Your writing prompt this week is
BIRDS
This week’s prompt came to mind as I’m off to the Global Birdfair at Rutland (UK) on Friday as part of the Society of Environmental Writers and Journalists. We’re going to be interviewing and filming some of those involved who are passionate about all manner of birds the world over. What’s your favourite bird? Is it a magnificent bird of prey? Maybe it’s a little robin who visits your garden. You may see birds as a nuisance, causing mayhem and leaving a mess. Then there are the cartoon birds – Tweety, Road Runner, Donald Duck, etc.
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 CHOICES.
In praise of non-random anti-deterministic free will
Some say the choices that we make were chosen long ago.
I doubt that’s true though reason may say what it thinks is so.
And so I know and even though I think I’ll let such reasons go.
This word choices invades my mind, reminding me I should have made a different choice, and to listen to my own advice. Recently I had a long discussion with a friend about many things and ended in politics. I mistakenly thought we could openly discuss anything but I was wrong. I know every advice says, no religion, no politics. I stepped over the line apparently. I made the wrong choice and learned a lesson at the same time. I was told never to call or text again. I apologized profusely, but the damage is done. Why did I make that choice? I felt free to, but no.
“We all have choices, Roscoe.”
“But it doesn’t look like I have a good one.”
“What are you talking about? You have the choice to live or die. What better choices can there be?”
“Easy for you to say holding that Glock.”
“Oh come on. Don’t be a spoiled sport. Just tell me who hired you.”
“You know if I give up the name I will have violated all the client privilege rules in the book.”
“And if you don’t, you will be able to tell the angels just how honorable you were.”
“You have a point. If I give up a name will you at least not tell the client where you got it?”
“You have my word.”
“It was Felix.”
“Felix? That no good double crosser.”
“Well, you were going to kill him, right?”
“Yeah, but I never found a good man for the contract.”
“Ahem.”
“Wait a minute. You are the. best in the business. I’ll pay you 50 large and I want that sucker to suffer.”
“You got it boss. My person will call your person to get the agreement signed.”
“Great. Buy you a drink?”
“You bet.”
Each morning begins with a path, unmarked but waiting, a breath held between the past and what might be.
We make our choice to turn left instead of right, answer yes instead of silence, and the shape of our lives bends like riverbanks.
A glance becomes a conversation, a job declined opens space for unknowns. We choose comfort, or we choose risk, and each choice is a chisel in the stone of becoming.
Some choices hum quietly for years before their echoes reach us. Others roar like trains we can’t outrun, changing everything in an instant.
We think we steer with intention, but often, we follow instinct, hunger, a soft tug of something we cannot name.
There is no map, only memory and hope as we build ourselves with every decision, brick by invisible brick.
Is it hard to be a beautiful woman? People think you have the world at your feet. They think doors open for you, heads turn for you, and life bends around your presence. But they don’t see the trade. They don’t see the constant calibration—how much of yourself you shave off each day to fit into someone else’s frame. Beauty is not freedom. It’s exposure. A spotlight you didn’t ask for, that you can’t turn off.
You’re seen before you’re heard. Assumed before you’re known. People don’t meet you—they meet the idea of you. Their version. Their fantasy. Their fear. And if you don’t match it? You become a threat. A disappointment. A target. It’s not just tiring—it’s erasure in slow motion.
So you patch yourself together—smile here, soften there, silence the part that wants to speak too loudly. Over time, your identity becomes a kind of repair job. You keep the strongest parts in storage, hidden from view, waiting for a time when it might be safe to bring them out. You begin to wonder: Who am I without all the edits? What’s left when I’m not translating myself for someone else’s comfort?
You learn to play roles just to survive. To be warm but not inviting. Assertive, but not “difficult.” Intelligent, but never intimidating. Every room becomes a stage. Every glance is a calculation. When will it be okay for you to step out from behind their idea of you, letting you be who you are, not who they’ve imagined or prefer? How many masks do you have to wear before one of them finally feels like skin?
The tension doesn’t just live in your body—it rewires it. It clutches your voice before you speak. It lingers in your posture, in your smile that’s a little too careful, in your silence that’s mistaken for grace. They don’t see the moments when you swallow yourself to keep the peace. When you feel the full ache of being looked at but never seen.
Every day, you make choices that feel small but cost you something: how to walk into a room, how to hold your face, when to speak, and when to stay quiet. You tell yourself it’s just for now. Just until it’s safe. Just until they see you for real. But how long can you stay edited before you forget the uncut version?
The woman in the photo is not just posing; she’s done shrinking. Her posture is not elegance—it’s exhaustion turned into boundary. It’s defiance without apology. It’s a question you can’t ignore anymore: What happens when a woman stops choosing what’s expected, and finally chooses herself?
Not your version of her. Not the one that plays nice. Just her. Fully, freely, finally.
There are many choices that can be defined as romantic. One such source is daydreams. The imagination plays out the scenario with the aplomb I don’t possess in dealings with women in real time. I have no worries that my love will be threatened by sanctions of disloyalty or betrayal. In my daydreams I can go back and turn the drama into passion in the blink of an eye. If something appears wrong, no worries, go back and sauce the scene up with whatever I please as you always seem to enjoy the romantic twist I provide to ensure a lasting romantic dream.
Choices drift like leaves upon the breeze,
Paths diverge beneath autumn-lit trees,
Hope and doubt sit side by side,
Each turn a quiet dare.
Silence offers hints,
No map, just steps—
One by one,
We choose
Life.
His habit he’d always rejoice
He’d say it with a happy voice
More than great, more than nice
It was more than a vice
Mile’s favorite word was Choice!
In navigating our future, we are rarely presented with perfect clarity. Some choices feel hollow, not because they lack consequence, but because none seem to offer certainty. The indecision itself is part of the human experience—standing still can feel safer than stepping forward into the unknown. Yet, our fear shouldn’t be the architect of our future; even in uncertainty, there’s strength in acknowledging the ambiguity and choosing to move ahead anyway.
Threshold
some things in life are worth holding on,
and some are better left to go.
some doors swing shut with gentle grace,
some slam and echo what we know.
and sometimes still, we stand between—
no path feels right, no truth feels clear.
not every choice is worth the weight,
yet walking on is what we fear.
The whole village was celebrating choice-day.
Every three years children under 15 and their parents gathered on the market place, surrounded by single women and men, childless couples, older citizens and the group of the eldest, who all sat down in the cooling shadows of the big oak trees to watch the spectacle.
After a boringly long speech by the mayor, which made a lot of people so tired that some actually fell asleep while the kids got more and more fidgety, drumrolls gave the signal for the children to huddle on one side of the square, while their parents had to wait patiently on the other side. As soon as the drums fell silent, the children were allowed to choose their parents for the next three years.
Those who had been wise and helpful, sometimes necessarily strict, but mostly kind, would probably be picked again by their own children. But there was always some mixing and matching and reshuffling and the parents which were not chosen again at all, were standing in bright daylight stared at by the whole village.
Yes, choice-day was also a rich source for gossip.
Sanny M:
To help or ignore
To stay or to go
To obey or disobey
To hide or to show
To love or to hate
To give or to take
To hope or give up
To love or forsake
The choices we make
We can never take back
But we can learn from them daily
To help keep us on track
We must all make choices
We must all decide
Do we be our true selves
Or continue to hide
Choose to be united
Or decide to divide
Stand in the way
Or stand side by side
So many choices
Each changes our lives
We must let our hearts
Be the ultimate guide
Bill found himself at a pivotal moment in his life, a crossroads where four paths presented a significant choice.
The first path urged him to continue as he was, the second promised a life of monotony, the third, a hidden path, offered a tempting solution. And the fourth, a choice he had contemplated but never acted upon, beckoned him.
The third choice, a path he had never before considered, now loomed before him. It was a problem he had never faced, one that had afflicted countless others but had never touched his life. It was a choice that carried a weight of uncertainty and fear.
With a sense of inevitability, Bill reached for the box that held the four blue pills. He’d made his decision and picked up his phone. He started his journey down path three.
‘I’ll be with you in an hour,’ were the only words in his text message to Nina.
‘An hour?’ came the response. ‘I want you now!’
‘I need to run some errands for the Mrs first,’ he sent back.
Of course, the real reason was that he had to give the pill he’d just taken time to take effect, otherwise he couldn’t give Nina what he’d been giving her for the last five years of their affair.
A sad emoji with the words ‘See you in an hour, lover,’ came back.
Three miles away, Bill’s wife looked at the naked body of the younger man next to her. She remembered when Bill had a body of the man next to her, but Bill’s body had changed, and something didn’t work anymore.
“I’ve got to go,” said the young man.
Bill’s wife wondered if he had another client. “My payment?” he asked.
‘What a great choice I made,’ Bill’s wife told herself as she handed over the cash. She’d made the right choice and wondered if Bill had made any choices today.
***
Esther Chilton 
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