The Swans On The Seine

“O ugly ducklings grown into beauty, are ye homesick too?”

Thus I, standing in the shadows of the House of Quasimodo, watching you glide upon these placid waters, O snow-winged sisters of my soul!

“Swans fly south for the winter” You, of whom I first read in the sun-baked plains of my homeland, a world soaked in the scents of masala and mangoes – in this city of eternal Autumn, you have made yourselves a second Spring.

You know not my home, O Daughters of Winter. I know not yours. Yet here the twain shall meet, Once Upon a September.

From Guest Contributor Hibah Shabkhez

Hibah is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, a teacher of French as a foreign language and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.

The Wagon

Caroline stared up at the clouds on the horizon. Or they might have been mountains. Or cacti. She couldn't say anymore. In the deserts of Utah, everything looked the same. Just like everything had looked the same in the plains of Wyoming, and everything had looked the same in the mountains of Colorado. Traveling by wagon had to be the slowest way to get anywhere.

Caroline wasn't actually doing any of the work, and whether that increased her tedium or just allowed her idle nature to dream up mischief, she found their pace was becoming unbearable.

"Pull it faster, Daddy!"

The Daily Theme from Figment April 2, 2012

You are in transit, heading somewhere you're either thrilled or dreading to go. Don't explicitly say how you feel about it, but through your description of the destination and the journey, make it clear.