Summer

Summer Days --

Cicadas are praying

for ever lasting summer.

Silence

Deep blue eyes lingering on me.

Lips soft, shimmering with wetness.

Hair rolling down the shoulder. Long and brown.

The corners of her mouth crawling upwards,

with a hidden smile.

Fingers lightly resting on mine.

A frozen moment of forever.

A Writing Prompt (10 min)

The end of the party was nowhere to be seen. Morning has broken, and that was when things started to happened.

“Would you mind your own business,” I heard a voice.

“My business is all yours,” another answered.

I turned around. A tall giraffe was arguing with a monkey, high on the tree above her.

“If your business is mine, how come you're sitting in my tree,” asked the giraffe.

“I was here first,” sulked the monkey.

“No you were not,” insisted the giraffe, as she started climbing up the lower branches.

“It's my tree, it's mine,” called the monkey in agitation. Then, he picked up an apple and tossed it at the giraffe. The apple bounced off the the giraffe, and hit an old lady, who was fervently clipping badges to her yellow apron.

“She is turning all green,” screamed the monkey, fleeting up the canopy.

“Let me help you Dear,” offered the giraffe, and with all his might tried to pull off the apple.

He failed, and this is the reason that until this very day, old ladies with green hair, carry giraffes whenever they stand under an apple tree.

The end.