My first attempt at one of one of The Secret Keeper‘s writing prompts, #85 to be precise. The Challenge Words were: | SCORE | SLEEP | FREE | CALM | ESCAPE |
The dream scored the senses into the flesh but the soul still wasn’t sticking. It wanted to be free. It didn’t want to stay in the body. It wanted to escape.
The sensations flared again as another reality seared its way through the mind, snatching at the soul. The body laid calm and still as the soul bucked and shied away.
This world burned. This reality was pain. The soul was too strong to stay tethered to this weak little cage.
But… then… they knew. So they tore it. They took infinity and divided it and pushed the broken bits into the bodies. They sewed the tattered edges into the mind and pinned it down through the veins.
Now you know why something is missing. They took you from yourself.
But because you are still you, if you find the rest of you, then you’re even more you than you were before.
This is a response to Promptuarium’s Prompt: It’s Okay.
A Mourning of Self
First, there was the accident.
Then, they found the window that wouldn’t close in her heart and the doors that became parachutes against the flow.
Then her brain became a circuit, shorted and flickering.
She bathed in the sun and stood watching her husband play in the waves that broke against her young ones but would have knocked her down.
Every hug was given, every kiss a surprise attack, every embrace long and gentle while her eyes sparkled like the ocean and her smile was sad.
Her family met her at the ocean’s edge, their laughter forming bubbles in the tiny bits of ocean she let fall as downtrodden prayers.
“You don’t have to love me.”
“But, Mom, we already do.”
Trying my hand at Pool, the latest prompt from Laura Feasey’s Literary Lion Writing Prompts.
The Dying Pool
The beauty was gone.
We had thought he was special, my sister and I.
He wove magic with his words by the big fire. The cacophony had quieted for him and his passion had born infant oceans from those who listened.
We had thought he was born of the sea.
He came to us, gazed in and truly saw us.
We thought he was returning to the sea.
He was not magic. He was not of the sea. He thrashed and churned our home with his panic.
We let him float away when he was still.
Word Count: 96
Then the labyrinth lost it’s way.
The literary lion is in mourning, and so this fortnight’s challenge is Bowie inspired… and rather scarily, the chosen word – Star – seems so very apt. It was F Scott Fitzgerald that dared to tell the great Hemingway that he couldn’t write a story in six words. Hemingway delivered a literary KO with “For sale, […]