In my writer’s group, we always begin our meetings with some kind of writing prompt. The prompt this week, provided by one of our members from A Writer’s Book of Days, was “It was a summer of blue black nights.” I enjoyed the prompt, and decided to post my subsequent writing here.
It was a summer of blue black nights; a time of baseball mornings, tree-climbing afternoons, and evenings spent in far-off lands. What could be better than spending twelve hours a day with five playmates who understood your childish creativity and enthusiasm completely, as though they were extensions of your own imagination? Days were made up of stories, not hours, and every night when the stars came out it was a magical kind of bittersweet ending to a well-told tale that wraps up at just the perfect moment. Loyalty, courage, and kindness were strengthened in our small hearts as we learned to either dispel our pride or succumb to it. Decisions were made based on simple right and wrong, no adult-like gray areas slipped into our dreams. We were young and didn’t understand much yet, but what we did know, we knew to the depths of our happy souls.