Your word prompt this week is
STRIKE
This word can have negative connotations – to strike someone by hitting them, air strikes, or going on strike from a job in order to get better pay and working conditions. We sometimes describe disaster as striking or a lightning strike.
But lets’ think about it in more positive terms – a brilliant idea strikes you, or you’re struck by how handsome/beautiful/thoughtful someone is. You might strike a pose for the camera or enjoying listening to the strike of an old grandfather clock. Of course you can score a strike in ten-pin bowling. Perhaps you strike a match, or you’re planning on striking it rich (if so, remember me when you do!).
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 WINDOW.
Through the window lights are shining
like a star to earth that’s signing:
all is well. Its silver lining
suddenly appears.
Through the Window
Who needs sleep when the screen’s this bright?
Into the void, we scroll all night
Notifications ping, there’s no escape.
Distracted by memes, my eyes agape
Open tabs everywhere, what a mess,
Wondering where my focus went – well, let me guess
Haunted House
Behold the haunted house
Behold the haunted house
Twisted black branches scrape frosty windows
Twisted black branches scrape frosty windows
Haunted branches scrape
Twisted black house, the frosty windows behold
*
Shutters flap in Autumn winds
Shutters flap in Autumn winds
Dry leaves go skittering by
Dry leaves go skittering by
Shutters in Autumn go skittering
Dry winds flap by leaves
*
Ghosts moan while chains rattle
Ghosts moan while chains rattle
Do you dare enter tonight
Do you dare enter tonight
Do you moan while Ghosts rattle chains
Tonight dare enter
*
Behold, frosty Ghosts, in chains, go skittering by windows
The twisted winds dare scrape you dry
Tonight black Autumn leaves rattle haunted branches
Do enter house, while shutters flap…moan
Window of the Soul
In the quiet chamber of the human face,
Where stories gather, drifting in their trace,
Two lanterns glow with ancient, restless fire—
The eyes, those sentinels of silent desire.
They flicker with longing, or glisten with rain,
They bear the sweet harvest, the bounty, the pain.
Each glance is a tapestry, vivid and dense,
Woven with memory, caution, and sense.
Look closer—beyond the veneer of the skin,
Past laughter’s fine lines and sorrow’s thin grins.
Within the iris, whirlpools of light
Swirl with the secrets we harbor at night.
A lover may search for their name in your gaze,
And find, in reflections, eternity’s haze;
For the eyes are not mirrors, nor crystalline glass,
But windows the soul must quietly pass.
As the day stirs the ember of dawn’s hopeful hue,
And dusk paints the world in her indigo blue,
The eyes remain steady, portending the truth—
They carry the wisdom of age and of youth.
A child’s eyes are wide as the rim of the sea,
Untroubled by boundaries, bright, wild, and free.
In the gaze of the elder, there flickers the flame
Of all that was cherished and all that became.
Each meeting of eyes is an intimate dance,
A silent confession, a searching expanse.
With a glance we may beckon, or shyly retreat,
Declare fierce devotion or hush a heartbeat.
The timid, the bold, the weary, the wise—
All bear their stories in the light of their eyes.
No tongue can unweave what a gaze may reveal,
For the soul has its language, and the eyes let us feel.
Consider the stranger on a bustling street,
Each pair of eyes with a rhythm, a beat:
A universe hidden behind every glance,
A childhood, a heartbreak, a dream, a romance.
In the sparkle of laughter, in the glint of a tear,
In the shapes of desire or the shadow of fear,
We find the pure essence of all that we are—
The eyes, like bright lanterns, reveal from afar.
Sometimes, in stillness, when words fall away,
When silence grows heavy and hearts go astray,
Two souls may encounter, not through a sound,
But in the deep ocean where vision is found.
No mask can be thorough, no shadow complete,
The truth in the eyes is impossible to cheat.
They usher the soul with a gentle embrace,
And cradle our spirit in the softest of grace.
Oh, how the poets have lingered, drawn near
To the fathomless twilight of eyes crystal clear!
Shakespeare, with sonnets, or Byron’s dark rhyme,
Found muses unspoken in glances sublime.
Painters have captured their luminous gleam;
Van Gogh’s swirling sorrow, Vermeer’s tender dream.
How many lost lovers, how many old friends
Have spoken with eyes what no letter sends?
To know someone truly, to love without blind,
Is to see in their gaze both the body and mind.
For the soul is elusive, a whisper, a spark,
Yet shines through the window, dispelling the dark.
When anger ignites, or compassion is shown,
The eyes, not the tongue, make truth to be known.
So let us look deeper, with patience and care,
For the soul’s tender garden is blossoming there.
Some eyes are stormy, like seas in a gale,
Some soft as the haze over dew on the dale.
Some are the color of moss under trees,
Some hold the hush of a winter’s deep freeze.
Yet all are intriguing, unique in their art—
A map of the spirit, the script of the heart.
No two are alike, no two tell the same
Of the fires that kindle, the ghosts we may tame.
There is kindness that flickers in eyes grey with age,
There is hope in the bright ones that leap from the page.
A child lost and wandering, a mother in pain,
Both meet in the solace the eyes can sustain.
Perhaps this is why, from the earliest days,
We seek out the eyes, their welcoming blaze—
For safety, for comfort, for love unconfined,
For the deepest of truths that words leave behind.
So gaze, if you dare, into eyes calm or wild,
See the soul of the elder, the dream of the child.
Let silence be golden as worlds intertwine—
A dance of the spirits, unspoken, divine.
And know, when you linger in someone’s true gaze,
You’re treading on mysteries, lost in their maze.
For the eyes are the windows, undimmed by the years,
That open the soul—in laughter and tears.
And if ever you ponder, when faces are gone,
When memories waver and old friends move on,
Recall, in your heart, the light you have seen
In the window of eyes, where the soul’s ever green.
For the soul is not bound by body or bone—
It journeys through windows, and finds its way home.
Let this be a lesson, as seasons unfold,
As the young become wise, and the timid grow bold:
Seek not in the shadows, nor only in skin,
But look for the windows, and find truth within.
For eyes do not lie, nor do they deceive—
They shimmer with joys and shimmer with grieve.
Cherish them gently, and honour their role:
For the eyes are the windows—the windows of the soul.
Now what do you think this is?
Believe it or not, this is a covered cake board that has been edged with silicone fish tank tubing with a small door knob in the centre.
We made up four and they were used on our sleeping area port hole windows at night.
Condensation was a major problem in the winter months, so Hubby replaced the aluminium frames which dripped with the stuff and made these wooden ones from scratch. At the other end of the boat, we used a clingfilm type of plastic sheeting (available for a few pounds from DIY outlets or even Poundland) that you taped to the windows, then sealed with a hairdryer. We left the kitchen window alone so as to have airflow.
Happy days!
They say eyes are windows to the soul…how can that be true when clever cons are committed everyday against trusting people who think attention and a supposed friendly smile fool them? Even comparing windows that are alluring but false can have a disturbing effect on a child or grandmother. The truth of this is laid out in the frauds committed by so-called preachers, car salesmen, politicians and dictators. If you voted for Trump could you see through his dishonesty – a window into his soul might be so black it is blighted.
I wasn’t planning to respond to Esther’s prompt today because I had a large task in front of me and I needed to get it done.
You may remember that earlier in the month I received a letter from the IRS telling me that I may have screwed up my 2023 tax filing and I owe them back taxes and a late payment penalty plus interest on the amount of taxes they allege I owe that started accruing on April 16, 2024. And they gave me until September 3rd to pay up or face the consequences.
So I decided today I was going to address that situation and I went into my home office where my laptop computer is because I do my taxes on TurboTax and there currently isn’t a robust iPhone app for TurboTax. My plan was to go back to the 2023 edition of TurboTax and create an amended return and have TurboTax tell me how much I owe.
So I booted up my nine-year-old laptop, which I rarely use anymore, and the first thing that flashed across my screen was this message:
Microsoft will officially end support for Windows 10 on October 14, 2025. After this date, the operating system will no longer receive technical assistance, feature updates, or security updates from Microsoft. Click here to install Windows 11.
Screw you, Microsoft. I hardly use my laptop, so I don’t care if you’re going to shitcan Windows 10. The only thing is use my laptop for is TurboTax, so boo hoo.
Then I opened up TurboTax, brought up my 2023 Form 1040 and told TurboTax I needed to file an amended return. Well, it turns out that I did make some mistakes filing my 2023 taxes, but so did the IRS. Anyway, long story short, instead of me owing the IRS back taxes and a penalty and interest, the IRS owes me a small refund.
Things like this never happens in real life. The little guy gets a shake-down from the big, bad government bureaucracy and the little guy comes out on top. It’s like a friggin’ Hallmark Sunday movie, isn’t it?
So I am really happy and feeling good. I upload my response and the supporing documentation to the IRS website and I am about to shut down my laptop when I see this email from TurboTax.
Well, at least now I have something to write in response to Esther’s prompt word.
Sealed Windows
A progressive woman is something that she’s not.
Way back in the fifties she’s permanently caught.
Travel to new countries? Definitely no.
She won’t let other countries profit from her dough!
She has no curiosity about the human race.
Her interest in humanity ends in her own face.
She sits before her mirror like a window to the world.
Is her lipstick even—her hair correctly curled?
Bravery to her is answering the door.
She walks out to her mailbox, but further? No. No more.
She boils all her bed linen, lest creatures linger there
to creep onto her body and nest within her hair.
All the wounds her life will bear long ago were healed.
She’s a preserved specimen of life, hermetically sealed.
She’ll face no other heartache, no risks of being hurt.
She will not chance a world of germs, bacteria and dirt.
Cats are unhygienic and dogs an equal threat.
A goldfish in a bowl is her single lonely pet.
No companion goldfish to fill its tiny bowl.
Its full attention trained on her seems to be her goal.
All those tight-sealed windows with their draperies pulled tight.
All those single bedside bulbs burning through the night.
Behind each building’s blinded eyes, how many just like her—
sealed inside a bell jar, safe from the world’s rude whirr?
Outside my window are lilacs
Pink and purple and so pure
The world is lovely to the max
Some disheveled along the tracks
Some rattle on the cool moor
Outside my window are lilacs
Over there are straw and flax
Not drowning of their allure
The world is lovely to the max
Looking at them I can relax
I think they’re part of the brochure
Outside my window are lilacs
Funk and soul music are back
Looking outside is always a cure
The world is lovely to the max
Thank you for the music and lilacs
I’ll have a great day for sure
Outside my window are lilacs
The world is lovely to the max
When she moved into the big city she could only afford to rent a small one bedroom apartment on the ground floor, located on a very busy, noisy street. There was a single window, but it was somehow dull and opacified. All she could see were diffuse shadows passing by and cleaning did not help at all. She lived in a flat without view.
That was a somewhat depressing, because she loved to watch people and to see what was going on around her, but she tried to stay positive. This place was only a temporary solution anyway.
Then, one evening, there was a frightening thunderstorm and a bolt of lightning struck the electricity pylon near the shabby house she was living in. The next morning the blackout had still not been fixed. No power, but surprisingly it was not as dark as usual in her bedroom. Somehow the lightning had cleared the old window pane!
She was happy. When she was at home she sat on her bed watching the outside world and felt more alive then ever. But everytime somebody passed directly in front of her window, she kind of saw what was going on in this person’s mind. First she was afraid that she was going crazy, that she had halluzinations, but gradually she realized that this window was a special one: A window into the minds of the passers-by! Unbelievable!
Amazing!
She spent hours living in other people’s minds – for only a second. It was fascinating.
And it made her sadder than ever.
What she saw and felt was mostly not joy, but a glimpse of the sorrows others are plagued by. Tiny or big. It was drawing her down.
*
When people are passing by the small window of the one bedroom flat on the busy street now, all they can see are the shades, which she keeps shut day and night.
The magic of the miraculous window must be shunned – by all means.
As the scent of Starbucks fills the air a simple wish today is that meliorism will be a catchy new trend to replace the catty attitude that people live with on a daily basis. As a sip of caffeine concoction is taken, I look out the window and reminisce of the time when a famous baseball pitcher had the catchy name of Catfish Hunter given to him by the owner of the Kansas City Athletics before being traded to the Oakland A’s.
They live in the slums
where their breath mingles with
sweat mingles with dirt mingles with
the will to live on
in window less rooms
of the size of a palm
But when the clouds pour
they dance in the puddles
with cries of joy
naked souls running wild
against the wind
the torn shirt billowing
like a kite as they skip,
prance and jump
with that rainbow smile
in their eyes
They don’t have a window
to call their own
but they do have their own
fistful of sky
Amy finished her shift at the hospital, spent another half hour charting and said good-bye to the other nurses. She paused outside her car in the parking lot. She didn’t want to go home. She was too tired to do much else, though. Home it is, she thought.
Walking into the small house always caused her stomach to drop. She left lights on in various places and rooms, but it still seemed so dark. And it was so quiet and empty. When Hugo lived here with her, the house had always seemed so full. It was full of noise, messy, crowded and homey. Hugo was a big man with a loud, deep voice who liked to talk and laugh. Why did he suddenly seem just too much? Too immature, too lazy, just too darn happy. They split up and Hugo left, his heart broken. Amy was alright, she missed him at first but was certain they weren’t right for each other. He liked to drink beer and play video games. She helped save people’s lives. Then after a while she was just lonely.
She got ready for bed and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. There was a nice breeze from the open window and she closed her eyes in pleasure. She leaned down to spit and rinse her brush and when she stood back up again she saw the cat. It was a small black and orange calico with orange eyes and it was sitting on her window ledge. She was afraid to move because she didn’t want to scare the cat.
“You’re a pretty little thing,” Amy said, and backed up slowly. She went to the kitchen, grabbed a bowl and the milk and went back into the bathroom. To her relief, the cat was still there. She sat the bowl on the bathroom counter and poured some milk into it. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty… try some of this.” Amy stood back and the cat cautiously stepped inside and began to lap up the milk. She couldn’t help but smile. “Finally, some company,” she said softly. She slowly reached out and stroked the soft fur. She was rewarded with a rumbling purr. The cat looked up at her. It looked sweet, young, and it had no collar. Amy reached over and closed the bathroom window.
A few months later, when Amy came home from work she walked into the house and was greeted by a small black and orange cat skidding across the kitchen floor, batting at a fake mouse. Amy noticed her floors were messy once more, but they were littered with cat toys. She smiled as the little cat, named Raven, jumped up on the kitchen counter and began mewing at her. “Oh, someone’s getting loud. Is it dinner time?” she asked and laughed. She poured some food into Raven’s bowl on the floor and the cat jumped down and began crunching her meal.
“We have a guest for dinner tonight, Raven, so be on your best behavior,” Amy said. “I know you haven’t really liked anyone I’ve had over. Yeah, don’t feel bad, I didn’t like them, either. But this guy is different. He’s sweet.” She petted Raven and smiled, “I wonder what Hugo will think of you?”
What Does Rollo See Outside His Window?
Our mini-Australian Shepherd Rollo loves going out, whether it is for a walk, a car ride, or visiting grandma and grandpa. But we can’t take him everywhere. Sometimes we have to leave him at home and when this happens, we tell him “Rollo go and look out the window”, and he runs to the window, and he looks out. You may wonder, what does Rollo see when he looks out his window?
He sees the blue sky and the clouds; he sees birds flying and he sees the black crows walking on our lawn. He doesn’t like the black crows walking on our lawn, so he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
He sees the green grass, the houses, he sees the jagged edges of the roofs and the chimneys, and he sees workers repairing shingles on roof tops, which look scary, so he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
He sees rabbits running, cats hiding, children playing and laughing, and he sees squirrels running up the trees so he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
He sees people walking by our house. Do they see him? Maybe not. But there, someone sees him, and he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
He sees people with dogs walking by our house and that makes him mad, so he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
Rollo looks out the window and he sees the world, and he knows that the world was made for him, but he has to stay inside, so he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
We left him alone in his despair for nearly two hours but now he sees us coming home and he runs to the door, and he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
We ask him, Rollo, what did you see out your window today? And he goes woof, woof, woof, woof.
For some cute photos of Roll, head over to Thomas’s blog: What Does Rollo See Out His Window – Leonberger Life
Where Do We Go From Here?
by the window,
i sit and wonder:
where do we go from here?
will there truly be sunshine
after the rain—
when all around us
storms rise,
and the winds
howl with
corruption,
cruelty,
and evil deeds
flooding the land?
this land we once fled to,
seeking refuge
when heaven grew mad
and spit down
its fury—
rage and thunder
cracking
against trembling skies.
where do we go
from here,
when even the sky
has no mercy left to give?
Reflective windows,
Provokes deep thoughts of my life,
Thankful for the view.
Show me
Don’t tell me
Give me a window
Into your soul
Let me see your journey
Let me your world explore
Words can be deceiving
So easy to hide behind
But when we walk together
Letting the moments
The memories
Flow around
Flow by
Flow through
We create
Something new
A find a new view
Out the windows
Nostalgia
My window into yesterday
opens when I close my eyes
to listen, while my music plays
and memories arise.
Teenage tunes, years raising children…
memories that last.
They fill the air. They fill my head:
my window to the past.
Looking back, I know my view
is softened by time’s misty haze.
Life’s here and now, today, tomorrow,
not reliving yesterdays.
I change the tune and close that curtain.
Different window. Look ahead.
Until the next nostalgia-fest,
enjoy the view today instead.
Girl at a Window
Looking out of the window
Wishing she had the courage
To make that first step
To open that door
Go down that path
And through the gate
To freedom
Instead
Day in, day out
She simply stares
At a world beyond her reach
Winda’
lookin’ out the winda’ an’
the sky is cold and gray
there’s a fire in the wood stove
and I’ve, nowhere to go today
the dogs is cuddled up in bed,
definitely not touchin’
old movies on the tv set-
and I for one, ain’t budgin’
for I have found my comfort lies
inside of these four walls
an’ a rainy day’s, a fine excuse
not to answer when life calls…
The Prompt: Late one evening, a man is sitting alone in his living room when his phone begins to ring. It’s his own number on the caller ID. The voice on the other end is his and it’s warning him NOT to look outside.
Back for Blood
It was late … far too late to be thinking about calling Faye but that never stopped Frankie before. That dame had a way of crawling under his skin and making herself right at home. Now he sat in his two bit apartment in the dark, sinking deeper into his worn-out armchair, nursing his bourbon neat and thinking about calling Faye when his goddamn phone rang, scaring the crap out of him.
“Ah, Faye. I knew ya couldn’t stay away” Frankie thought but when he glanced over at the phone, it wasn’t Faye’s number he saw on the caller box … it was his own! “What the fuck kinda craziness is this?” he muttered. His heart pounded in confusion and, yes … fear. He picked up the receiver.
“Frankie!” The voice on the other end was unmistakably his, drenched in urgency and alarm. “Frankie, listen to me. Whatever ya do, don’t look out the window.”
Confusion spiraled in Frankie’s brain as he tightened his grip on the phone. “Whaddya mean? Who is this anyways?” he asked with false bravado.
“Shut up and listen for once, Frankie! There’s somebody outside and he ain’t here to deliver a pizza. Don’t look out the window or else he’s gonna know you’re home. He’s got eyes on the joint.”
A chill swept through Frankie, the air thick with unease. Still, he hesitated, glancing at the window. He growled into the phone, “How do I know this ain’t some trick? If you’re really me, I’m gonna need proof. Tell me something that only I could know.”
“Oh, so ya want proof, eh? How’s this: November 27, three years ago, the Pine Barrens.”
A chill swept through Frankie, his mind reeling with disbelief. He hesitated, glancing at the window.
“Don’t do it, Frankie! Ya look out the window and you’re a dead man.”
Frankie sat frozen, the glass shaking in his hand and the memories came back. Three years ago, after Thanksgiving dinner on November 27, he and Carmine Fusco drove out to the Pine Barrens … but only Frankie came back. It wasn’t personal … he liked Carmine but orders were orders. Carmine was a rat and rats had to be exterminated.
Frankie’s tongue felt thick and dry but he found his voice. “Carmine’s dead. Four bullets in the back.”
“Yeah, but ya didn’t shoot him in the head like ya was told. He lived, Frankie, and he’s back for blood.”
The call cut off abruptly. Frankie sat frozen, the glass shaking in his hand. Adrenaline started surging as he rose, heart racing. His voice had warned him, but curiosity gnawed at him. He reached the wall in two giant steps and pushed his back hard against it. A couple of side steps and he was at the edge of the window. Frankie strained his neck slightly, squinting through an opening in the blinds. Nothing; the street was empty.
Frankie sat back in his chair and took a big gulp of his drink. Then he started to laugh. “Goddamn imagination” he said, and laughed even harder at the ridiculous events of the night. When he got up to get a refill, the door to his apartment crashed open and Frankie whirled around.
“Long time no see, Frankie boy,” rasped Carmine.
***
Esther Chilton 
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