Take the long way home...

 "Ronnie is a dick. I mean, he's really an ass, I mean a donkey, you know, the poor relative of the noble horse. He's a jackass in more than one way. He told me he wasn't going to carry carrots to the town market, because carrying carrots was cacophonic. As if his braying could be taken as a melodious show of vocal harmony. He also told me Herman the bull was holding a grudge because of the established practices in our farm, and he was plotting something ominous. I laughed at that: Herman liked our time together in the barn. I had proof. So on I went, to grab the bull by the horns, as they say in my language, and see what was the problem. After searching around as if he was a needle and not a fucking huge black bull, there I found him, all alone in his enclosure, ruminating on grass and - so Ronnie swore - grudges. - Hi there. Herr! - Don't. I'm ruminating. - He turned his butt towards me. You see, I've been talking with our animals since I was a child and ...

They were sitting on a bench facing the wide river. The cloudy sky reflected on the waters, giving them a silver shine in spots where the current formed ripples and waves. The trees behind them were just starting to put out timid buds after an unusually cold winter. Cars were rushing down the street towards the bridge, the sounds of roaring engines and shrieking brakes resonating in turn from around the traffic light. Some brave, solitary runners would pass on the jogging path right in front of them, huffing and puffing with earbuds blasting music to help them keep the pace, and they could hear the base line get higher in pitch as they got closer, matching the thumps of their feet on the soft pavement, and then deeper and fainter as they went on along the path towards the tip of the island. – Doppler effect. - said Sarah, after a young man had crossed their field of view in his bright, orange tracksuit. – It applies to light too. - said Steve, raising his head to look at the clouds. Th...

  Prompt: a line from a song. I got "We all live in a yellow submarine" How this line was conceived John and Paul were on the top of the world, Their world, at least. They had trained for months, prepared meticulously, and after more than one moment fearing they were going to be forced to give up, they had made it. Top of the world. Top of the whole solar system really. Olympus Mons was the King of mountains, and more experts had been defeated by it than could pride themselves to have contemplated the red horizon, dotted with lit up domes, from the 25,000 meters of its peak.  John pulled out the inflatable habitat to spend the night, its bright yellow exterior in stark contrast with the iron oxide that made up the bulk of the regolith, and that had laid down in a thick layer everywhere, even up here. They got in, turned on the portable MOXIE and the main controller, waited for the pressure to stabilize and removed their suits. Comms were bad at the moment, probably another so...

  Today I met myself. It was the strangest feeling of sudden recognition and understanding. Of course, it wasn't me. Just a girl going to my son's school whom I had never met before. She came to me as we got outside the metro station and asked me "What's your name?" in English. I told her, and I introduced my son, but apparently she already knew him. She had longish hair held back in a low ponytail. That way it doesn't pull and doesn't give you a headache - I know - and it stays out of the way. She was wearing a pair of hiking boots, my faithful companions through teenage years whenever I had a chance to have a pair to consume in endless walks, when I was finally old enough to ditch their awful Scottish skirts and white socks, and the prickly sweaters, to chose what I wanted, not them. And loose jeans, the ones that don't wrap on your skin like a wet shower curtain. And of course, she had a hoodie. Wouldn't be me without a hoodie. She showed me how...

Be my tribe, be my people, be my safety port Be my crowd, be my crew, be the place I belong. Give me shelter and warmth, make me be part of us make me rest, make me welcome, make me drop down this mask. For every step I take is riddled with doubt Was it right, was it wrong, too little, too much Was I being too blunt, was I being unclear, Did I get them offended, disgusted, in fear? Be my tribe, be my crew, help me put down this mask Let me rest among peers: never an easy task

I woke up to the sun shining hot on my face. I couldn't get my eyes to open, and my head was pounding as if a whole sound system had taken my skull hostage of its deep baseline. It took me a bit longer than usual to remember who I was. Who I was supposed to be. When I felt like I had it, I decided to open my left eye. The green canopy of a well trimmed tree appeared to quiver against the blue sky. I opened the right eye and the field of view widened to enclose a slice of a beach umbrella. The sounds around me suggested I wasn't at the seaside. Rather than the sloshing of waves in the low tide, I could hear a buzzing and some occasional splash. Birds chirping, too, and maybe a lawn mower in the distance. I sat up and saw I was on a tanning bed in front of a strangely shaped swimming pool. The buzzing noise was produced by one of those cleaning machines constantly at work to scrape the gunk off the pool tiles. And right in the center of the pool, opened and floating upside down, ...