Mom, where do...?

Mag 62 photo prompt

"Mom, where do eggs come from?" asked Timmy.  "She told you, eggs come from chickens... remember at Grandpa's house.  We went to the chicken coop and picked the eggs up from the nests." answered Shelly.

She continued to stand in front of the stove, a smile across her face.  The toast popped up, she pulled the slices from the toaster and placed them on her own plate.  Picking up the knife, she scooped some butter and began to spread it across the slices.

"Mom, where does bread come from?" asked Timmy.  "She told you, bread comes from the wheat in the fields, you mix it up with the... mix it and put it in the oven." answered Shelly. 

"So bread comes from the oven, like the meat does," chimed Timmy. 

"No, not from the oven, it comes from the wheat fields... like the corn does.  Remember the big ears of corn on the tall plants in the fields at Grandpa's house.  You have to get this right, Timmy.  Bread is wheat, it comes from the fields."  Shelly instructed. 

"Oh yeah, that's when Grandpa let me ride on the tractor with him... I like tractors.  Mom, can I have my  own tractor?..." asked Timmy.

Petrina Lesko
April 2011

Another wonderful photo prompt offered by Tess over at Magpie Tales.  Sitting pondering it this morning while eating my toast and sipping coffee, I imagined hearing the above conversation between two young children sitting at the table eating their breakfast while Mom finished preparing her own.  Come join the fun over at Magpie Tales and share your own inspiring take.

Not Much Left to Lose?

This fabulous picture was shared over at Thursday Tales as this weeks photo prompt, offered to those of us who write... to inspire.  To view it at it's original location and to see more by the artist, click here: http://veniamin.deviantart.com/art/Not-Much-Left-To-Lose-12304113.



Not Much Left to Lose
by Veniamin

To design our day's journey, one must contemplate all that has been, all that will be.  Where do we wish to find our destination?  The music helps, as I sit and fiddle with my instrument, watching the world pass by... as have the days of yesteryear. 

It was quite the day long ago, I was walking down by the shore, contemplating life as I do now.  Contemplating all that I had, the gold wristwatch, the gold chain around my neck... the black linen suit, white shirt, pressed to a tee.  All mementos of who I had become, all trinkets of my days of hard work.  Those were long days, leaving early in the morning before the sun came up and ending with me slinking in the door way past nightfall.  Those were lonely days too... 

Coming home to an empty space, furnished well, yet no one to laugh at my jokes.  No one to listen to my tales of success, beating out the next guy, selling one more than he had.  No one to share the long dark nights with.... Those were indeed lonely days.  No one to know I had been jumped there along the shore.

I laid there for what seemed an eternity... my skull cracked on the left side, blood pooling in the earth near the rock, my leg shattered from the bat they used to take my legs from under me.  The gold watch gone in an instant, the chain ripped from my neck, the linen pants torn where they snatched the wallet from my pocket.  Those trinkets had become a welcome sign to take the life from my lonely existence... with no one to know as I lay there along the shore...

The days now are full, as I sit and share the burdens of my journey with those who pass by.  Ellie comes searching when I don't come in by supper.  Never again shall I lay there along the shore... waiting to be discovered, waiting to be helped up when I have stumbled along the way.

She is such a beautiful woman.  Her hair tied back, those high cheek bones, the sensuous lips that speak so tenderly of all mankind.  Lost souls she calls them.  Those evil boys who ripped my soul to shreds, ripped the success of my days away as they swung the bat. 

Sometimes I wonder, did they have any idea?  Did they know what would come of me?  Or did they only see the gold watch, the gold chain, the trinkets of my success... the trinkets of my loss.  She reminds me when I call them that... my life-giving trinkets.  Days now are full of her, days forever shared by two hearts never to be left for dead again.

Yes, to design our day's journey, one must contemplate all that has been, all that will be. Where do we wish to find our destination? The music helps, as I sit and fiddle with my instrument, watching the world pass by...

The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week was Design...  Thinking design led me to the journey of life, which fit well into this brief tale, brief experience I was working on.    Hope you all enjoy this and are having a wonderful week.

Magical Moments



Home and the Fairies
by Michael Zancan @  DeviantArt

Sitting... staring at the page taped to the wall in front of me... sitting, mesmerized by the sunlight pouring pixie dust down from the sky, dusting me and my image... magically converting my world.

Always, waiting quietly for the inspirations... allowing the plants to tangle around my directions, guiding my brush, it's hairs, transforming the silhouettes into magical wonders before my eyes.

Here in this quiet place, deep within my room, deep within my soul, an outpouring of inspiration, the page before me becoming a quilt of days, nights, moments frozen in time of days so long ago, days when fairies and pixie dust existed... as real to my days as the sun beating down, highlighting the colors of a single rose.  As real to my days as the darkness is to the night.  As real as the terrors are when the days become dark.

Yet here in these quiet moments, a world transforms, fairies dance through the air taking height, swirling around, sparkling, floating upward to the heavens, to peaceful masterpieces left as their legacies.

Petrina Lesko
February 2011


This magical moment was the photo prompt this morning over at Thursday Tales hosted by Leo and Yamini Meduri.  It is a wonderful link for those wanting to create a short tale to share with other writers.  The word limits are between 55 and 777 words.  Won't you join us and check out some amazing writers takes on this lovely photo prompt offered up this week.

Thursday Tales - His Last Goodbye

"Please, give me a moment, will you?"
"Of course sir, but we don't have long, they'll be here soon."
"Just a moment that's all, I just need to take it all in for one last moment..."

There's a knock on the door, three beats, then a pause.  "Sir, they're here, we have to go now."
"Yes, yes, go answer the door.  Let them in please."

Gentle footsteps cross the studio floor as another knock pounds.  With the creak of the door opening, "Yes, can I help you sir, I mean ma'am."
"Is he still here, is he here?"
"Yes, of course, he's over near the easel, just a moment and I'll get him for you."  quick footsteps can be heard as the younger man walks up behind his chair.
"She's here, she wants to see you sir."
"Okay, okay, let her back.  I just needed a moment, thank you for getting the door."

Her footsteps, impatiently clicking as she too walks up behind his chair... "Father, we have to... What's this?"
"My last tribute to her."
"You did this?  But it's exquisite... you?  You did this?"
"Of course I did this, you are in my studio, aren't you?  Who do you think did this?"
"But... how?  You really did this?  Father it's an amazing piece.  You said you couldn't paint.  You said you didn't have it in the crippled hands anymore..."
"Yes, I said that.  And I don't.  It's time to let it rest.  It's time."
"But Father, this is amazing!  Have you done any others?  Is this the only one?"
"No... no others.  Just this final goodbye to a world lost a long time ago."
"But Father, how?  How did you manage such a fine piece?  Are you sure it's time?  We could keep the studio.  I mean if you still can paint, we don't have to sell it right now..."
"Yes we do... It's time.  It's time!"

Just then there is another, softer, knock on the door.
"As I said, dear sweet Anne.  It's time.  Opportunity knocks, you don't want to keep her waiting.  Go let the new owners in.  Go answer the door."



painter, montmartre
by Somebody 3121

 written by
Petrina Lesko
January 2011

This picture prompt was found via Thursday Tales, prompt #44.  It is by Somebody 3121 and can be found here over at deviantART.

The Pocketwatch

The following picture is photo prompt #41 over at  Thursday Tales.  It is called Pocketwatch by Kiara.  More of her work can be found here over at Deviantart.  Please drop by these links to explore more of other artists' work and for other tales.  The following short story is my take on this prompt...



Pocketwatch by Kiara

The Pocketwatch

I fumbled with the brown butcher paper as I unwrapped the small package that had arrived in the mail earlier that day.  Inside I found a small box and an envelope with my name on it.  I opened the small box and found a beautiful gold pocketwatch cradled in black velvet lining the inside.   Then I opened the letter...

Dear Corrine,
                  I am writing to you today to share the enclosed heirloom that was to be a gift to your father upon his return from the war.  As you know, now that you have grown into the beautiful young woman that you have become, your father never returned from the war.  Just days before you were born, the family was notified that he was MIA, a soldier lost to the unknown evils of war.  This gift was to be given to him as a young man, from his father, whom also did not return from the same war.  This, of course, can be one of the evils of military families, however, it is also one of the blessings, having such a love of our beautiful country, that one family could pass the honor of serving from generation to generation.
                  But alas, you are well aware of the family history, the history of the heroes that we have lost.  Your grandfather had wired me while he was overseas, knowing that his son would return before him, to secure this small package from our father, so I could insure that he would receive it upon the day of his return as a young man, a proud soldier.  I did as he asked, having our father send it right away with the enclosed letter along with it.  I have cherished this over the years and have waited for just the right time to pass it down the generations.  I believe that you will totally understand its meaning, and that this is the correct time to pass it on.
                                                    With love always,
                                                           Your great-aunt Corrina

Inside of this letter from my great-aunt was another envelope, one that had hints of yellowing as does paper over the ages.  The outside of the envelope showed only my father's first name... Collin.  As I opened this second envelope, my hands trembled, goosebumps running the length of my arms.

Dear Collin,
        I am writing this letter just hours after you have come into this world.  It was just this morning that I saw you for the first time, lying there in your mother's arms, our beautiful son.  I asked my father to select this pocketwatch for you (as you know, he was a clocksman, a keeper of time-pieces).  I have always held his fascination of time deep within my heart and look forward to being able to share this love of time with you also.  I have asked him to set it to exactly 7:51 for the moment you were born.  I shall hold this safe over the years, and when the time is right, I shall give it to you, just as he gave me his coveted pocketwatch when he felt I was old enough to understand its special meaning to this family.  Until then my beautiful son, I will hold you forever in my heart.
                                                             With all my love,
                                                                       Your devoted father, William

The tears flowed freely now from my eyes, a single tear landing on the yellowed paper just below his signature.  I sat down and stared blankly at the pocketwatch I was holding in my hand.  'Thank you Aunt Corrina, yes... yes I do understand the meaning this has had throughout the generations of our family.  Thank you, thank you.'


Written by
Petrina Lesko
January 2010

I am linking this tale over at Thursday Tales.  Thank you Yamini and Leo for inspiring us to share these wonderful shorts for all here in blogland.  And a special thanks to Kiara for lending us such an inspiring piece of art.

Mag #47 - Life




photo prompt for Magpie Tales #47

She sat staring at the art piece on the table, struggling to identify it's origins, it's meanings.  The onyx-like appearance, transformed, twisting to and fro, all circling within itself, never-ending in its form.  She knew Mildred would return soon with the tea tray, setting it out, pouring for both of them, telling her the days news.  Then they would share a bit of the family history, each sipping gingerly from their cup, conversation spanning time, intertwining it here and now, like the piece resting here on the table this morning.

She was always amazed that Mildred would have a new piece sitting here, when she arrived each week to spend time, visiting, linguering in the stories of yesteryear.  Mildred's tales had always been a fascinating time for her, even when she was young and lived just down the block.  She spoke of a time, long ago, yet not so long ago, of a time with her husband and their coming here to this place.  The journey always sounded so exciting.  She wondered again, what meaning could this piece, the art, hold for today's conversation.  Where could it have possibly come from?

She gently picked up the piece from the table, turning it over, reading the words inscribed in the same black on the wood showing through underneath...  'Life'  then just below, 'Hank'.  Bewildered, she set the piece back down in the center of the table, her thoughts racing trying to decipher what, how this piece could be called 'Life'.... Just then Mildred walked into the room, carefully placing the tea tray down next to the blackness.  The silver shimerring against the black artwork, reflected it's image in the shiny finish of the art piece.  'Fascinating piece, isn't it?' Mildred asked as she sat down in the high back chair across from her.

'Yes, ma'am, it sure is.  I've been sitting here exploring my mind, trying to decipher it.  But I'm sure nothing that I've thought of will come close to the true meaning it holds,' she said picking up her tea cup from the tray.  'When Hank and I met, back in the day, he was a young, strong soldier, on his way off to war.  We knew we were in love and wanted to spend our lives together, but there was no time to get married before he left.  I was so scared of him going, of him not returning to me.  We were out walking in the woods on the last afternoon before he was to ship out.  There on the forest floor was this broken dead root, all twisted, like my insides.  He picked it up and handed it to me, telling me it would remind me of his arms wrapped, holding me in the night when I was scared... scared of him not coming home.'

Mildred interrupted the tale to offer more tea, cookies, then set the plate back down on the silver tray.... 'I pined throughout that winter, those years, waiting.  Never hearing a word, never knowing if he was returning or not.'  She paused, sipping from the cup she held in her hand.  'When he finally returned, when the war was over, we were married.  And as you already know, you remember I'm sure, we stayed together for the rest of his life, always taking afternoon walks to 'our special place' in the forest.  Then one day, years later when we were readying things in the root cellar, there on one of the shelves, this piece rested. Hank reached up to it, stroking it gently, then handed it to me.  He told me it represented our 'Life', the twisting, circling strands were the days of our lives, intertwining.  He said when I went off to war, I had to go away from the starting place, but only to return 2 years, 3 days, 5 hours and 49 minutes later, returning on the circle of life, embracing our love once again.   He told me the circle was our love, the blackness the war that separated our days in the beginning.' 

She sat in awe, entranced in the tale Mildred told, as she always had since she was a little girl.  She sat wondering why she had never noticed the piece anywhere in the house before.  It was such a lovely story, bittersweet, yet hopeful, expressing the most extreme in this life, in their years together....  War, endings of life, yet circles of years bringing a shared life, a shared love, forever together again, forever sharing the twists and turns placed before them.  The two women sat in silence for a long time before sipping from their cups again.  Mildred broke the silence with these words, 'I always said he was ahead of himself, ahead of time as an artist, sculpting his wood scraps into the most amazing, meaningful things...the black is coal, he painted it with coal dust to represent the ashes of the war.'

Petrina Lesko
January 2011

I am linking this short tale over at Magpie Tales.  Thank you Tess for another inspirational prompt.  Your photos, your poetry is truly inspirational for me and my attempts at writing. 

The Black Leather Gloves



photo prompt for Magpie #46

 As she came down the stairs, her hand gliding across the smoothness of the banister, the gloves there on the wooden phone table, she let her thoughts flow freely recalling the midnight sky of last night.  Standing on the pier, waiting for him, the night air was brisk and as she slipped the leather gloves over the long slender fingers, snowflakes dancing in the night, one landing on the back of her hand, twinkling against the black leather like the stars in the darkness of the midnight sky.  Then she felt his hand as he tenderly touched her neck, brushing the hair aside, then kissing her neck as he engulfed her in his strong arms.  They stood there together, watching the snowflakes dance down to the water, as if landing in the spotlight of the stage.  She could feel the warmth of his embrace in the night air, the scent of him filled her mind with thoughts of the lingering night.  The walk along the pier, him on bended knee, asking..... 

She couldn't wait for this day to end, to see him, be in his arms again, even though she was only on her way down the stairs for her morning cup of tea.

Petrina Lesko
December 2010

I am linking this post to Magpie Tales as it was inspired by this weeks photo prompt, #46.  Hope you enjoyed this short tale.  To read others inspired by this prompt, stop by Magpie Tales to share those written by others.