Your writing prompt this week is
CARDS
My first thought when this word came to mind was greetings cards. It’s always lovely to receive a card in the post – for birthdays, anniversaries, to wish you luck or to say that you’re being thought of. Then, of course, there are playing cards – with all the different suits (don’t forget the joker, either!) and numerous games. And what about credit and debit cards? These are widely used all over the world. You might think about cards in terms of the material they’re made from – flimsy paper or stiff plastic, for example. Or does it mean something else to you?
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 PROMISES.
The rule is never promise
More than you can perform
And just keep your word to Thomas
Draft your letter in any form
Send it together with your craft
More than you can perform
A promise is a word that is vast
Makes something or shams everything
Send it together with your craft
Makes one laugh with a zing
Could be shallow could be dense
Makes something or shams everything
In a shell spiralling in such sense
Easier to keep promise to yourself
Could be shallow could be dense
Better keep this thing-in-itself
The rule is never promise
Easier to keep promise to yourself
And just keep your word to Thomas
Promises are here and there.
Beware the promise everywhere.
Beware the blame that darkens air.
You promised to forgive.
It’s the Unkept Promises That Cause Children’s Hearts to Hurt
I can still hear my father over the phone, making promises to come and spend time with my sister and me. He had a lovely baritone voice, and when he laughed, his whole body seemed to shake with mirth. I adored him, even though I probably only spent ten days of my entire childhood with him. Of course, he never came when he said he would, but each time he promised, I waited on the front porch, searching every man’s face who passed by, hoping that “this time” he would actually come.
My first memory is of him laughing as my sister and I jumped on a bed in an apartment. My mother worked, so Daddy babysat us. Suddenly, there was a loud knocking at the door. It was the sheriff evicting us because he failed to pay the rent with the money Mama supplied. I remember watching him as he walked away down the street, leaving my sister and me sitting on top of the furniture. A neighbor eventually came and took us into her home until my mother came home to take us to a temporary place to live.
The last memory I have of him was going to the hospital to sign him out, as I was his legal next of kin. The irony never left me that I had to buy his medicine and find him a home, because the woman he lived with was afraid of people with cancer. His sister finally agreed to take him in because I lived and worked too far away to take him home with me. He died a few months later, without me seeing him again. I learned that he accepted Jesus just before he died. But that knowledge didn’t heal the hurt of so many broken promises, but I forgive him.
Keep promises to children. Broken promises steal children’s joy, hurt their hearts, and make them feel they have no value and worth.
Dreamsicle Skies
Tell no lies
Rainbow promises
To make you cry
With wonder – thunder
Chastens those who doubt
Look within
Heed without
Dreams of hope and peace and love
Cast your eyes to heaven above
*
Metronome
I feel the love that’s in your heart
When you hold me tight
A metronome in measured beats
Such promise
Such delight
Vows
Ernestine had been promised to John Raymond. An arranged marriage – before the war broke out. It had been an arranged marriage to unite two families. War breaks promises. Especially when young soldiers don’t come home.
Ernestine wasn’t entirely fond of John Raymond, but she had made a promise to her grandmother to be a team player in the family. The second eldest daughter behind the heir apparent, her brother whom she barely knew. As there was seven years between Michael and herself. And Michael had been sent off to boarding school. That was the way of things. At least before the war. Michael was in the first wave of recruits and he was one of the first … to return home in a casket.
John Raymond had been the neighbor boy who dared her to climb trees, which only got her into trouble for not behaving like a proper young lady. He was also a prankster who promised to dip her pigtails in ink at school. Thankfully he never actually did that.
Ernestine had been left to care for her younger siblings, keeping them hidden and quiet. Which was easy in the old Victorian home that had more secret passages than most of the other homes in the neighborhood. Even the basement had an underground passage to the stables.
When Ernestine found out that John Raymond wasn’t coming home, she cried. She had so wanted a family of her own. But the war had taken a toll on the community. At least everyone attempted to help each other. Her own family’s larder had become almost barren by giving foodstuffs to those in need. But Ernestine had been squandering canned goods and hiding them. Too often one can of cold beans was the one meal she and her siblings shared on any given day.
Earnestine promised herself that if the war ever ended she would take some of the gems grandmother had given her and sell them and get a ticket to sail across the ocean. Maybe there she could find a man who would be willing to give her a second chance at love and living.
“Promise me you’ll come back. in one piece.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Promises are made to be kept. How can I keep a promise when how I come back is out of my control.”
“But you can try to be safe.”
“Yes. Which I will, but who knows what will happen.”
“For heavens sake, you are only going to the pub.”
“And the dart championships. Let’s not forget that.”
Kept and Broken
Your words hung in the air, as bright and as warming as the morning sun, and in that moment, they felt unshakable.
Your promise was a bridge, spanning the uncertainty of tomorrow and offering safe passage over the troubled waters of storms we cannot name.
But bridges crack over time, its stones loosen under the weight of silence, and heartache finds its way through.
Your hand once held in certainty slips into distance, leaving only an echo of warmth. The promises you made yesterday unravel slowly, thread by thread, until the once beautiful tapestry is nothing but frayed edges.
What is left falls like gray ash, settling onto the bottom of the hearth where hot embers once lived.
And still, we speak those words, make those promises again, to each other or to others still, because hope of such promises does not learn restraint.
I have always tried never to make a promise I can’t keep, especially to a child.
If there was the remotest chance I couldn’t deliver, I didn’t promise, simple as that.
I remember a conversation about rabbit pies when Hubby was involved in pest control.
We often met up with a newsagent owner and his black labrador when walking Maggie, and he said he hadn’t had a rabbit pie since his wife died. When asked how long he’d been widowed, he said about five years.
I promised to make him a rabbit pie the next time Hubby brought one home for the pot.
I can still see his face when I took it into the shop.
His daughters were behind the counter and he saw what was in my hands and nudged them.
‘That’s for me,’ he said with a grin. ‘She promised me a rabbit pie, and that’s for me!’
I made him another with different pastry a month or so later, and he was over the moon.
A simple promise kept and an old man’s pleasure.
Promises, Promises
Promises made to be broken. Like flawed
Rules, devised to get ignored.
Or else, why vow we’d be together,
Make promises to love forever.
I believed them. More fool me:
Simple, trusting devotee.
Eternity is brief, it seems.
Short and sweet as passing dreams.
Promises, promises some big some small
Has there been a person that’s broken them all?
What if the doctor promises health
or what if the running coach promises stealth?
Just what will happen when people get sick
Or runners get hurt if they trip on a stick?
Shouldn’t there be a law made by now;
no promises should be made, no way, no how?
Broken Light
you promised me the stars
and the moon,
a love so vast, so true,
a forever that everyone dreams of—
this could’ve been the romance
of all time,
if only those promises were more than empty rhymes.
the stars?
well, they were just lamp posts,
lined up along a crowded, ugly street.
and the moon?
oh, darling, that wasn’t the moon—
it was a floodlight,
burning bright in a construction site.
so no, this isn’t a love poem,
and it never will be.
“It was a terrible day,” said the old man in a raspy voice. “I awoke in a strange reality where promises weren’t spoken and songs weren’t sang. I wasn’t sure what time or even what day it was so I turned to the radio alarm and heard the hum drum rattle of another talk show host going on about some god awful claim concerning marshmallows.
“After consuming countless cups of caffeine I had the heebie-jeebies and decided to walk to work instead of driving. In the time it took to do this my mind couldn’t stop the constant chatter inside and I fell into a unstable search for a solution. Now I sit inside this small cell and remanence of when I could spend countless hours standing on a sorting line in the main postal warehouse before losing my shit and watching the chambers spin as the bullets flew.” The young punk sat and listened to me tell this tale before calling out to the guards for help.
The plot isn’t a fictional one but one of true experiences while I was involved in an exclusive club. A club that turned into a virtual nightmare sending shock waves throughout every aspect of my life. So as you can imagine, writing about it can be difficult at times.
The nuances of fulfilling an order for a book about a story equivalent to Nightmare on Elm Street are daunting. The emotional aspect of writing about a period of time where I was terrorized into the deep dark recess of my mind is compelling enough to put the book on hold again. But then if I allowed my emotions to overtake my life, it would be like allowing the terrorizers to win again.
The promise I made to myself when I started this project quite some time ago was to work through the rough patches even if it means tears cover the keyboard, to not only cure any remaining mental issues but to help others who might need guidance through these types of events with an entertaining nonfiction story.
My salvation has been through my wonderful husband who brought me back to my farming roots and introduced some culture in my life. His background in films and music helped me to reconnect with activities I enjoy. Without his encouragement and love for music, I could only imagine how my life would be 100% different.
My release of emotions are now through playing the piano and the calm, although often demanding, work of the farm life helped me to reconnect with the Earth. The feeling of belonging and enjoying simple pleasures like hatching chicken eggs, caring for a sick goat, or just listening to the birds sign help soothe rattled nerves.
Cheers to Determination.
I was born the moment someone whispered, ‘I swear‘.
From nothing, I flickered into being, feathered, light, and trembling, stitched together from breath and belief. My wings carried the weight of expectation, and my eyes glowed with the fire of anticipation. I belonged not to the speaker alone, but also to the listener who received me. I am always shared, never owned.
At first, I was radiant. My body pulsed with certainty, and I hovered between their hearts, connecting them like a hidden bridge. They did not see me, but they felt me, a warmth in the chest, a quiet certainty that something invisible had taken root.
But promises grow restless if forgotten. I starve when neglected. My feathers shed, my wings fray, and my brightness dims into smoke. I begin to whisper, softly at first, then louder, reminding, haunting. I trail behind the one who made me, a shadow that tugs at their ankles. They try to outrun me, but I do not tire. A broken promise never dies; it lingers, a ghost devouring silence.
Yet when they keep me, ah when they hold me carefully, nurture me with action rather than word, I transform. My wings dissolve into radiance, my body unravels into warmth. I do not vanish in bitterness, but in fulfillment. I leave behind no specter, only the soft weightlessness of trust kept whole. In that moment, the one who birthed me feels lighter, freer, as if they too have earned wings.
Long ago, when the world was yet unmeasured and the stars were still deciding where to rest, humans wandered under a sky too vast for their fragile hearts. They loved, yes, but love was as fleeting as the wind, here, then gone. They trusted, but trust slipped quick as water between their fingers.
The gods, weary of the chaos, shaped me from their breath and their silence. They wove into my wings the fire of intention, and into my core the seed of responsibility. The first of my kind was born when two strangers promised at the dawn river that they would not part until the moon forgot its place. Their words gave me form. I gleamed, pure and trembling, hovering between them, and for the first time in the history of man, two lives wove into one unbreakable thread.
From then I multiplied. Every vow of love, every oath of peace, every whispered “I promise”, released my kin into the world. We, the unseen children of human utterance, stitched society together. Without us, every bond would unravel to ash and dust. Without us, there is only mistrust, and mistrust is a kingdom where no one survives long.
But I must warn you of what befalls the breaker of promises. When a vow is shattered, I do not die; I carry its fracture to the bones of the one who made me. At first, they feel only unease, sleepless nights, wandering guilt. Yet as time thickens, I sink deeper. Their breath grows heavy, their steps uncertain. Their words lose weight, like paper boats sinking in the river. People stop listening, stop believing.
For no matter how many fresh promises they make, their wings are grounded. And when they speak, the air carries no light. They gain the dreadful curse of hollowness, for trust abandoned never returns easily. Those who betray me find themselves forever chased by my broken body, pale, sharp, and whispering in the dark.
And Now, a word for you…
I am promise. A creature of breath, belief, and the future’s hunger. And I am watching you, for you have made more of me than you remember. Some of me you have raised into brilliance, kept, cherished, fulfilled. But others… others wander at your feet as shadows, waiting for you to decide if they, too, will be broken.
Know this, every promise you cradle or crush shapes not just me, but the architecture of your own soul. Your word is a door, and the way you honor it determines what world lies beyond.
So tell me, child of breath and time,
When next you whisper “I swear”, will you give me wings to carry light,
or will you condemn yourself to the company of ghosts forever tugging at your heels?
Because I was born of your voice, yes…
But your choice decides whether I fly, or haunt.
Promises made in campaign speeches should all be taken with a grain of salt. Whether a small town sheriff or a presidential candidate, the contender will say whatever they think the voters want to hear. It’s also possible they are sincere but when in the actual chair after being elected, they find they are not the only one making decisions, and may not be able to fulfill their pledges. It’s politics, and should be taken with skepticism.
A promise is a gift with strings,
tying the promiser to the recipient,
some are sweet, some are fun,
some involve multiple participants.
Sometimes we make a promise to
ourselves, and hope we can be true
to keep it, because if we don’t
there’s no one to be mad but you.
So step out on faith and make that promise
to love forever, or go to the zoo,
or have that coffee, because promises are unique
and they can be custom made just for you.
Rall:
a promise is sacred
not to be given lightly
when trust is betrayed
the experience is devastating
actions speak louder than words
words are powerful can be
beautiful convincing seductive lies
deadly
Whispers in the dusk,
promises float like soft rain—
fragile, unbroken.
The night sky gathers silence,
holding secrets in its stars.
Do you remember playground days
when dreams were never-ending?
Swings soared ever higher,
wind in our hair, sun on our cheeks.
We pushed each other to the clouds,
a pinky-sworn “forevermore”.
Our giggles, a promise
floating on the breeze,
as vast and endless as the sky above.
Now the swing hangs still.
Dust settles on the worn-down seat.
No laughter cuts the quiet air,
only the rust sings a lonely tune.
That “always” we once promised,
a whisper the wind no longer keeps.
The playground sleeps,
and our forever is just a memory,
a faded promise on an empty swing.
I Promise
I promised Mother we would not cross the railway line anywhere except at the crossing. I promised Granny Joan too. Granny Joan had a horror of railway line crossings ever since her neighbour’s husband was killed when his brightly coloured Volkswagen Beetle stalled in the middle of the lines when he was coming home late one evening. The car was crushed by a train that didn’t see the vehicle until it was to late. His daughter, a school mate of mine, was left fatherless. At school, the children whispered that it was a suicide. I’d never heard of suicide before and I never wanted to again. The nuns said suicide was a mortal sin that sent you straight to hell.
My intentions were good. We were going to cross the railway line passing the local beach at the crossing. It was the best place to cross anyway as it was just before the parking lot and the beach cafe. The problem was I couldn’t remember where the crossing was. It was Cath and my first visit to the beach on our own and I couldn’t remember the way. We walked and walked. Cath was tired and becoming whiny. I didn’t know what to do. I could see the sand dunes so I knew the beach was close, but there was the railway line with no place to cross it.
Cath sat down and refused to stand. She wasn’t going to keep walking on and on. I made a decision. We would cross the railway lines here.
“Come on, Cath. The beach is just on the other side of the railway line and dunes. All we have to do is cross carefully and climb up the sand dunes. Then we’ll be there.”
I took her small hand and we started crossing. The lines hummed and pulsed like a living thing. I could feel vibrations running up my body. It was scary. I kept checking for trains. The hairs on my arms stood up and my nerves were squeaky.
An eternity later, we reached the other side. In one piece. Not squashed to mincemeat by a huge, fast train.
We clambered up the dunes and there was the beach. The sea a glistening mass of heaving water. A short distance to the right was the asphalt of the parking lot and the gleaming white of the beach cafe. The crossing had been a mere 500 metres away, just around the corner.
so close yet so far
devil tempts weary children
sin for confession
Dogs are domesticated wolves. To survive in our human society, they need to be taken care of. We often get them as puppies and all they know is how to live with people. When you get a dog, this is a lifetime commitment. Despite this fact a lot of people buying puppies bring them to shelters and many irresponsible breeders bring unsold puppies to shelters. In addition, 7% to 20% of dogs adopted from shelters are returned to the shelters, mostly due to behavioral issues or owners’ unrealistic expectations. Dogs who were returned for behavioral issues were also more likely to be euthanized.
Some dog owners don’t even bother to turn their dog into a shelter, they just abandon them. In the U.S., approximately 3.1 million dogs enter shelters each year. Many of these are abandoned, the offspring of abandoned dogs, or lost pets. In the U.S., about 60% of dogs entering shelters are strays. As a side note, abandoning a dog is illegal in almost every US state, including Texas where I live. We dog owners need to do better. We have responsibilities towards our dogs, to feed them, raise them, train them, exercise them, take care of them, and continue to shelter them when they get old and sick.
The Leonberger community has taken significant steps towards protecting Leonberger dogs from abuse and abandonment. First, the Leonberger Club of America certifies responsible breeders and work to prevent dogs from ending up with backyard breeders and puppy mills. Breeders are required to take back and care for a dog if it does not work out. All prospective Leonberger owners are interviewed and must sign a contract dictating how they should treat the dog. If they find out that you have mistreated a dog or failed to take care of a dog you cannot buy a Leonberger. To see the transcript for our Leonberger interview click here.
12 Promises to my Dog
- Dear fur angel, I promise to feed you properly.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to protect you from toxic foods such as raisins, grapes, chocolate, xylitol, birch sugar, onion and garlic.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to protect you from toxic plants, dangerous household items and animals.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to keep one or more water bowls always filled with fresh and clean water for you.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to comfortably shelter you.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to train you and care for your physical and emotional needs.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to walk you every day (on days when this is possible).
- Dear fur angel, I promise to take care of all your veterinary needs.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to play with you, pet you, and throw balls.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to never abandon you.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to be there for you when you cross the rainbow bridge.
- Dear fur angel, I promise to love you forever.
For some gorgeous photos of Thomas’s dogs, click here
Never Erase Yourself
Micah had endured four grueling years of relentless harassment- not just from fellow students at Cambridge Christian Academy, but from faculty as well. Every hallway, every classroom had felt like a gauntlet, each whisper and sneer a reminder that they didn’t belong.
But then, online, Micah had found a refuge- a tight-knit group of like-minded genderfluid friends, a space where they were seen and celebrated for exactly who they were. And there, amid late-night chats and shared dreams, they had fallen in love with Lark- eighteen, radiant, and unapologetically feminine. Unlike Micah, Lark was embraced by family and friends, a constellation of confidence and warmth that seemed to illuminate everything he touched.
Lark wore dresses to dinner parties and heels to church. His family called him radiant. His friends called him queen. From the very first moment they were introduced, Micah knew with Lark they would be safe.
Senior Prom could have been Micah’s final humiliation- in fact, they had planned to skip it all together- but Lark had other ideas.
When prom night finally came, Micah, dressed in a short pleated pink organza skirt and tee, accented, of course, by their signature Doc Martens and black leather bikers’ jacket- walked into the academy gym, hand in hand with Lark. The room fell silent.
Whispers rippled through the crowd, and jaws dropped in awe. Micah, long the target of scorn, had arrived with the most beautiful date any of them could even imagine- not only radiant in a flowing golden sheath with coordinating stilettos, but glowing from the inside- the kind of light that only shines, when someone is head over heels in love.
Micah and Lark danced. They laughed. They posed for photos beneath the rose covered arch. And when they stepped outside for air, not one prying eye followed.
“Promise me,” Lark whispered, as they stood together under a canopy of stars, “that you will never erase yourself for anyone else’s comfort ever again.”
Micah gently kissed Lark’s forehead. “Never. I won’t hide who I am- not for them, not for my family- not for anyone.”
Lark smiled, resting his head against Micah’s shoulder. For the first time, Micah felt the heavy weight of the world lift. Tonight wasn’t just prom- it was the moment they claimed their own space, their own joy, their own light.
***
Esther Chilton 
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