Your word prompt this week is
KIND
The first thought that comes to my mind for this word is being kind. If you look around at the world today, there’s not enough kindness; it can seems as if it’s been forgotten. As with many words, kind does have other meanings: a group which has similar characteristics; a type of something; and payment in kind. You may think of some others. What are your thoughts on the word prompt this week?
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 SMALL.
Anne is Writing:
A Journey
I was sitting in the waiting room with my head full of turning wheels. Some were turning slowly – Why? When? How? – and some were turning very fast – Mistake? Disaster? Again!! I tried to focus on something else, to break the cycle and distract myself like my counsellor taught me. The plan wasn’t working. A small child came into the room. She ran away from her mum, assuming it was her mum, and came and stood in front of me. Right in front of me. I had my head in my hands and my elbows on my knees and she sort of bent her head and looked up into my face from between my feet.
‘Where are you going? I’m going to my nan’s. My nan is brilliant. She feeds me biscuits.’
I smiled in spite of myself but before I could speak, the mother pulled the girl away. ‘I’ve told you before,’ she hoarse whispered, ‘do not talk to strange people.’
I smiled again. Oh, if only you knew how strange I was. Too strange for this small town, that’s for sure. Yes, best keep your daughter away from me. I might teach her independence and the importance of small wins. I might tell her not to shrink her hopes and dreams to accommodate the small minds of people who supposedly care for her. I’d tell her to think big, think bold, think beautiful and always believe in herself.
Looking at the board, I saw the announcement that my train was approaching. The girl and her mother both stood up and we all three left the waiting room. As I stepped outside into the cold, unwelcome air, a small hand gripped mine and squeezed. I looked down and smiled. She would do fine, this kid, I reckoned she’d do fine.
sitting, edging sleep
a tiny butterfly lands
my knee a runway
pajama flowers invite
gracious morning gift to me
I was tiny, I was small,
It was like I wasn’t even there at all.
A shadow in the corner of a broken home,
Learning silence like it was my own.
Whispers turned to wounds I couldn’t name,
Each day a quiet, echoing flame.
Love was a ghost I never met,
Just rules and rage, and cold regret.
They said, “Be good,” but never said how—
Only the fear that taught me to bow.
Hands that should’ve held me near
Became the thing I learned to fear.
But time—time, the gentle thief—
Brought distance first, then slow relief.
In the hush of night, I learned to cry
Not from pain, but asking why.
I gathered pieces, scar by scar,
Tiny lights from who you are.
Therapy rooms and journals full,
Words that started soft and dull
Grew louder, braver, bold and bright—
A child’s whisper turned to fight.
Not with fists, but with my name—
And all the ways I shed the shame.
Now I say it, strong and clear:
I was hurt, but I am here.
Not invisible. Not to blame.
Not the keeper of their shame.
I was tiny. I was small.
But now I stand, and I stand tall.
The past can’t hush what I’ve become—
A rising sun. A beating drum.
Healing is slow, and healing is real—
It’s the way broken wings relearn to feel.
Not a straight line, not always fair—
But step by step, I’m getting there.
Too Tall
I’ll make myself small, so the teacher won’t see me:
curl into a corner, blend in with the wall,
shrink into the shadows, as still as a statue.
I’ve even stopped breathing till I hear the call.
“Don’t loom on the sidelines, there. You can be goalie.
Now, down to the playing field. Here, catch the ball.”
I miss it, of course, and the rest of them laugh as I run to retrieve it.
I wish I were small.
You can call something small in lots of ways. Other words could be little, tiny, wee, minute, baby, short, etc.
I call these poems I do, “One Minute Poems”. For one minute, just think and write/type down whatever random words come into your head. That’s all there is to it. If you want, you can delete some, or rearrange some words, but it is fun to see what you come up with in only one minute.
I’ve done these small poems a few times, and it’s something fun. I take only one minute (timed) to write some words into some sort of silly poem. Here’s a couple of these small poems I’ve done in the past.
One Minute Poems
***
I watch TV
But not real – lee
Shows come and go
What about I don’t know
Flip the channel again and again
For what?
***
I Will Be
Werewolves and daffodils
A kettle of consternation
Kiss me where it hurts, and
My Beloved, I will be
Nowhere
The boss was feeling generous last week and decided to gift his most stalwart employees to a meal. On Thursday evening he invited us to his small flat where he put on a jam session before going to dinner. We did not expect to be taken to the Marmalade restaurant in San Juan Puerto Rico. After we dined on fresh seafood I ordered apiece of home-style crisp apple and almond cake. it was drizzled with a syrup of sugar and almonds.
As we finished our meals and got ready to leave, the boss fell dead on the floor from a cardiac arrest. After the ambulance left we were handed our bill. The meal that didn’t fill my hunger cost over $100 apiece. After that we all had to purchase our own fair back to the states which made this fictional dinner the most expensive one I ever dreamt up, was it worth it. Damn Skippy.
When the son was still small and we used to travel a lot
Nursery songs and his favourite audio books make him happy
He could go on for hours playing before we change his nappy
Sometimes I couldn’t move, my fingers are all in a knot
When he’s asleep we listened to Beethoven a lot
And when he’s awake he could be very chatty
When the son was still small and we used to travel a lot
Nursery songs and his favourite audio books make him happy
Memories of road trips and fascinating places on-the-spot
National parks and some mild eve and woods grew sappy
Time went so fast, weather and mood went so snappy
Those were the days and regrets we have nought
When the son was still small and we used to travel a lot
Diddy Derrick Dragon
Derrick was a small shy dragon
with patterns on his back
and on his tum
and on his bum
and that’s a blooming fact
he would while away the livelong day
twisting his old spinning top
or filing his nails
with his spiky tail
until they all dropped off
but spinning and filing made him sad
he desired a special friend
to laugh and play
throughout the day
until the bitter end
one spring day he saw a dragoness
pretty as a picture
her hair like wire
a mouth of fire
such a pleasing mixture
so Derrick picked up courage
she smiled and chuckled with laughter
and they skipped away
without delay
and lived happily ever after
Maya is a big dog, currently weighing in at 33.9 kgs. She’s lost a couple of kgs since her last weigh in, but we put that down to the recent heatwaves and her not eating as much as she would normally. She’s been drinking well, so we’ve not been too worried, and of course she still enjoys her treats and titbits.
I cannot remember her being SMALL, just smaller, as she was 13 weeks old when we found her, the original purchasers having changed their mind as they were moving and said she’d get in the way. Their loss, and we have gained in so many ways.
If they knew, they would be kicking themselves.
Our neighbour took this photo shortly after in March and framed it.
She grew so quickly!
Feeling a small sting on the back of my neck, a best effort is made to shoo the insect away. My feet feel like wood, arms like lead. Standing is a struggle and then what sounds like a watermelon hitting the street from the 12th story, a face plant to the floor. The dart drops into sight. Chest being squeezed by an unseen python. Looks like those baseball tickets are going to waste. The night swoops in.
Well, I’m small in stature, so that’s where my mind goes, but I like to appreciate the small things too, or as some would say, the “little things”.
Holding hands, loving God’s creations, a quick kiss and the first sip of coffee.
Wide-eyed wonder
Small blessings are HUGE
It’s all how you look at them
Try wide-eyed WONDER
Small is the breath between vocalizing thoughts, the flicker of a match the instant before the flame, a stone in a shoe reminding you of its presence.
It is the pause in conversation, the slight tremble in a voice when nothing has been said but everything heard.
Small is the first leaf turning, the space between two held hands, the crack in a cup that still holds warmth.
It is the glance away an instant too soon, a sticky note taped to the fridge, the almost in an almost yes, a child’s shoe forgotten on the stairs.
Small is what we overlook until it breaks or blooms. It is the shadow beneath beauty, the thread that keeps the world from unraveling.
It is the insecure mind of a narcissistic egomaniac with grandiose plans that end up causing the world to unravel.
Microscope and telescope
show the greatest
miracles of Creation
No matter how small or far
we see the light
hidden in obscurity
Time and time and time again
our amazement
matches each discovery
In an alternate universe, I would actively participate in causes and advocacies, particularly for victims of abuse and violence. While I currently contribute through my publications, I do so with certain limitations and hesitations. As we all know, the world today is unpredictable, and some people, organizations, or powerful individuals may not support what you’re doing. This could put your life in jeopardy. In this alternate universe, however, I would use my voice without hesitation, no matter how small it may seem.
Whisper
i am a small voice,
lost in a world of loud noise.
noise that means nothing to many,
for in every movement, every so-called cause,
lies the bitter truth of hidden agendas.
but small i may be,
a whisper in a storm,
yet i will still speak,
utter my truth without demand.
no need for recognition,
no thirst for fame,
i speak not for praise,
but to help,
with nothing to expect in return.
i stand not for advocacy,
but for the quiet strength of being,
unseen, unsung,
but always there,
offering a piece of me
in a world that so often forgets to listen.
Rall:
Cinquain
i’m small
i’d like to live
in your jacket pocket
so i could be near you all of
the time
The pill organizer sits on my nightstand like a tiny plastic monument to mortality. Seven compartments, each no bigger than a quarter, holding the small victories that keep my nervous system from completely shorting out.
My wife used to make jokes about it—”You rattle when you walk now, honey”—but she doesn’t anymore. Not since she watched me try to find my morning meds when my eyes are slammed shut and my hands are shaking like autumn leaves. Small things. Small defeats that add up to something bigger if you let them.
But military service teaches you things about discipline and small spaces. How attention to detail matters. How the quiet moments between chaos are where you find your footing. How small decisions compound into something larger – character, maybe, or just the ability to keep going when everything wants to quit.
Saturday evenings, I fill those seven compartments for the week ahead. Every night before bed, I set out the morning pills on the nightstand – arranged like tiny soldiers ready for dawn duty. Small ritual that saves me from fumbling through brain fog and blurred vision when I first wake up.
This morning, I made coffee without spilling. Small thing. I read a chapter of The Forgoten Way by Matthew Kelly. Smaller thing. I texted with my son about the USS Yorktown, he and his “fiance” (not yet but soon) are celebrating an anniversary in Charleston and were thinking about taking a tour. Smallest thing of all, maybe.
Evil starts off small too. Small lies. Small cruelties. Small compromises until there was nothing left in your soul to compromise. Evil, it turns out, is just as patient as grace. Both grow in small increments, both compound daily.
But here’s what I know that some never learn: small mercies multiply too. The way my two Shih Tzus’ tails wag when I walk in the room, like I’m the most important person who ever lived. The way they curl up against me, completely trusting, completely content. The way my pen still moves across paper, even when everything else feels broken.
People talk about going big or going home, about thinking outside the box, about making it count. All that noise drowns out the quiet truth: most of life happens in the small spaces between heartbeats. The small choice to get up. The small decision to try again. The small faith that tomorrow might hurt a little less.
Tonight, I’ll set out tomorrow’s pills. Small ritual. Small hope. Small victory against the chaos that wants to win.
And tomorrow? I’ll take my small pleasures where I find them, celebrate my small victories as they come, and remember that grace finds its way in through the smallest cracks.
Small is beautiful. Small is enough. Small is how we keep going.
It seemed as though being constantly misunderstood was such a small problem, at first. Stuart was growing increasingly tired of conversations with people who spoke more about what they assumed ‘he thought’, than any who wanted to share ‘what they thought’. But this seemed the only way people were engaging at the university.
It took only a short while, though, before his nerves began unraveling to the point that he feared if anyone started a statement with “You must be…” or “You’re just…” he might grab him/her by the throat!
Then it dawned on him that those who started every sentence with “You”, didn’t have any of their own thoughts. They were instead choosing to spend, most of their time, telling others “What they should think.”. This level of incuriousness seemed like a zombie plague, and he had no interest in ‘catching’ it.
That evening while on a soul-searching walk through the park, Stuart happened upon a gent sitting alone on a porch who broke the evening’s tight silence by shouting out to him, “Why so glum, Sonny?”
Stuart startled himself by not hesitating to approach the stranger and immediately ‘spilling out’ his emotional dilemma. For 15-minutes, the older man simply nodded along.
After a short pause, the man spoke again with a calm reassuring tone.
“I was once in those same ‘shoes’. I angrily became a shut-in for a long time too because of it until I one-day decided that my attention and thoughts are far too valuable to share with just anyone. So, I rejoined the world, but this time as a “listener” and “observer”. From there, my ability to discern the people worthy of my ‘genuine self’ sharpened quickly. That clarity hasn’t failed me since “
“But, sir, you’re talking with me, right now.”
It was then that the patient man gently smiled and leaned back in his chair.
” I know.”
“Did you see her engagement ring?” Stella asked Ellen. Ellen nodded and looked around to make certain no one could hear them.
“The diamond is so small I almost took out a magnifying glass,” Ellen said and snorted with laughter. “Honestly, if Bruce asked me to marry him with that ring, I would have turned him down.”
Stella smiled cruelly. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
With a small gasp she quickly hid, Ellen saw Samantha standing next to them. “Good Lord, Sam, you gave me a fright! Where were you? I didn’t see you come in.”
Samantha smiled and joined them at the table. “I decided to join you for brunch after all,” she said and poured herself a mimosa from a carafe. “Have you ordered?” she asked and they shook their heads, “Good, I’m starving.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Gavin is insatiable since our engagement. I must be burning literally hundreds of calories every night.” They all laughed but Ellen rolled her eyes at Stella when Samantha wasn’t looking.
“How are your studies coming, Sam?” Stella asked.
“They’re grueling. But I’m nearly done. Then I just have to pass the bar and I’m on my way.”
“I’m so glad I didn’t go on to graduate school. It would have been a waste of money, since Bruce will work for his father and I won’t have to work.” Ellen said, tossing her glossy black hair over her shoulder.
“Yeah, rub it in, why don’t you?” Stella said. “I’m going to have to work at the magazine with mother until I can land a man to take care of me.” Stella sipped her drink, “That’s the dream, girls,” she said wistfully.
“Of course, you would have to work, Samantha, given the line of work Gavin is in. Social work is noble, but it can’t pay rent on a New York townhouse,” said Ellen. “But together you’ll climb the social ladder and you’ll probably become one of those high powered attorneys like on TV, right?”
“Actually, I’m hoping to get a job in the District Attorney’s office,” Samantha said. “That’s where I want to take off from. I have ambitions, ladies.” Sam had to leave then, and the two women waited until she was out of earshot before they broke into gales of laughter.
A few years later, neither of them would be laughing at Samantha. They would both desperately need her help to get each one out of a mess of their own makings, and Samantha was their only hope. Samantha was happy to help, but, of course, she would expect a few small favors in return…
You wouldn’t have known it,
how the world once cracked open in my hands—
tiny, undesired,
like a pocket pebble you forgot had weight.
The world doesn’t announce its smallness,
it simply is,
humming in the crevice of your palm
where nothing is supposed to matter.
I felt it first
when a whisper was enough to tear me apart.
A word, not even sharp,
floated by and scratched a rib.
You remember those moments too, don’t you?
When the spoon slipped from your fingers
and it felt like a failure.
When the thread wouldn’t feed the needle,
and suddenly your life
was the sum
of all those miniature defeats.
Small, not like weakness,
but like gravity—
always pulling.
Always there,
unseen until you drop something.
——————-
You’ve stood in the doorway
of your own kitchen,
sweating over toast,
grasping at meaning
in crumbs,
in the hiss of the kettle.
Tell me—
how else does pain enter
but through the pinhole?
Through the mismatch in your socks,
through the fact that nobody texts when you need it most,
through the broken zipper
on the one hoodie
that feels like safety.
The small things—
they’re the relentless ones.
The faucet that never stops leaking.
The smile you fake.
The ache behind your eyes
that no fever ever explains.
Do you feel me now?
Not in the echo of grand gestures,
but in the silence left by what was forgotten.
———————-
Once, I fed myself on scraps of mentions.
Watched the world from the underside of glass tables,
heard laughter
but never the punchline.
I was the space
between two people talking.
The breath before the reply
that never came.
But one day—
big isn’t what I wanted.
I didn’t crave parades,
or the roar of stadium seats.
I wanted the corner of a couch
where no one interrupted me.
A name said in passing
gently.
A fruit left on the porch
without needing a reason.
I wanted the poem you wrote and never shared.
That kind of small,
the one that contains galaxies
because it was never meant to be read.
Do you hear it too?
That hum at the edge of existence,
where things go unnoticed
but never unlived.
—————–
We’ve both stood
on the broken hinge of self-worth,
peering in
at everyone else’s well-lit rooms.
Looked at our own reflections and asked:
“Is that all?”
Yes. That is all.
And what a profound “all” it is.
The chipped mug still holds tea.
Your dog waits for you, even when you’re late.
A five-second hug can folder a day’s despair
into something that fits in your pocket.
Smallness is not marginal.
It is necessary.
The hidden stitch,
not the headline.
The callous on your writing finger.
The last puzzle piece
you thought you lost.
———————
You don’t need to rise so high you burst.
You only need to fit.
Into morning.
Into breath.
Into someone’s smile
that wasn’t meant to change the world—
just your day.
Do you remember yesterday’s rain?
Not a storm—
just a drizzle
that made the leaves cling harder,
the earth smell honest.
We are that drizzle.
You and I.
Quiet.
Constant.
———————–
And then—
There she was.
Small in stature,
wrapped in a coat three winters too old,
hands stained with ink
from writing things she never planned to show.
She walked into the coffee shop
and ordered the same drink I have dreamt of making for someone—
not because it was significant,
but because it’s what she always chose:
one sugar, no cream,
extra heat.
Nobody turned to look,
and yet—
she was the loudest hush
I’ve ever heard.
She sat by the window.
Unwrapped her sandwich like it was a letter
from someone who thought of her
enough to wrap it tight.
She bit.
She chewed.
She looked outward.
She smiled
like someone who remembered something worth keeping.
And then I saw—
She was not broken.
She was not waiting.
She was not lost.
She was small,
and in that smallness,
magnificent.
Everything I’d been spilling ink to understand
walked right past me
tethered to a messenger bag
and humming a tune
none of us could afford to forget.
She looked at me,
just once—
and it felt like a sentence finally ending.
God,
what a line break she was.
———————-
So now,
when you hold your phone
like it might answer you,
when you pause between brushing your teeth
and checking your email
and forget which tasks made you tired today—
Know this:
you are not small
because you aren’t seen.
You are not lesser
because your victory is untelevised.
You and I,
we are the breath
before a sleeping child smiles.
We are the space between footprints,
proof that someone walked here
gently.
We are the poem
they whisper
when even silence
feels too loud.
Small.
Yes.
But never
not immense.
A little girl,
sunlight caught in spun gold hair,
laughter bubbling like a stream.
Beautiful,
not like a fragile painted-doll
but in the way a wildflower blooms,
unassuming, bright.
Smart,
questioning the wind,
understanding stories before they’re told,
eyes that hold galaxies.
Her heart,
a robin’s nest overflowing,
sharing cookie crumbs with sparrows,
forgiving scraped knees and unkind words.
Sometimes she sits,
just watching the slow clouds drift.
A quiet wisdom rests
upon her gentle brow.
She feels the world deeply,
an old soul lives
within her small frame,
quietly at peace.
When I was a girl, charm bracelets were the fashion. Every girl had one and the accumulation of charms for the bracelet was competitive. I was not a girly girl and my ambition at the time was to race BMX bicycles with the boys. I never asked for a charm bracelet. My mother clearly thought I should take more of an interest in the girls’ activities, and she presented me with a silver charm bracelet for my 10th birthday. Insightful woman that she was, my first charm was a small bicycle, perfect in every way. It even had tiny pedals and a bicycle stand. Having always been enchanted with light, the silver bracelet did please me and I did ask for new charms for a few years. The charm that delighted me the most was a small boot – sounds ordinary, but it wasn’t. The boot opened up and inside were the old woman and some of her children. This was my favourite charm. It still is as I still have this charm bracelet after all these years. I don’t have my BMX bicycle, however, so mom was right.
charms sparkle brightly
fantasy catching the sun
young girl’s silver dreams
A Small Invasion
Nobody took much notice of the small Halloween pod that appeared in the Griffiths’ small front window on the night before Halloween. They’d sold the place because it was too small, and the neighbours thought the new owners had placed the pod there. But they were wrong!
The mesmerising, faint green glow out of the eyes and mouth of the pod during daytime Halloween became brighter as the sun set and dusk arrived. It was a sight to behold, especially for the innocent local small children who couldn’t resist posing with it for photos. Their innocence, a stark contrast to the small danger lurking within, made them all the more vulnerable.
Little did they know that the small creature inside was not just observing, but also making intricate plans. Its intelligence, a chilling reminder of the impending threat, was something to be feared and respected.
At the stroke of midnight, the pod cracked open, and the small, agile creature darted out. It was now a master of disguise, mimicking all the costumes it had seen. Its constant shifting and learning, and planning its next move, was a clear sign of the magnitude of the threat.
By dawn, the small population of the street had shrunk, mostly of children. Of course, nobody took any notice of me, the new owner of the Griffiths’ house, as I blended in seamlessly into your world, now a perfect mimic of your kind.
They asked me about the small pod and the missing children, but I denied any knowledge of them. Over the following twelve months, the city’s human population decreased.
On the run-up to Halloween, keep your eyes peeled for a small alien pod in your neighbourhood. But more importantly, keep a close eye on your neighbours. After all, every invasion starts small.
Please head over to Thomas’s website for some fascinating facts on Small Microscopic Subatomic and Strings: https://superfactful.com/2025/08/07/small-microscopic-subatomic-and-strings/
The house had a hush to it- not silence, something more curated. A museum kind of quiet, where each sound felt weighed and judged before being released into the air. Arlena learned to breathe shallow, to speak soft, to remain small, to tread lightly- as if her thoughts might bruise the hardwood.
Her husband, Wade, had a talent for diminishing things with charm. He didn’t raise his voice- he lowered hers. Compliments came tucked inside criticisms, “You’re awfully clever for someone who never went to college.” “I admire how you manage the house- especially for someone with no real management experience.”
At parties, he smiled, his arm heavy around her waist, anchoring her to a version of herself she hardly recognized. She once wore bold colors- now her closet held whispers- beige, mauve, soft gray. Wade liked her best in neutrals.
She had shrunk to fit him.
But Arlena had secrets. She tucked poetry away in the laundry room. Kept snapshots of her childhood smile hidden in cookbooks. Places she knew he would never look. Sometimes, late at night, she’d stand barefoot on the cold tile before her bathroom mirror and imagine her voice filling the room like thunder- loud, reckless, and without apology.
It was in moments like those, she knew- something was stirring within her.
And it wasn’t just resistance- it was reclamation.
***
Esther Chilton 
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