’

She loses all sense of time. And that dreary greyness that had festered inside her like a light-sucking ghost. She crackles with an aliveness her body had never felt. Unimaginable lightness fills her being.

The door opens.

~~~

Rochelle has posted a lovely image for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.

Photo copyright Ted Strutz

The gift

On dVerse Poets, it’s Abhra’s birthday and he asks, what gift we would like to give him. Or the world. As I was reading his post, quite by happy chance, I heard the tui call …

THE GIFT – tanka

into the cup of

the evening the tui

drops its golden song

my beggar heart rejoices

the moon rises in delight

~~~

What do I call you?

What do I call you? - Haibun

We were young and grieving when we met.

Pain had sat on our lips like wounded birds, afraid to fly. And shone from our eyes, like rough-cut diamonds. It must have emanated from our being, white-hot and searing, drawing us together like moths to a flame. Like little girls, we had giggled, eating candy floss, as though we could pluck joy out of the cool, night air with sticky fingers. Maybe we laughed because we wanted to cry. Maybe we realised that pain can be transmuted into joy. Our hearts cut open and the pain billowing out with our out-breaths allowing joy to flow in with our in-breaths.

That night, at the fair

Joy was sweet, light candy floss

You woke up smiling

I dare not think what I would be if you had not come into my life. It’s like imagining a rainbow with colours missing. Or music with holes in it, the heart searching, in vain, for the missing parts. Or spring without butterflies, afternoons heavy with torpor. I am grateful for the pain that brought you to me, bound us together and then set us free.

What do I call you?

for some things there are no words

just joyful silence

~~~

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Bjorn and Hamish have set the challenge for Haibun Monday – to write a Haibun inspired by Khalil Gibran’s words. The edict is to write only one haiku, but I am a rule-breaker, and also, the second one just prostrated itself on the page. What to do? I couldn’t kill it. Sorry, Bjorn.

What do I say about Gibran? The heart swells up with joy just thinking about his words. The lyricism, the melody, the grace, the soulfulness and of course, the simple truth in them. I am eternally grateful to the person who introduced me to Gibran.

Sensuous Sundays - Fresh sheets

Fresh sheets - haiku

lying on sheets, crisp

with sunlight, redolent of

sky and fragrant winds

~~~

Minnie Mouse

(100-word flash fiction)

“Matt, come here!” His father’s shout shatters his glorious dream, in which a spaceship had landed beside his house, extended a long, metal arm into his pesky sister’s window, extracted her and shimmered out of view.

His mother’s staring at something on the table. Above the shaving foam over half his face, his father’s frown is ominous.

The object on the table whirrs, beeps and glows incandescent blue.

His brother, Mark, bursts into the room. “I can’t find Minnie anywhere. She’s gone missing.”

“Wowser!” His grin is wicked. “It wasn’t a dream. They took Minnie and left a mouse instead.”

~~~

Come Friday, it’s time to write a piece of flash fiction for the eclectic group Friday Fictioneers hosted by the lovely Rochelle. This week's photo prompt is -

 
Copyright- Marie-Gail Stratford

Remember the time

For the dVerse Poets challenge – Gender Bender. Kelly Letky set us the challenge to write a poem from the point of view of the opposite sex. Very difficult, I just found :)

REMEMBER THE TIME

There is grass growing

on your grave, little one.

Remember the time

when you had walked

on the grass and found

a wriggling worm. You

had run to me afraid and

I had lifted you in the air

and you had declared

you could touch the stars.

I don’t notice the stars anymore.

The tree beside your grave

is shedding leaves, little one.

Remember the times

when you had lain on

my chest, quiet and gently

breathing, and said it felt

like a tree. My arms

the branches. I suppose

you meant strong

and stable and rooted.

You had never seen an uprooted tree.

There are daisies

on your headstone, little one.

Remember the time

your mother and you

had made daisy chains

in the meadow not noticing

the birds that had snacked

on our picnic lunch.

How the two of you had

giggled until my belly

was full of your laughter.

She has not smiled in a long time. 

~~~

In my family, my father was the gentle one, pouring his gentle affection on me unconditionally. Of course, the scenario described above didn’t happen in my case, but I can imagine my father would have been devastated, I being the only daughter and the apple of his eye.

 

Sensuous Sundays - Wildflowers

Wildflowers - haiku


raindrops on my face,
pinpricks of cool. Like tiny
desert wildflowers

~~~

Death poems

On dVerse Poets Pub Gayle sets the challenge :  To write in haiku or tanka style to the theme of Jisei (Japanese death poems).

Gayle also says, "In ancient Japanese, Chinese and Korean cultures, a practice was used at the time of death to capture the last words spoken. This practice was called jisei (in Japan) or death poem and is the “farewell poem to life.” Jisei was written by monks, samurai, the literate and poets of these cultures. One of the earliest recorded jisei dates to 686 C.E. (Common Era) or in Christian terms, B.C. (before Christ) with the death of Prince Otsu who was the son of Emperor Temmu of Japan."

Japanese death poems - tanka

~~~

I hear the sea sing

in my veins, of homecoming.

Save your salty tears

for life and its sorry tales,

not me. I am going home.

~~~

This vain, heavy shell

I no longer need, fading

softly like daylight

surrenders to night, sighing

soft promises of return.

~~~

This shell will return

to its womb. My sinews will

turn into roots, limbs

into tree-trunks. And my song

will trill out from the tree tops.

~~~

Soon, I will be rain,

falling on seeds, springing them

into life. Lusty,

fecund, virile, alive. Death

is a mere wisp of a veil.

~~~

Sunbeam

(100 word flash fiction)

Family gone, career over, there was nothing to live for.

And so, she stood at the bridge, the portal between this life and the next. Above her, dark clouds rolled. The sky was already in mourning.

The office farewell gift, a brooch the colour of sunrise, felt heavy in her hand. As though pinning her down, inexorably, to the fabric of life.

She felt a tug on her sleeve. A teenage girl in tatters. A baby on her hip. Begging.

Inside her heart, gears shifted and moved. A sunbeam shot through the clouds.

“Would you like a meal? A home?”

~~~

Friday Fictioneers flash fiction for the photo prompt below -

PHOTO PROMPT © The Reclining Gentleman

The power of awe - tanka

What's a poem but

the shell around the heart being

split open by awe

beauty comes out of hiding

and love does a little dance

~~~

Sensuous Sundays - Chocolate

Chocolate – haiku

silken smooth melting

taste buds in sweet drunken swoon

dark ambrosia

~~~

The thief

(100 word flash fiction)

He pushed open the rusty gate and walked calmly to the crumbling house.

He planned to overpower her when she opened the door, force her to open the safe and decamp with the loot.

But, the door was open. She was lying on the floor. Her breaths long and laboured. Each one like it was the last.

Should he run, or call for help?

‘Who are you?” asked the emergency call operator.

The woman in an old photo on the wall looked just like the one in a photo he had carried in his wallet for 20 years.

“Her son.”

~~~

For Friday Fictioneers photo prompt below -

photo prompt © David Stewart

Writing

Glenn Colquhoun GP and poet on 'How do writing and medicine fit together?'


"Mainly they complement each other. Sometimes a poem is about trying to touch your hand as lightly as possible on the fabric of the universe. Medicine is the same."

Amen to that!

An Old Woman

by Arun Kolatkar

An old woman grabs
hold of your sleeve
and tags along.

She wants a fifty paise coin.
She says she will take you
to the horseshoe shrine.

You’ve seen it already.
She hobbles along anyway
and tightens her grip on your shirt.

She won’t let you go.
You know how old women are.
They stick to you like a burr.

You turn around and face her
with an air of finality.
You want to end the farce.

When you hear her say,
‘What else can an old woman do
on hills as wretched as these?’

You look right at the sky.
Clear through the bullet holes
she has for her eyes.

And as you look on
the cracks that begin around her eyes
spread beyond her skin.

And the hills crack.
And the temples crack.
And the sky falls

with a plateglass clatter
around the shatter proof crone
who stands alone.

And you are reduced
to so much small change
in her hand.

~~~

Sensuous Sundays - Shower

Shower - haiku

the shower hisses
water kisses turn into
a liquid embrace

~~~

Dawn breaking

She looked at herself in the mirror
and shimmied a little, smiling at her
wan face, saying, “you look lovely!”
As though in apology to her own
reflection that didn’t smile back.
But replied in her head, “you liar!”
Her heart dropped into her belly,
that sea of tremulousness. “I love you,”
she cried in desperate defiance.

“You sentimental fool!” Old, hazy
voices rose from forgotten graves.
“You are not real.” She railed at
their fuzzy persistence. “Who do
you think you are?” Old shame
surfaced like dirty foam. “You’re
lies I believed for far too long.”
“Don’t delude yourself.” “I am
truth. I am light. I am pure love.”

She leaned toward her reflection
blurred through the tears, kissed
it. Her lover, her eternal friend.
It glowed and grew. It smiled back
through the misty glass. The sun
rose from the sea of grey, lifted
her heart, gave it wings. Light
pulsated through her veins, “Hello
Sunshine!” Her eyes twinkled back.

~~~

dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Victoria this week asks us to write a poem in conversation style.

In continuum

(100 word flash fiction)

She ran her finger down the book’s spine.  It was coarse and unyielding like bark.

‘This was once a tree.’ She thought, bemused. ‘Its cells then rearranged into a different form to serve a different purpose.’

She looked around the room lined with books in shelves. She was in a jungle here. Except, it was not sap that was flowing but rivers of stories.

‘A house it could have been, sheltering people. Or a boat, gliding over the endless rivers. Living, serving, even after death.’

She pulled the form towards her and signed it, donating all her organs after death.

~~~

It’s that day of the week again when I check out the Friday Fictioneers page hosted by the lovely Rochelle and get a high by writing a short story based on the photo prompt which this week is –

PHOTO PROMPT – © Jennifer Pendergast

Sensuous Sundays - A memory

A memory stirs. Honey
light and liquid days, in veins
sunshine wine spilling on to
pages as poems.


Dodoitsu  form (7-7-7-5 syllable structure)

The time to leave

(100 word flash fiction)

She gazed up from the asphalt at the open window from which she had just been thrown, desperately willing his face not to appear.

She couldn’t move. A chill was moving up from her legs. Her vision was starting to fade as blood seeped into her eyes.

She heard footsteps. Furtive ones. Then, his voice in her ear, a menacing whisper, “You don’t get to decide when to leave. I do.”

His smell, once loved, now loathed, filled her nostrils, gushed into her lungs sucking the breath out of her.

That’s when she remembered the gun strapped to her waist.

~~~

A bit too graphic and literal but my muse won’t give me anything else today.

Friday Fictioneers flash fiction for the photo prompt -



Copyright Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

What does the watchman see?

Watcher – haiku

a coiled tense spring
the cat watches its victim
eat its last meal

~~~

Watchman – haiku

you watch over me
like a lighthouse, always there
forever shining

~~~

Watchkeeper – tanka

third watch of the night
the clock stops still in mid gong
Death has come calling

“your time is up” gaily says
that relentless watch keeper

~~~

For DVerse Poets prompt What does the watchman see?

Flower fall - tanka

curt, sharp-edged light
fells blooms from trees gathering
in an orphaned arc

soughing into pregnant grass
rosy tales of birth and death

~~~

For Dverse Poets Modifiers- Use modifiers in wild and whacky ways :)

Canvas of failure - haiku

Over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads the challenge is to do ekphrastic poetry. Ekphrasis comes from Greek and means to use a description of art (the poem) as a rhetorical or imaginative description. With just a single piece of art, the challenge is to find a poem that does notjust describe the painting, but how it speaks to me, what stories I find in it.

Artist in his Studio by Rembrandt

Tongue-in-cheek haiku

Ugh! Did I paint that?

What was I thinking? Oh hell!

There goes my contract.

~~~

Plain old haiku

Decay seeped from walls

deep into his heart spaces

A desert canvas

~~~

Sensuous Sundays - Moon Paeans

did you know

that moonlight writes poems

on pages of grass

tales of anguish

paeans to the mundane

arias of joy

now you know why

the dawn finds the blades of grass

drenched in tears

~~~

Stark Reality

(100 word flash fiction)

She eased into the immersive reality machine and touched the power button. Excited and impatient to try out a new software. Utterly untried. Called Stark Reality.

The smell hit her first. Harsh, acrid, almost forgotten. The smell of burning.

Explosions rent the air. Soldiers passed in jeeps shooting randomly.  She turned to flee, tripped and fell.

A deafening thunderclap lifted her off the ground and threw her against a wall. Pain lightning streaked through her body. She could barely see. She tried to feel her face. But where were her hands?

How was she going to reach the power button?

~~~

I wrote this story and then spent a considerable amount of time thinking about the nature of reality. It seems our bodies are virtual reality machines with our sense organs giving us the input. Our brain is the computer and our mind the software. But all of this is controlled by the Ghost In The Machine who decides when to power on and off (dramatically called birth and death). After powering off, the GITM might find another VR machine and power on again. Who knows? The GITM does this for no other reason than to have an immersive experience, much like we would go on a roller coaster ride :) However, we tend to identify with the machine, the computer, the software, the whole package or even software generated concepts like gender, race, nationality, all the while forgetting that we are none of these. We are here just for the ride :D Well, not my thoughts exactly. The mystics have been saying this for centuries :)

It’s that time of the week, when one’s mind itches to see the photo prompt that Rochelle faithfully puts up for the eclectic group called Friday Fictioneers. Today’s story is for the prompt below –

Photo copyright - Claire Fuller

Views from the plane

On a flight from Christchurch to Wellington, I got to shoot the magnificent Southern Alps and also managed to get bit of Wellington.

Just out of Christchurch

Cook Strait, blue and gleaming in the sun

Wellington, in sight

Sensuous Sundays - Ancient embrace - haiga

Mundane Mondays - Teatime

~ Celebrating the mundane ~

Teatime – haiku

gingery spiced tea

biscuit dipping, hot slurping

the sun in my eyes

~~~

Sensuous Sundays - Love notes

(click on photo to see larger version)

Beautiful drone photos

10 beautiful drone photos on 500px

(8 and 9 are my personal favs)

The revenge of the moths

(100 word flash fiction)

“Come on, we’ve come this far, let’s not falter. We’ve got to find our friend.”

“But, as far as we have found out, these strange arched eating places, they only serve cow, pig, fish and fowl. We won’t find him here.”

“A ‘lil bird told me this one’s different. They serve wildlife meat to only some people. We’ve got to get in and find out.”

“But, what are we going to do if we find they serve wild lion meat?”

“We will poison their food, so that no one eats here anymore. And do the same to all the others.”

~~~

Cecil’s death still haunts me. I need catharsis, I guess.

A bitter tale written for the lovely Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers for the photo prompt below –

 

Photo © Madison Woods

Too young to wed - 2

After I had written Too young to wed and was agonising about all the child brides and how helpless I felt, it occurred to me that there was another side to the story - the husband's side. I had to write another story just to look at things from his side too. I confess, I couldn't see very clearly (being female and not being from that culture).

THE SAVOUR

(110 word flash fiction)

Khalid flops to his side. Lovemaking with Saida is always dissatisfying. Firstly, she doesn’t move. Then, she is so small. Guilt stabs at his heart. He shouldn’t have married someone so young.

But, her uncle had begged until he had relented. After all, he was saving her from possible rape and ruin. He had given her a ‘married woman‘ status. And now, the chance to be a mother.

Smug satisfaction wipes away the guilt. Saida gets up and leaves. ‘Ungrateful wretch! Crying all the time.’

Sleep clouds his brain as clouds obscure the moon just as the thought is forming that his child and wife could both go to school.

~~~

Too young to wed

(100 word flash fiction)

Saida’s husband has flopped to his side after heaving his 54-year old heavy, sweaty body on her 14-year one. Through her tears, she can see the moon outside the window emerge from behind clouds.

Fat-belly moon. Like her own growing belly. Wanderer of the skies. It reminds her of freedom. Of her short-lived school days.  Of her once fiery desire to be a teacher.

Yes! Fire could be her deliverer.

She tiptoes across the room to the kitchen. Thick, dark clouds are rapidly obscuring the moon. In the fading light, she finds the kerosene, douses herself and lights a match.

~~~

Can't say I wrote this story. I only paraphrased a real-life story (or bits from lots of them). Watch the full feature on this National Geographic Live feature called 'Too young to Wed" by Photographer Stephanie Sinclair and writer Cynthia Gorney. Heart-breaking stuff!

Flash fiction for Friday Fictioneers to the photo prompt below -

Like a pebble - tanka

Autumn drops a leaf

on sky-coloured still water

gold seeps into blue

blue seeps into me. I am

cloudless, skyless, limitless

~~~

(Image from - http://www.goodfon.su/wallpaper/autumn-maple-leaf-water-osen.html)

Written for the Carpe Diem prompt - Like a Pebble

Coming of the camellias

The first camellia of the season has bloomed ---

Snowed under

(100 word flash fiction)

Her eye sockets are filled with snow. She can feel it dripping into her empty cranium where once had pulsated red-hot rages and electric aliveness. Once. Long ago.

Sliding down her spine, past the throat that had sung arias and screamed with equal intensity. Once.

Through an empty ribcage where her heart had often wanted to burst its bars and explode. Once.

Past a vanished solar plexus that had blazed like a sun. Once.

It collects in her pelvis, where a tiny half-formed skeleton lies, surrounding it like amniotic fluid.

He had not known it was there. Her husband / murderer.

~~~

This time I wrote two stories to the Friday Fictioneers prompt below -

The Christmas present

(100 word flash fiction)

Santa has to walk. The Taliban have killed the reindeer. The elves have managed to escape. But, funding for the arms industry has made them redundant.

Mercifully, the kids nowadays only ask for iPhones.

He approaches the secluded house half covered in snow. In the dawn almost-light, he sees the boy outside the door only when he is up close.

“Merry Christmas, young man!”

He reaches into his bag, retrieves a slim case and holds it out to him.

The boy does not move. A sneer distorts his face.

“This is for babies. What I want is a real gun.” 

~~~

Story for Friday Fictioneers

Viewpoints

In all tests of character, when two viewpoints are pitted against each other, in the final analysis, the thing that will strike you the most is not who was right or wrong, strong or weak, wise or foolish... but who went to the greater length in considering the other's perspective.

- Mike Dooley

The other side of nightmare

(100 word flash fiction)

She has the same dream again. Tiled roofs. Walking under stately arches. Cycling through cobbled streets. Waves of happiness surge through her, rising in a crest of joy until it explodes in a burst of euphoria so great, it shakes her awake and sitting bolt upright in bed.

Only, there is no bed. Just a torn mat on a bare floor. Around her, sleeping bodies. Mice in the corners. Cold drafts seeping in through the refugee shelter’s broken windows.

Holes, where the city used to be. Where the bombs fell. The biggest hole inside her where home used to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Friday Fictioneers story to the photo prompt -

 

© Sandra Crook

Girl, gone

(100 word flash fiction)

She opened her eyes to blackness. No slivers of moonlight peeking through chinks in curtains. Gone were the digital clock numerals. Even the teddy with the glowing, neon eyes was eyeless.

She thought she should feel terror but where her body used to be, there was nothing.

So, she shut her eyes. Light poured down on her through a hole in the blackness. And something else, clumps of earth. A spade flashed in and out of view. She tried to shriek. No sound came. Her throat was full of mud.

She opened her eyes again. The nothingness was more bearable.


~~~~

Entry for Friday Fictioneers the amazing group shepherded by Rochelle. Photo prompt below –

PHOTO PROMPT © Stephen Baum

Views from my window

Winter is here and so is the ice on the mountain ranges. It's such a joy to look at them in all seasons, like an ever-changing kaleidoscope. Right now the reigning colour is white....

winter is here

I try hard to keep the cold 

out of heart spaces

then the rainbow peeks

like a playful child in mirth

chanting 'I see you' 

A morning moment

(100 word flash fiction)

She is standing by the stove when he enters the kitchen still half in the arms of sleep.

She turns towards him and motions towards the table. “How about a quickie?” Her smile is as delicious as chocolate on a warm tongue.

He isn’t sure when Morpheus flees. All he is delightfully aware of is that Aphrodite has engulfed them in her foamy, liquid arms.

He gives his best and when it is over, looks at her with pleasure. “What was that about?” He asks in wonder.

“Oh!” she says, nonchalantly rolling off the table. “The egg timer is broken.”

~~~

P.S. According to Hesiod‘s Theogony, Aphrodite was born when Cronus cut off Uranus‘s genitals and threw them into the sea, and she arose from the sea foam (aphros) interpreting the name as “risen from the foam”. (Source : Wikipedia)

Entry for Friday Fictioneers the awesome flash fiction blog run by Rochelle for the following photo prompt.