Esther Chilton

This week’s word prompt is

TESTS

When you see this word, is your first thought exams? A driving test? Does it instill fear into you as you think back to those tests you had to take? Maybe you see it as a more positive word – tests into finding cures for cancer and other life-threatening illnesses. Can it be fun? What about tests that are more of a quiz? Think about game shows or daily puzzles. Or you can create a fictional test – perhaps where love is put to the test. Or something else.

Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt TREASURE.

Therapy Bits:

With faithful step and quiet grace,
You led me through each crowded place,
A guardian not by spoken word,
But by the steady path you stirred.

Your harness was a sacred thread,
Between your heart and where you led,
And though the world was dark to me,
You gave me eyes—and made me see.

Through sunlit streets or bitter rain,
You walked me past both fear and pain,
And in your stride I found the light,
My gentle compass, day and night.

You listened with your soul, not ears,
You calmed my doubts, you stilled my fears.
A thousand times, you understood,
Without a word—but all for good.

Each pause you made, each careful pace,
Held trust and love I can’t replace.
No gold, no gem could ever measure,
The bond we shared—you were my treasure.

And though you’ve crossed where I can’t go,
Your pawprints mark the world I know.
You taught me more than sight could give:
You taught me how a heart should live.

So rest, dear friend, your work is done.
You were my guide, my light, my sun.
Forever cherished, deeply true—
The greatest gift I ever knew.

Kim Smyth:

I think of treasure as a verb, as in I treasure moments with family and friends, or time to do the things I need and want to do. I also think of treasure as a reward, the reward waiting for us believers in the kingdom of God. Sure, I sometimes relate the word to pirates and booty, but I don’t need or want a treasure myself, cause you can’t take it with you as they say!

Trent’s World:

It was a muscle shell, like a million others on the freshwater beach, but this one had a small hole in it.  A length of yarn had been forced through it, making a crude necklace.

“Here, Uncle Brad, I made this for you.”

“I love it!”  Brad hoped she didn’t see the laughter behind his eyes as he slipped the yarn over his head.

Brad grasped the little muscle shell that hung on his chest, his eyes flooding with tears as his mind flooded with memories.

“I’ll treasure it forever,” he told the too-small casket up front.

K Morris Poet:

I met a young lady of pleasure

Who went and stole all my treasure.

Now I spend my time

In fine wine and rhyme.

But that girl I do not treasure!

SWright8:

Whenever I think of the word “Treasure” what comes to my mind is the blessing from God when we trust in Him and the bountiful treasure He gives us, not only in the sweet by and by but here on earth.

He surprises us with so many small wonders that are always like receiving treasure….

Treasure that is filled with joy, laughter and so much more!

John W. Howell:

When I see you dripping in treasure,

I’m reminded about life’s true pleasure.

Cutting to the chase with no foolery.

Glad to spend tons on real nice jewelry

Pensitivity101:

It’s my Mum’s birthday tomorrow (22nd) so we will be lighting a candle as is our tradition. She would have been 103.

Esther’s prompt word this week is Treasure. I wrote about the precious items Mum had put to one side for me to have when she passed away here and here.

Treasure to me isn’t a chest full of trinkets or gold coins.
It’s a blanket of memories woven and stitched together with love.

Peter Bouchier:

At an almost deserted cape
is a beacon
that warns against vigilance

*

Beware of uncharted capes
, treasure islands
, haunted shipwrecks and pirates

*

Achtung für das stille Kap
wo Seeräuber
suchen nach der Schatzinsel

*

Au cap désert silencieux
le phare montre
la route du trésor caché

*

At a near lost
cape is a beaks
of an unnamed skateilân

Michnavs:

The Line Between Us

Raina stood by the kitchen window, watching the rain bleed down the glass in slow, uneven trails—like tears the sky couldn’t hold back. Outside, the world blurred behind the waterlogged pane, colors dulled and edges softened, as if even the earth wanted to look away. Inside, the kettle hissed behind her, forgotten, its steam curling upward in restless spirals that mimicked the storm in her chest.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter as his words echoed in her mind—words that had asked, once again, for her help. Not for something fleeting or simple, but for money.

Not because he couldn’t pay it back—he would, she believed that—but because he’d chosen to ask her. Again.

It wasn’t the first time. She had paid rent when he couldn’t, carried the weight of their shared life more often than not. She had learned to live with being the silent support in the background. She had even learned to swallow the bitterness that came when others, like Aviery and John—people she’d once helped—pretended she didn’t exist once they got back on their feet.

But this? This was different.

This time, he was asking her to step in so he could continue supporting the mothers of his children. Not a hand up from crisis, but a choice—a prioritization. One that didn’t include her.

She’d seen it too many times. The way he was careful around them. Protective. Gentle. She admired that, in theory. But she couldn’t ignore how it made her feel. Like she was always the one adjusting. The one who understood. The one who made herself smaller.

Why is it always me? she wanted to scream. Why couldn’t they adjust, just this once?

She turned from the window and sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the envelope she’d prepared but hadn’t handed over. It had the money. But giving it felt like giving up a piece of herself.

She thought back to when he called her a “red flag” for asking to be acknowledged. The silence she’d kept when he walked away from their shared plans for the condo. She had never asked him for financial support—not once—despite her own quiet battles with health and stability.

Now, he wanted her to sacrifice again.
She could see it clearly: this wasn’t about the money. It was about dignity. About being seen. About not being the one left to carry everything in the shadows.

If he chose to protect others, she understood. But she had to ask—who would protect her?

The envelope remained on the table. Unopened. Unclaimed. And maybe that was her answer.

She had finally drawn a line.

Graeme Sandford:

For some, a treasure must be all bling, worth millions (or at least hundreds), and theirs to sell.

Well, for Mary, a treasure was a small, insignificant pebble – insignificant to those that sought “expensive” treasures – that was the last thing that her G-Geo (pronounced ‘G-Joe’ – Mary not being happy with the ever-so-lumpy ‘Grandpa George’ that was suggested to her).

Mary and G-Geo used to skim stones from the edge of the nearby lake, and G-Geo would tell tall tales of his exploits in the eighty or so years that he had explored the blue/green planet that they had somehow found themselves deposited upon. 

Stories taller than mountains, tales deeper than underground caverns that bordered the centre of the Earth’s core (they were inevitable hot, and had their fair share of dinosaurs and strange beings that were only normally seen in reconstructions of someone like a Cro-Magnon that they nominally named Kyril).

G-Geo also gave Mary her love of books, by retelling some of the exploration tales of Wells, Verne, Le Guin, Haggard, and so many more. Fictional, mainly, but there were also elements of the truth of life that were woven in alongside the fantastic. 

G-Geo died when Mary was on the threshold of adulthood, and that was a moment that could have altered Mary for the worse, but G-Geo in his stories had shown Mary that a person could survive with or without others – “Adapt to suit your situation, your surroundings.” was something that was often said – followed by an account of Robinson Crusoe, or Orleanna Price, or one of many others that stepped outside of the safety of their homes in search of who knew what.

Mary held the pebble in her palm and knew that G-Geo would never really leave her. He had been a treasure, and had passed on his most precious gift to her.

Teleportingweena:

Treasure makes me think of this little treasure box I had when I was a kid. It had a little lock and a key, too. I would put little things in there, can’t even remember what all. A rock, a newspaper clipping, just little things a kid likes to keep.

I don’t know what ever happened to it. Probably I gave it to one of my daughters when they were a kid, and after that, I don’t know.

So I looked on line to see if I could find a picture of it, and I did!

This is not my picture of the treasure box. I found it on a sales site for $20. But the one I had looked exactly like this one. It’s pink vinyl in a size of about a notebook paper, and about an inch or two in depth. It Says My Treasures, and has a teen girl  looking at papers and photos she’s saved  and laying on the floor reading a paper. She has a blue shirt and socks.

My Treasures Case Vintage 1950s Pink Vinyl

Lisa A Paul:

I thought I knew what love was

An all encompassing pull, an obsession,

Hearts pounding, short of breath,

Then a late night, an emergency.

Love and blinding pain, A cry that pierces

body, heart and soul,

a new creation, a melding, a miracle,

a life, a treasure, a baby.

Roberta Writes:

One Man’s Treasure

When I was a girl of eight years old and my sister, Cath, was five years old, we moved into a new house in a suburb in Cape Town. The house was newly built, so it had no garden whatsoever. My father, a landscaper, took on the project of creating a garden and building a swimming pool in his spare time. To this end, he had a huge pile of sand delivered which was dumped unceremoniously in the front yard. I was thrilled with this sand pile and quickly learned that if I soaked the sand with the hosepipe, I could create castles, houses, tunnels and all sorts of other buildings from wet sand.

My parents befriended the family next door, and this led to my mother inviting them to our house one evening for a braai. A braai is a traditional outdoor meat cooking method in South Africa which makes use of an open wood or charcoal fire and seasoning. South African men all have their own ‘secret’ seasoning and take great pride in producing it at braais to stun all the guests with their culinary expertise. My dad was no exception, and he had a large glass jar of his special recipe, much treasured yellow braai meat seasoning. To me, castle constructor extraordinaire, that yellow powder was gun powder. And so, I borrowed the jar after my father had finished using the seasoning.

That evening, I led my sister and the two neighbouring children in a huge war construction project. Each child had their own castle with a walled moat, a drawbridge, towers, and a dungeon. Each castle also had gunpowder deposits. Large ones, with big staches of yellow gun powder.

My dad didn’t notice the missing jar until the following morning. The lidless and empty jar caught his eye when he was meticulously cleaning his braai. He was livid and demanded to know what I had done with the contents. I did manage to find most of the gun powder deposits in the sand pile. Sadly, however, the gun powder had mixed with the sand and was rendered quite inedible.

one man’s seasoning

is another’s gun powder

imagination

has the power to transform

simple into amazing

***