Your word prompt this week is
RICH
When this word came into my head, my first thought was that it represents something I’ll never be. But that’s in terms of cash – I have an abundance of riches when it comes to family, friends, my work, home and many, many other things. I have an Uncle Rich(ard) and unfortunately I like rich food. We use the word to talk about vividness – the richness of the colours or textures. Land might be rich in certain nutrients and many of use live in places with rich histories. What does the 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 BANK.
Piggy Bank
I put my penny in the bank
to save for rainy days.
The years went by all bright and dry
so there my penny stays.
“You can take this suggestion to the bank.”
“That good?”
“Yup. Blockbuster Video stock is going to make you a fortune.”
Susan Batten:
Evening
Our golden day is over,
the sky has dimmed to white.
Cloud banks advance in serried ranks,
a mackerel sky tonight.
But don’t despair, beloved –
the cloud banks never stay.
We’ll find ourselves some sunshine,
with tears, along the way.
Rich Man, Poor Girl
Will I see you tonight? Can you get away
to unwind after a taxing day?
I’ll smooth your brow, dismiss your fears,
make you forget preceding years.
Come to me. I’ll lift your mood
with wine and kisses. Taste the food
of love. Indulge your every whim.
Sugar, I’m all yours: young and slim.
Why settle for dry, wrinkled blubber?
Your home from home’s with me, my lover,
where Baby’s at your beck and call.
I’m banking on you, after all.
Banks are a necessary evil, I guess. I’d rather be able to see my money, but then, it can grow. So I leave it where it is in my hometown, yet I can still access it from down here in Orange thanks to computers.
We have many waterways down here, so standing up n the riverbank, tossing a line in the river to fish would be a way to wonderful activity, but I wouldn’t know here lately. The hubs comes home from work and sits in his chair almost all night. Weekends are for running errands and church. I did get him to take me to the ocean recently for a free day of fishing, I just wish he’d want to do it like he used to. I think he’s trying to get old on me. He’s a year younger! I’m 65 and unless I’m hurting, I don’t feel old…why is he rushing it? Maybe, he is just sick and tired.
Elusive?
Banking
On higher
Ground Robin made
A nest in the
Chestnut
I’ve been lucky to see Robins nesting in my hedge row. And attempts to make nests in the Forsythia. But the lawn mower noise and proximity to the neighbors’ cats must have made Robin think that height would be better in the Chestnut tree. I had been wondering why I’ve seen robins in my yard – flying up into that tree, they usually don’t go to the hanging seed feeders. I did take a good look and found the nest this morning. Though the robins do need to chase away the squirrels! And I have seen that happen.
A bank is one of those words that changes depending on where you’re standing.
It can be a place that keeps your money safe.A riverbank where you sit and watch the water flow. Or a bank of clouds gathering before a summer storm.
Growing up, I always preferred the riverbank.
There is something comforting about sitting close to moving water.Watching it carry away leaves, reflections, and worries without ever asking where they came from.
A river never argues with its banks.
It simply follows the path before it, adapting to every bend, every stone, every season.
Perhaps there is a lesson in that.
We spend so much of life trying to control the current, when sometimes all we need is a safe place to stand and watch it flow.
The other kind of bank holds numbers.
Savings. Debts. Balances.
Useful things, certainly.
But the richest accounts I have ever known cannot be measured in money.
They are filled with memories. Friendships. Acts of kindness. The laughter of family gathered around a table. The quiet loyalty of a faithful pet.
Those are the treasures that never lose their value.
If life were a bank account, I would rather be rich in love than in gold.
Because in the end, those are the deposits that keep paying interest long after everything else has faded.
The Plan
The wind worried the cottonwoods along the creek while three men huddled in the abandoned line shack, each carrying the look of someone who had outlived too many chances. Hunger had pared them lean. Dust had settled so deeply into their clothes it seemed stitched there. Outside, the prairie stretched without pity.
Mack unfolded a hand-drawn map across an overturned crate. “Bank sits here,” he said, tapping the page. “One marshal. One clerk. Payday tomorrow.”
Nobody answered at first. They all understood that a desperate plan grows quieter the closer it comes to being spoken aloud.
Old Rusk spat into the dirt. “A bank ain’t a stagecoach. You rob one, the whole territory remembers.”
“The territory already remembers us,” Mack replied.
Eli, youngest of the three, stared through the doorway toward the fading light. He had once believed the frontier rewarded grit. Instead it had rewarded railroads, fences, and men wearing polished boots behind polished desks. The rest were left to bargain with bad luck.
They argued over horses, escape routes, and whether to fire only if cornered. Every detail carried the weight of a gravestone. No one dreamed of riches anymore. They talked instead of winter flour, warm cabins, dry clothes, and children they hoped still spoke kindly of their absent fathers.
When darkness settled, Mack folded the map with surprising care, as though it were a family Bible instead of a blueprint for felony.
“We ride at sunrise.”
Each of the men nodded. Their resolve felt less like courage than surrender to necessity.
Beyond the shack, a lone coyote called across the empty countryside. The sound lingered longer than any man’s promise. By morning, the prairie would witness either the making of fortunes or the burial of fools, and it possessed the same hard indifference toward both. In that country, justice sometimes arrived late, but consequence never lost the trail.
I’ve already written several posts about my banking days having spent 7 years as a cashier in various High Street branches and over 12 in the operations centre for an American Bank, first as a general clerk, then section leader and signatory, then finally a financial analyst until redundancy.
I’ve also written about our days on the boat and the river banks with their exclusive wildlife and tranquility. The picture below is half of a flock of over 100 Canada geese!
The first time I was behind the tiller, I almost crashed into the bank under a willow tree as at four miles an hour I felt I was going too fast and panicked.
Then coming here we had the fog banks on the beach
and you would not believe the sand drifts on the wrong side of the beach huts facing away from the water after heavy winds in January 2025!
The Bungling Bank Bandit
A hopeful thief named Ned McGee
Declared, ‘Today’s the day for me!’
He donned a mask with practised flair,
The tripped and tumbled down the stair.
He ran to the bank with a fearsome shout,
But found the bank was emptied out
‘It’s Wednesday!’ cried the befuddled fool,
‘They close half-day, that’s just not cool!’
The next week he went with sack in hand,
Prepared to rob with stern command,
But he slipped upon the polished floor,
And skidded halfway through the door.
The guards looked up, tried not to laugh.
As did the cashiers and all the staff,
‘I’ve come for your dosh!’ he cried,
‘First take a ticket,’ the clerk replied.
He queued politely, cap in hand,
The most patient criminal in the land,
When called at last, he gave a grin,
‘I’d like to do a robbery… Can I come in?’
The cashier blinked. ”You need ID.’
He passed his licence cheerfully,
The manager, with a kindly face,
Said, ‘Son, I think you’re in the wrong place.’
He left with just a branded pen,
A calendar, and a rubber hen,
Now every bank knows Ned by name,
But they greet him warmly, just the same.
He never stole a single note,
But kept his mask and old trench coat,
His life of crime was short, so brief,
Yes, he was the world’s most useless thief!
The Limerick Guy:
I used to be a dynamic think tank.
Now I find myself drawing a blank.
So I have resigned
That I’m losing my mind…
And I’m overdrawn at the memory bank
michnavs:
You took hold of my hand and gently guided me through the door.
“Shhh, don’t make a sound. I’ll see you after class; let’s go somewhere,” you whispered.
My excitement was palpable, impossible to contain.
“Where are we going?” I eagerly asked.
“What are we going to do, and why?” I inquired further.
For the first time, that one-hour class felt like an eternity. I paid little attention to what was happening inside the classroom. Damn! It was the first time you asked me out, and the idea thrilled me to no end.
Finally, class ended.
We hurriedly made our way, leaving everyone else behind. We didn’t even say goodbye to our friends; we simply went on our way.
It was past 2 in the afternoon. We walked with such haste, bumping into other students along the hallway. “We need to leave the school grounds immediately,” you stated.
Faster. That’s what I did.
Once we escaped the chaos of the university corridors, you handed me a plastic bag filled with bills and coins. Yes, money.
“We have to rush to the bank; it closes at 3:00 PM,” you informed me.
Oh, so we’re going to deposit money in the bank. I was initially confused. That’s when you explained, “You see, my girlfriend and I are saving money for our future. Whenever our mini piggy banks are filled, we break them and deposit the contents in the bank.”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. But I also couldn’t believe the situation I had unknowingly found myself in.
Damn! I thought you were asking me out on a date.
Blind Wilderness:
When I saw this word, I immediately went “GRRRRRRRR.”
When I was younger, probably like most people, I took banks for granted. In fact, banks were usually quite good and friendly and helpful when I was younger. Today, it is hell on earth trying to get OUR money.
Both my husband and myself are now unable to get into the bank, and when I could to think of it, banking has changed so much anyway that probably most people don’t need to go into the bank very often. However, we have a terrible problem actually getting our money to pay cleaners, tradesmen etc.
I guess you are all as fed up as we are when trying to ring the bank. The enormous amount of time it takes, pressing one number, then another, then another, then having to listen to some godawful music, then having to verify even that we are actually alive and kicking. Maybe even that we were born.
Once we finally do get through to an actual person, it is as if we are fraudsters. My husband asks for a large amount of money to be delivered to our house each month in order to pay our cleaners who will only accept cash. It comes to over one hundred pounds a week, and even that is cheap given what some cost. My husband gets asked each time, even though they have notes on his file, what he wants the money for. When he tells them they don’t believe him. They then tell him that he must get cleaners who don’t ask for cash. There are NONE in our town. All of the cleaning companies are run by Polish people, and all the cleaners are Polish people. They do not culturally deal in anything but cash and so how are we to get care from cleaners if we can’t get our money from the bank?
This is a running sore as it happens every time and my husband puts in a Complaint every time.
I am aware that we are heading towards a cashless society, which I am not happy about, but what can we do about it?
On the other hand, I do not like having so much cash in the house, but I object to being questioned every time on what we want it for and then being treated as if we are fraudsters.
OK, moan over.
Rall:
she said thank you
as the teller handed over
the money at gun point
ha… a courteous bank robber
old habits die hard
Suzette B’s Blog:
Reclines
sprawling river mist
a cottage, a bank reclining
The Adirondacks
Therapy Bits:
A few weeks ago I had a situation occur when I went to the bank to lodge some cash.
I thought I’d be able to have a staff member help me to lodge it, but when I went inside, there were no staff at the counter.
You had to lodge the cash using a machine.
It was a complicated process, one I couldn’t do by myself.
My PA was with me, and she was able to lodge the cash for me, but it did mean I had to give her my pin number on my card.
I trust her, and she has had my pin number before, and she’s never taken money on me.
But the fact is I shouldn’t have to do this. I should be able to do my own banking.
Accessible banking in the bank should be a standard thing.
I do use the online app, but there should be staff at the counter for customers.
What about all the elderly people who don’t have online banking, like my mom for example.
What are they supposed to do?
The man named Frank was a crank
Too bad he worked in a bank
As a prominent teller
He let off a smeller
And this time it wasn’t a prank
The Peaceful River
I woke up in the early morning, and I looked at the peaceful view in my window. It was a sunny day with a clear, pleasant weather, complete with cold air filling the atmosphere.
I decided to have a nice, quiet morning walk, filled with the beauty of nature that filled both sides of the pathway. The birds were making chirping sounds as I kept walking. Then, I saw a river in the terrain, and it was the best part of my walk.
I moved closer to see the water flowing steadily and naturally in both the river banks. The water was also clean and emitted both the cool feeling and the lifelike scent. I took a deep breath afterward, and a refreshing feel came to me.
Not only that, but the water was also dodging the rocks as it flows in its direction, creating a nice splash that made the scent clearer and the cold breeze stronger while continuing its natural flow.
The bright yellow flowers were also spread out in both river banks, and they looked very gorgeous. All the flowers bloomed completely, and they emitted a wonderful fragrance. Those flowers added to the beauty of the terrain.
All of this made this walk a very enjoyable walk, full of beauty’s nature, and I was feeling really thankful for it as I went back home. The look of this terrain during my walk was really memorable, and the ocean was very peaceful.
The Riverbank of Moälven
A riverbank is the sloping terrain that directly borders the river. It separates the flowing water from the surrounding land and helps maintain the river’s path. I grew up nearby a river in northern Sweden called Moälven. Moälven is a small river, 140 kilometers, or 87 miles long. Moälven goes through Bredbyn, Själevad and Örnksöldsvik and it ends in Örnsköldsviksfjärden, a bay, or a fjord, in the High Coast region of northern Sweden.
Moälven was used for timber floating in the past. Forestry and logging used to be a big business in the region where I grew up, and it still is. However, timber is usually not transported via timber floating now a day. Moälven features a lot of wildlife, including fish, birds, and beavers. Moälven was a stronghold of the Eurasian beaver already 50 years ago as it was recovering in Europe from near extinction. You could sometimes see foxes and moose in the forest surrounding the river and you could pick blueberries, raspberries and other berries in the forest.
In addition to living nearby the river, we also used to have a summer cabin that was located not far from the river. For these reasons I spent a lot of my childhood and youth on the banks of Moälven river. I used to jump into the river from the riverbank, I sat or stood on the riverbank as I was fishing, and we docked our small boats by the riverbank, tying them to a tree with a rope. There were also bicycle paths next to the river.
Some of the riverbanks were sandy, a result of the river being so winding and this caused the riverbank to flatten out were the stream was slow. So, there were several small sand beaches along the river that people rarely visited. That way you could have your private beach.
I should explain that in Swedish the word “flod” means a big river like “fleuve” in French. The Swedish word “älv” means a medium sized river or smaller river like “rivière” in French. The Swedish word “å” means a small river, stream, or creek.
I keep a small bank of quiet moments.
Morning light on the porch.
A cup warming my hands.
The soft shift of the day before it begins.
I draw from it when life tilts.
It steadies me every time.
Oyster Catcher
Along the muddy bank he stands,
where tide has carved the cracked terrain,
a chisel bill of burning orange
dips and probes the salted plain.
Black and white, a tuxedo bird
bent low against the grassy rise,
where nests are tucked in tangled green
just steps from where the water lies.
The bank remembers every step,
each print pressed soft in silver clay ….
between the marsh grass and the mud,
this small patrolman keeps his way.
Tirade Of A Lone Soldier
When the Company decided to downsize, the earmarked lot was not outrightly thrown out of the job. Designated as “Officers On Special Duty” they were just made to sit the whole day in a room without any assignment for an indefinite period.
A few incorrigible optimists thought that it was just a temporary phase and that they’d get reinstated in no time in the mainstream, wishfully, with a promotion. A few, after marking the daily attendance, went about their personal work, unperturbed. Then there were a few who took to spirituality – creatively utilising the hours getting connected to their innermost core in a state of deep meditation till the cover got busted by loud snores emanating from their disloyal nostrils.
The clever ones banked on the ‘goodwill’ of their seniors and took advantage of this golden opportunity to build greater professional rapport by selflessly running their personal errands and facilitating meticulous execution of their domestic chores.
Most welcomed this leisurely interlude contented that at least the salary was not being stopped from getting regularly deposited in their bank accounts at the end of each month.
Unfortunately, I, a workaholic, was admitted to a mental hospital by the end of the second month.
Acute depression, they said it was.
***
In the asylum, after the initial period of medication and counseling, I took upon myself the task of tending to the garden, sweating it out in the heat of peak summer, planting banks of fresh seeds which soon erupted in a flood of tiny green shoots to the delight of the staff responsible for the beautification of the gloomy facade.
In the afternoons I read out volumes after volumes of motivational tomes to the ‘quieter ones’ which put them into a soporific state in surprisingly lesser and lesser time compelling me to suspect more and more the intent of the writers as days wore on.
A few got themselves released before completion of treatment to the chagrin of their medical and nursing attendants. As I was not privy to the closed door exit interviews the cause of their hasty retreat and the huffed look on their guardians’/care person’s visages seemed utterly baffling.
Notwithstanding, in the evenings I’d robustly deploy myself in providing meaningful assistance in the Administration Office, infusing order in dealings that appeared to be chaotically managed till then.
In general, I made myself exceptionally useful for whatever time my stay in there was destined to be.
In fact, with my active involvement in the day to day functioning, I had almost come to enjoy my incarceration.
***
I knew the inmates found me extremely helpful and cooperative.
The staff visibly valued my presence.
The doctors looked immensely satisfied with my astonishing progress.
My Evaluation Report read in bold “enthusiastically work oriented.”
***
But despite my undisputed achievements as an unusually ardent patient passionately committed to providing excellent in-house services, I, could not, for the love of God, figure out why a month later they decided to put me on sedation for most hours of the day.
In case you have any idea pray illuminate, will you?
As I was wandering
wandering in this block
block of dreams and promises
promises of hope round the clock
I listen to the call
call of life in stream
stream flowing so divine
divine as our souls gleam
No more suffering I pray
pray for us and the world
world full of hope
hope and never be hurled
Sweater Girl
The bank across the street closes at five. I know this because my office window looks out on their lot. Tonight I wasn’t paying attention to the lot or anything in it. I’d made fast friends with the bottle I keep in the bottom drawer for hot, humid nights- the kind where even thinking about thinking can make a man sweat.
I was weighing my options for air-conditioning, flipping through the little black book in my head, trying to remember which of the numbers in it belonged to women who liked me enough to share a cool room, when I heard the shot.
One crack. Flat. Mean. The kind of thing this town doesn’t much go in for during business hours.
Then came footsteps- fast, uneven- first on the sidewalk, then in the stairwell that leads up to my office. I waited for the second set of footfalls, the pursuer, the shadow behind the panic. Nothing.
My door flew open anyway.
I made her for the bank teller from across the street right away. The cute one. Had a thing for cashmere sweaters. Right now, she was fighting for her breath like her lungs owed her money.
“Somebody’s shooting at you,” I said. Not a question.
She nodded, still working on the breathing.
I got up slow. I checked the street- quiet, empty, nothing moving but the heat.
“Anyone follow you?”
“I… I don’t know,” she managed.
I stepped past her, down the stairs, into the street. The air hit me like a wet towel. The bank lot sat still. I crossed the street, keeping my eyes open for the shooter she’d been so intent on bringing to my doorstep.
Didn’t take long.
A guy was slumped against the brick wall just inside the alley, blood working its way down the front of his shirt. He wasn’t going anywhere.
I crouched beside him. His eyes flicked up at me- scared, confused, dying, in no particular order.
“She… shot me,” he whispered.
I didn’t have to ask who “she” was.
Behind me, across the street, I heard the same fast, uneven footsteps I’d heard twenty minutes ago. I turned, but she was already gone, her and that cashmere sweater- swallowed up by one of the alleys on the far side.
I looked down at the now dead man, then back at the empty street, then at the whiskey-shaped hole where my good sense used to be.
I’ve been played by better liars in worse light. Just never one that looked that good in a cashmere sweater.
***
Esther Chilton 
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