Mrs. Eleanor Whitfield has walked this alley every day for seven years, three months, and sixteen days. Even on Sundays. Especially on Sundays.
Her neighbors see the contradictions: the Hermès bag (a gift from her late daughter) paired with sensible trainers, the carefully set silver hair above a patchwork cardigan that defies all fashion logic. They whisper about the elegant woman who chooses the grittiest route through their neighborhood, avoiding the main streets where cars could easily reach.
What they don't know is that the bag contains twenty-seven letters, each one addressed to "Resident" at various house numbers along streets she'll never visit. Letters she writes every morning at 4 AM, when the world is still quiet enough to hear her thoughts clearly.
"Dear Resident,
Today someone thought of you before they knew your name. Someone hoped your morning coffee was exactly the right temperature, that your commute was easier than expected, that you found a reason to smile..."
She signs them only "A neighbor who believes in you."
The alley is too narrow for cars, which means it's too narrow for doubt to follow her. Here, between brick walls that have witnessed a century of footsteps, she can be who she really is: not the widow who lost her only child, not the woman whose friends worry she's "losing herself," but someone who still believes in the radical act of caring for strangers.
Behind the blue door at number 43 lives Marcus, a young father working three jobs. He doesn't know that every Tuesday, Mrs. Whitfield slips an envelope under his neighbor's door with a grocery store gift card and a note: "Because everyone deserves fresh fruit, and because I remember what it was like."
The prestigious bag holds more than letters. It carries the weight of intentional hope: stamps bought with purpose, pens that never run dry, small acts of faith that ripple outward into a world that told her she was invisible.
Every day, even Sunday. Especially Sunday.
Because hope, she learned from a quote that found her when she needed it most, is not a feeling. It's a choice you make with your whole body, one careful step at a time, down an alley too narrow for anything but the most essential of journeys.
I’m blessed to read this and have you join the prompt station! It’s so beautiful and you’ve focused on the right details that bring the colours of your story to life. You made me believe I’m the father and I’m mrs Whitfield. Great writing does that! Thank you Marpy!
It was Dora’s favorite day of the year. The day she taught her Sunday school class about Joseph and his brothers. She’d wear her crazy patchwork coat to mimic his famous tunic of many colors gifted by his dad, Jake. I mean when else could she wear the damn thing? If you’ve got a gun, shoot it.
Joe had ups and downs in his long life, just like her. But ultimately, he had faith. Which helped him outlast kidnappers, prison and treachery from jilted women, a forgetful butler and, worst of all, family.
As Dora walked back to her empty flat, that sustained her. Faith. Kept her warmer than her silly jacket. She did, though, have one nagging regret.
Maybe next year she’d save the leopard print pants for a different day.
I don’t appreciate that you made me go back to the picture and look for the trousers’ pattern. I got lost in your piece I forgot the pattern altogether.
So far the disguise had worked but his arms felt rather heavy. He wasn't sure if he could carry this briefcase much further. He had never had to carry a briefcase in his life.
As he walked down the deserted streets of this crime ridden town he was wondering if he really needed the disguise. After all he had gotten everything his little heart desired but this one last thing that was nagging at him.
He wandered on until he came to the door at the specific address he had been given. He stood looking at the door thinking he had to do something he had never done in his life, knock on a door. Building up what was left of his strength he reached out.
“Ow,” he said as his bruised hand hit the door.
The door swung open and there stood his best friend in the world in all his splendour.
“Nice disguise,” his friend said. “Now we can relive our glory days.” The door closed on a life once lived. He was now ready to start something new.
The Woman in the Narrow Lane
Mrs. Eleanor Whitfield has walked this alley every day for seven years, three months, and sixteen days. Even on Sundays. Especially on Sundays.
Her neighbors see the contradictions: the Hermès bag (a gift from her late daughter) paired with sensible trainers, the carefully set silver hair above a patchwork cardigan that defies all fashion logic. They whisper about the elegant woman who chooses the grittiest route through their neighborhood, avoiding the main streets where cars could easily reach.
What they don't know is that the bag contains twenty-seven letters, each one addressed to "Resident" at various house numbers along streets she'll never visit. Letters she writes every morning at 4 AM, when the world is still quiet enough to hear her thoughts clearly.
"Dear Resident,
Today someone thought of you before they knew your name. Someone hoped your morning coffee was exactly the right temperature, that your commute was easier than expected, that you found a reason to smile..."
She signs them only "A neighbor who believes in you."
The alley is too narrow for cars, which means it's too narrow for doubt to follow her. Here, between brick walls that have witnessed a century of footsteps, she can be who she really is: not the widow who lost her only child, not the woman whose friends worry she's "losing herself," but someone who still believes in the radical act of caring for strangers.
Behind the blue door at number 43 lives Marcus, a young father working three jobs. He doesn't know that every Tuesday, Mrs. Whitfield slips an envelope under his neighbor's door with a grocery store gift card and a note: "Because everyone deserves fresh fruit, and because I remember what it was like."
The prestigious bag holds more than letters. It carries the weight of intentional hope: stamps bought with purpose, pens that never run dry, small acts of faith that ripple outward into a world that told her she was invisible.
Every day, even Sunday. Especially Sunday.
Because hope, she learned from a quote that found her when she needed it most, is not a feeling. It's a choice you make with your whole body, one careful step at a time, down an alley too narrow for anything but the most essential of journeys.
I’m blessed to read this and have you join the prompt station! It’s so beautiful and you’ve focused on the right details that bring the colours of your story to life. You made me believe I’m the father and I’m mrs Whitfield. Great writing does that! Thank you Marpy!
My personal nightmare, an urban street .
Urban clothes, sneakers on her feet
I yearn for green nature, leaves and such
I love the animals amd birds so very much.
An evening on deck is better than theater
And a garden where voles crater
Rich ,dark soil that raises seeds
A day in nature is all I need .
So much better than an urban street
Where you dont know what monsters you might meet
So, come with me to a mountainside
Where nature thrives and does reside
Thank you , Writer Pilgrim !
Thank you , Scott !
Thank you , David !
Thank you , Bill !
Thank you Theresa for bringing me to a meeting point with nature from the city’s busy hustle and bustle!
Thank you , Marpy !
Thank you , Kate !
Some great stuff today! Write on dear ones
Definitely! Every week is filled with wonderful stories and poems!
Rainbow Connection
It was Dora’s favorite day of the year. The day she taught her Sunday school class about Joseph and his brothers. She’d wear her crazy patchwork coat to mimic his famous tunic of many colors gifted by his dad, Jake. I mean when else could she wear the damn thing? If you’ve got a gun, shoot it.
Joe had ups and downs in his long life, just like her. But ultimately, he had faith. Which helped him outlast kidnappers, prison and treachery from jilted women, a forgetful butler and, worst of all, family.
As Dora walked back to her empty flat, that sustained her. Faith. Kept her warmer than her silly jacket. She did, though, have one nagging regret.
Maybe next year she’d save the leopard print pants for a different day.
I don’t appreciate that you made me go back to the picture and look for the trousers’ pattern. I got lost in your piece I forgot the pattern altogether.
Another amazing pic. I may have exaggerated that it’s leopard but it certainly was busy and clashed!
I love that almost everyone of you follow your own way. You depart from the picture and set sail.
Far From The Riches
So far the disguise had worked but his arms felt rather heavy. He wasn't sure if he could carry this briefcase much further. He had never had to carry a briefcase in his life.
As he walked down the deserted streets of this crime ridden town he was wondering if he really needed the disguise. After all he had gotten everything his little heart desired but this one last thing that was nagging at him.
He wandered on until he came to the door at the specific address he had been given. He stood looking at the door thinking he had to do something he had never done in his life, knock on a door. Building up what was left of his strength he reached out.
“Ow,” he said as his bruised hand hit the door.
The door swung open and there stood his best friend in the world in all his splendour.
“Nice disguise,” his friend said. “Now we can relive our glory days.” The door closed on a life once lived. He was now ready to start something new.
I am Temperance
I am the middle of the road
I find balance, a meeting place
In between spaces, shared loads
My coat of many colours
Is divided, it is so
The double lines each side the road, guide which way I go
I bow my grey head into the wind
My feet trudge, they are not slow
I am deliberate, intentional
My head full of long ago
I used to think I was left
And you were right
We were at either ends
And out of sight
That got us nowhere fast
And blew us apart
Like a twin sister twister
And a knife through our heart
So I trudge down the middle
A well worn path
I just need you to meet me
At the half way mark
I am Temperance
in the middle of the road
Missing my other half
Haunted by what I now know