Heavy stormclouds curled overhead, spattering
water on dust-laden faces.
Eyes closed, faces turned
toward vortex swirling
pressure dropping like a sigh.
Rain.
It was a collective psalm
a praise long-awaited
now released like the rush of wild horses
thundering across tumultuous
nimbii rent wide.
One by one, faces turned
toward stranger waiting
arms raised all sharp
angles, a blunted staff
gleaming water-sparkle.
* * *
“Who do you think will notice?”
he muttered,
reaching in spirit
then letting go, casting out,
evaporating.
* * *
They struggled and grasped
for words that didn’t come —
as barren as the drought years —
to recount
days and lives changed
by a stranger not from here,
but from mist and shadow.
Peace came in the silence
Understanding in the sunlit riot
of green things now growing.
Author’s Note 🌿
This poetic tale was inspired by Scoot’s 2026 inaugural Flash Friday prompts. Prompts, plural, yes, because the more constraints I have to work with the more my creativity kicks into overdrive. 😂
You can find Scoot’s prompts here:
❦ Heather
Thank you for reading Pen-Scribbled Stories, a haphazard archive of experimental prose and story. Pen-Scribbled Stories is a subsidiary of the Heather in the Blue Mountains newsletter.
**If you enjoyed this creative ramble, please consider checking out some of my other work. 🌿
Yay. That was fun, Heather.
Well done!