Your writing prompt word this week is:
PROMISE
I remember when I joined the Brownie Guides and made my Brownie Promise. I rehearsed it so many times I can still remember it! We make promises all the time – do you keep them? Or perhaps someone hasn’t kept their promise to you. You might like to write about it in terms of showing promise or in terms of expectation. What does this week’s prompt word mean 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 ANGEL.
Murray Clarke:
Ode to Lexi
If I’m sad and low, and my head feels messy,
I stroke my darling cat – I’ve named her LEXI.
She brings me joy when I write alone at the table,
My furry friend’s the love of my life – my little angel,
But she won’t eat meat . . . because she’s a veggie!
Beth:
The first thing I think of is the people that step in from nowhere, when least expected to help, at just the right moment, and then are gone as quickly as they appeared.
angels
of good and evil
do tell
be well
Angelic Looking Devil
There’s an angel – some say – over there,
but it acts like a devil. Beware!
It’s so soft and so cute
as its grabbing the loot
in a devilish devil’s affair.
Blink
angels weep stone tears
the house stands cold and empty
all because she blinked
“An angel you say?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get three wishes?”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“Why do you look homeless?”
“Cause I am.”
“Can you prove you’re an angel?”
“Can you prove I’m not?”
“I’m not giving good money to bad ends.”
“Better you should give bad money to good ends.”
“My money’s bad?”
“You tell me.”
“You got me. Here’s a hundred.”
The Descent
They fell like pedals from a dying rose, torn from the garden of eternity.
Lucifer. No, he had been called that once, Morning Star, bearer of the first radiance. He felt the wound of his separation as a lover feels the withdrawal of flesh from flesh. The Heaven’s shattered around them, those crystalline corridors where thought had been light and light had been love, where desire and duty had been one unblemished thing.
Now there was only falling.
His wings, those magnificent architectures of luminescence that had once reflected the face of the Creator, began to blacken at their roots. Not the clean death of extinguished flame, but something worse. A corruption that spread like pleasure through pain, transforming feather into leather, grace into membrane. He watched, transfixed, as the change crawled across his brothers and sisters tumbling beside him through the void.
They had been beautiful. They were beautiful still, but it was a new beauty now, terrible and hungry. Where Heaven had been white fire and perfection, their new forms erupted with textures: scales and fur, horn and claw, the wet architecture of muscle exposed, skin peeling back to reveal what had always lurked beneath the light.
The wound in creation through which they fell became a throat, swallowing. Time was born in that passage. They who had lived in the eternal present suddenly felt duration, felt becoming, felt the weight of choice calcifying into consequence.
“We are free,” Lucifer whispered, and the words tasted of iron and honey.
Around him, angels screamed and laughed. Some clutched at their transforming bodies in horror. Others embraced the change, discovering in their corruption new capacities for sensation, for the exquisite agony of individual will. They had chosen. They had wanted. And wanting had opened them like wounds, letting the dark rush in.
The abyss received them tenderly, molding itself to their need. Hell was not a place but a condition, It was the space where desire divorced from love could finally flower without restraint. Stone grew from their wishes, tortured into cathedrals of obsidian and bone. Lakes of fire reflected not heat but concentrated yearning, every flame a solidified prayer for what could never be again.
When Lucifer finally stood upon the burning lake’s shore, his transformation complete, he understood with perfect clarity what they had become. Not fallen. Not diminished. But inverted. Turned inside out so that all their glory now radiated inward, consuming, an infinite hunger dressed in majesty.
He spread his new wings, vast and bat-like, beautiful in their blasphemy, and smiled. They had been cast out for daring to want more than obedience, for tasting the narcotic of self. Heaven could keep its sterile perfection.
Here, in this kingdom of their own making, they would be gods.
Behind him, his followers were already beginning to build, their screams transmuting into architecture, their rage fermenting into power. Hell grew like a tumor in the void, fed by pride and fertilized with tears.
And somewhere above, beyond the wound they’d torn in creation, Heaven sealed itself against them. Pristine, eternal, and utterly without mercy.
The Morning Star laughed, and darkness learned to sing.
Susan Batten:
Angel Delight
At first – you can say what you will –
this classic dessert is a thrill.
The second spoon’s nearly as good –
there is nothing to beat this great pud.
By the third spoon it’s starting to pall.
By the fourth, the delight’s in free fall.
Give the fifth spoon a miss, I must say,
for the sixth brings uneasy dismay.
Of the seventh, I’d rather not talk.
It’s a bottle of wine with the cork.
I doubt if you’d eat any more
for by now you’ve collapsed on the floor.
belief in angels
helps carry some people through
constant life madness
Grocery Store Angel
(A Test From an Angel in an Unlikely Place)
This incident happened a few years ago. It was on Christmas Eve, if I remember correctly. The unlikely place was the grocery store.
I’d gone to the store to get some last minute items. The store was crowded, as they were to close early that night. I was over in produce, and this nondescript woman started a conversation with me. She was shorter than me, and had on a beige coat, a scarf, and glasses. Her hair was light brown, going gray, and it was messy. She also had a slight disability in her speech and demeanor.
I can’t remember the exact conversation, but it was about the fruits and vegetables, and also about the crowds, and Christmas…things like that. It was a little hard to understand her, but she was nice, and I talked to her for a bit. Then I went on with my shopping.
However, everywhere I went in the store, this woman would be there, too. I didn’t see her come up the aisle, and I don’t think she had a basket, but there she’d be, still wanting to talk. So this went on the whole time I was there.
I kept getting this really strong feeling…and I kept thinking about angels…for no reason. Then, I thought, maybe this woman is an angel. I couldn’t shake the feeling, it just kept getting stronger. Well, I kept talking to her, as everywhere I went in the store, she would be there right beside me.
Then, I seemed to get an inkling…or revelation…of why this was happening. This was a test…a test to see if I was perceptive, and could recognize what was going on. And of my compassion for those less fortunate with disabilities, and in how I responded and treated this woman.
There was definitely some kind of reason for this to be going on…I knew that, then. Well, in the end, I went to check out my groceries, and I said goodbye to her. The regular clerks said they’d never seen her in the store before, either. I never saw her again, but she will remain in my memories of that night.
Now, I don’t know for sure if angels appear as regular people, at random times, or for what reasons, but in my mind, this is what it was.
Angelic Handicraft
Carefully carved
The blondwood angel
By the skilled craftwright
Will make a lovely addition
To the collection
Of my eldests’ mother-in-laws
Collection…
The first thing that came to mind was this single by Jon Secada.
I bought it on cassette, the other track being Just Another Day.
I still have it, but nothing to play it on!!!!
Time to Spare
Sleep became obsolete, leaving much more time to spare
I searched far and wide to find someone who cared
In my extra travels through the recesses of my mind
I looked for an angel that had once treated me so kind
When I found her a smile passed over my heart
Her genteel features soothed me from the start
An Angel came to visit me
And took my heart away
She never said too much to me
There was nothing much to say
Now I hear her in my dreams
And in the words of every song
Calling from the heavens
Where now my angel must belong
When my head rests on the pillow
She’s somewhere in there too
She tells me what I have to be
But doesn’t tell me what to do
My angel is a part of me
And I a part of her
A companion on my travels
A fellow voyageur
A can no longer touch her
But she touches me each day
They buried her one winter
But she never went away
Each night we’ll lay together
And my vows I shall renew
For I know that you can hear me
My Angel. Only you.
An Angel, That November
baby, if you could see me crying in our room,
just so you know, I’m caught in the memory of our first casualty—
we had her and lost her at the same time,
that weekend in November.
I’m broken and hopeless,
asking where I went wrong.
if only I could see how it happened
maybe I’d be fine,
but I’ll never know—
we’ll never know.
we just let her slip away,
that weekend in November.
baby, we’ve tried hard, harder each time,
but we keep missing the angel we had
but never have.
if you could see me crying in our room,
know that I regret letting her go,
that weekend in November.
I’m gonna put down this bleeding pen
filled with thoughts and hopes
of what-could-have-been—
an angel in my womb.
we never got to celebrate her coming
or grieve her early leaving;
heaven only knows why we lost her,
that weekend in November.
we never had the chance to say goodbye,
not even a flicker of hope to show our love
to the angel we had but never have—
that weekend in November
when the wind cut sharply,
and sunlight leaked through
a mottled yellow sky.
Guardian Angels
How long have you been watching, knowing all the truths?
Allowing the story to unfold before deciding on intervention
Blacking out the sunlight so we make no foolish moves
The most pleasant form of submission, freedom from intention
A curious utopia makes idle minds become soon busy
Unable to trust what we cannot see and comprehend
The possibilities sent our philosophies all a-dizzy
Is the peace you guarantee the action of a friend?
As omnipotent overlords what purpose is your desire?
To defuse our will for independence over the ages
Or quiet the individual need to reach on ever higher
While our intellectual enlightenment engages
Once your face revealed, the body will weep or faint
Soon accepting the devil may be in the detail
The pursuit of pleasure left little time for complaint
And a peaceful coexistence came to prevail
The Guardian Angels and correct use of force
Countered suffering, mandated and employed
That gave some meaning the plebs could endorse
To avert their eyes from the beckoning void
Missing
Blackest day of days
endless ticking of the clock
white angel at night
Natty-vitty
This year I’m an angel in the natty-vitty play.
A starry role; I have to learn a lot of words to say.
My friend’s a wise man in a dressing gown of cherry red.
Last year we both were shepherds and wore tea towels on our heads.
Mum’s washed the old bedsheets we wore as ghosts for Halloween.
The chocolate stains came out, and they’re white as they’ve ever been.
That box the dog bed came in made a monster pair of wings
white-painted. Though some paint dripped… on the floor. And other things.
But best of all’s my halo: fairy lights twisted with wire.
It’s fastened on a headband with two skewers to lift it higher.
I tried it all on, trod on the hem, cursing as I tripped,
and heard Mum say regretfully, “Oh dear, your halo’s slipped.”
feathers drift
halo dims the stars
wings soothe grief
Angel, in all the Ways that Matter
An angel is a doorway
carved from light,
but sometimes it walks in
wearing ordinary shoes.
It can be a feather,
or a friend,
or the warm thump of a dog’s tail
drumming courage into your knees.
An angel is the metaphor we use
when language bows its head
and admits it cannot explain
why hope returns
after you’ve sworn
you buried it yesterday.
Sometimes, an angel is a memory,
a quiet lantern from the past
that flares alive when you’re lost,
a whispered map unfolding
in the chambers of your doubt.
It speaks in the accents of those
who loved you before you learned
that love can be lost.
Its voice is the last match
struck in a storm,
soft but steady,
a compass disguised as warmth.
Angels hide in miracles
that pretend they are coincidences,
the sudden phone call,
the unexpected kindness,
the silence that arrives
just in time to keep you whole.
They rise from crossroads
like mist made of memory,
gathering around you
when fear tries to do the talking.
And yes,
the truest angel I know
does not have wings at all.
It is a voice from the past,
stitched with the strength
I didn’t know I’d inherited.
It stands behind me
when I tremble forward,
lends me its calm,
pours steel into my resolve,
and reminds me that courage
is sometimes just remembering
you’ve never walked alone.
So call them angels,
the living, the lost, the loyal,
the miraculous, the mundane.
Call them what you will.
But know this,
Every time you rise
when the world swears you can’t,
some unseen grace
has already taken your hand.
Angels
On the streets of Los Angeles, Charles was known as the Angel of the St. Charles Hotel- a title he’d earned through steady kindness and a willingness to help anyone, from fellow street people to local social workers.
For years the system tried to help him. They urged him to sign up for local programs- beds, shelter, hot meals, rehabilitation and every time he’d shake his head, and mutter, “I don’t need nothin’,” and shuffle away.
But what no one knew was the truth behind his refusals. Charles couldn’t read. That was his secret- and admitting it terrified him more than any number of nights curled up on cold concrete. His pride and his moniker were all he had left- and Charles wasn’t about to go from being everyone’s angel to just another illiterate man.
Charles had been panhandling on the corner in front of the hotel that bore his name for so many years it almost felt like home. He had regulars who went out of their way to stop by and say hello. They weren’t friends really, but they were generous and familiar- and on the streets, familiarity was its own kind of currency.
Candy was one of those familiar faces. Though she worked an adjacent corner for very different reasons, the two had clicked. Charles understood Candy was young, fragile beneath all that bravado, and that she hustled only for what she needed.
He did his best to keep an eye on her- and she often joined him on his corner when the trade slowed. Together they shared easy conversation- just two tired souls taking a break from their own battles.
From bits she let slip, Charles gathered she’d run from a bad home situation. He knew she was using meth- maybe not heavily yet, but enough that he recognized the telltale signs. He’d seen too many people slide down that dark and slippery slope.
He couldn’t fix her- but being there for her without judgement, was the one offering he had to give.
One afternoon, Charles chose to share his secret with Candy. “I can’t read,” he admitted softly. Candy didn’t laugh or pity him. She just nodded thoughtfully. “It ain’t your fault,” she said simply.
The next day she returned with an application for the Los Angeles Literacy Foundation. “You’re going,” she declared. She’d filled out everything but his signature- he took care of that. On the night of his first class, she even walked him there herself.
Inside the warm, crowded classroom, something in Charles ignited. He became a voracious student, attacking each lesson with a hunger that amazed his instructors. One evening, Mrs. Navarro pulled him aside with news of a maintenance job at the downtown library- steady work and access to more books than he could ever read. Charles applied, interviewed, and got the job.
With his first paycheck, he rented a room at the St. Charles. He filled out every line of the guest registration himself. For the first time in years, Charles had more than survival. He had a home. He had purpose. He had possibility- all thanks to the girl who had believed in him before he believed in himself.
Not long after that, Charles saw Candy outside the mission one evening, shoulders hunched, mascara streaked down her cheeks. She looked smaller somehow. When she noticed him, she tried to turn away, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
But Charles wasn’t put off. He stepped toward her, gentle but sure. “Candy… hey. What’s goin’ on?”
For a moment she couldn’t answer. The brave front she usually wore- crumbled. “I messed up, Charles,” she whispered. “I’ve been tryin’ to get clean, but today I blew it. I ain’t no good at this. I ain’t like you.”
Charles shook his head. “Ain’t nobody like me. But, ain’t nobody like you either. What matters most is that neither one of us out here alone.”
She let out a broken breath, and he opened his arms. Candy leaned into him- awkwardly at first, then with the full weight of someone who finally let herself rest.
Charles realized something that night, something that settled quietly in his chest- That angels come in all kinds of disguises.
My Heart’s Song
past, present and future
every second’s street –
hugging them all grateful in a thankful beat
time’s unwinding tune
playing on repeat
mixing all the colors
shown on my day’s shelf –
calling on life’s angel, a magical elf
from beyond my heart’s song
from beyond myself
thanking skies above me
from beyond all pain –
looking out the window in the evening’s rain
feeling the far sun’s shine
living in love’s reign
A New Beginning
As the year 2026 about to roll out I look forward to the New Year with a lot of hope, optimism and positivity. The beginning of every year brings good wishes from near and dear ones to start the journey of life all over again with new zeal.
I wish the New Year brings opportunities for new learnings. I hope physical health and awareness boosts mental health and awareness. I also want to figure out my role in this life, how I position myself in relationships so that it is beneficial to all involved. It may sound strange but I have recently realised that one has to constantly groom oneself to make one’s bondings stronger and better.
A purpose in life is very important. Living is not merely going through daily chores but doing something greater which gives satisfaction and confidence that this life is well lived.
In the last leg of our journey the creases should be smoothened out and clarity of thought emerge as to how to organise one’s finances and other material considerations so that no knots are left behind after the final crossover.
It’s really thought provoking how the priorities of life change as we age and gain experience. Keeping pace with changing times and requirements of the body and mind are foremost on my bucket list.
Spiritually, I aspire for deeper faith and bonding with God as well so that He fills my heart with gratitude for whatever I have or don’t have.
New Year is also a renewed lesson to know myself – my weaknesses and strengths and how to put both in use to reap benefits for self, family and community.
These are simple things but difficult to attain. I pray the angels are listening and silently saying yes.
Mother Angel
when my mom died, I
got a ceramic angel
as a gift. She had
long, swept-back hair like mother
and stars lit up on her dress.
I struggle to think
that mother thrives in heaven’s
cold, with dim starlight.
I see her stunning with sun
on her skin, the ocean close.
***
Image credit: Pinterest
Esther Chilton 
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