BraveWrite, Week 2

It’s Hump Day, people! The best and worst day of a work week.

I have felt entirely sapped of my energy and I am hoping I can turn it around today. Fingers crossed! I don’t need to sleep in and waste the day away doing nothing which is what yesterday taught me.

My mom came over and helped sand, clean, and put the first coat of Tremclad on our awful metal railings. They look better already after that. However, being productive didn’t quite get me out of this weird mood slump I’ve been in so here’s hoping today’s the day.

Anyways, I hope you are on your way to a wonderful weekend and may my BraveWrites help you out!

 

September 12th

She stared out the car window and watched the rain streak down it. Her mother talked at her, but she didn’t hear the words. Only emptiness.

But she was #encouraged by their want to help and surprised when they confessed their own visits to a psychiatrist. Maybe there was hope.

 

September 13th

She watches as her mother takes another drag. The cigarette’s blue-tinged smoke shimmers in the light and dissipates.

A silent, slow threat.

And she sheds another tear. Greying skin, ragged coughs, the crimson drops that spell the end. She waits for #cancer to claim her mom.

 

September 14th

Video game consoles litter the house, attached to various TVs. She turns on the xbox 360 and plays Assassin’s Creed. Her character scales rough pick, runs across clay tile, and lives.

She envies his freedom though she is the #gamer.

 

September 15th

Her brother pushed her under the water as part of the game. His hand was like steel on her head and she fought to surface. To suck in oxygen once more.

Panic had set in as time slowed. When he finally released her, she was ravenous for air.

Her #umbrage was now rage.

 

September 16th

The #vibration of the nail file on her toes unnerved her and served as a reminder. She was unwelcome here.

She was no pretty girl who wore make-up, fake nails, or got her hail done. She was a tomboy whose hands were filthy and rough.

But she stayed in the salon.

 

September 17th

She stood with her friends and their boyfriends in line, waiting to have her prom ticket checked. It was clutched in a white-knuckled fist as her anxiety took over. Her companions laughed and gasped as they entered the hall.

She suffocated internally on the #pizzazz.

 

September 18th

Her #alacrity had nothing to do with a fear of failure. It had everything to do with her need to prove them wrong. She was tired of the comparisons that ground her spirit into dust. She was tired of fearing whispers and taunting looks. She’d stand strong.

BraveWrite, Week 1

Happy rainy Thursday! This was meant to go up yesterday but time got away from me.

This is one of the prompts I have started to do on Twitter and I plan for it to up on Wednesdays. Make it a… Hump Day sort of thing.

Just like the very short stories, the prompt word has the ‘#’ in front of it. Feel free to take those words and write something around them, inspired by them, or etc!

 

Hope you enjoy!

 

September 5th

Her nature was #bellicose in every sense of the word. Small issues became fixed grudges that called for violence in hopes of resolution.

But she tamped down the need for confrontation. You catch flies with honey, not vinegar, she reminded herself and forced a smile.

 

September 6th

His bare feet carried him further from the house he had called home. The cries, shattered dishes, and poorly patched walls were behind him. His tears blurred his vision but the bite of gravel told him to stop.

Sat under the oak tree, his mother’s voice screamed, #skedaddle, again

 

September 7th

She twittered about her cabin, attuned to its energies, and grabbed various vials. With measuring spoons and cups, she poured ingredients into the cast iron cauldron and stirred.

Singing the spell, her #melange bubbled and simmered the rainbow of colors. It was done

 

September 8th

She would serve as the #conduit tonight and the fear it sent through her curled her toes. Shivers ran down her spine and her heart beat furiously inside her chest. She was suffocating within her own skin and helpless against their wishes.

She heard them call her.

 

September 9th

His mind created insults as sharp as blade to slay himself. The words were grenades, blasting him #asunder. The onslaught was endless, the booms echoing in an eternity of repetition. His skin tingled to life as his heart wished to crumble. He continued on in his shell.

 

September 10th

#Prisms were transparent, relaying rainbows across the world. Their presence a blessing, a joy, uplifting to those with one in their life.She was scarred, cracked. She absorbed the dark like a sponge and kept it to herself. Basked in it. No #prism to shine light.

#PicturePoetryPrompt: Gun Control

From North of the border,
I watch my American friends
suffer time and again.
A vicious cycle repeating.

Bullets fired from GUNS
are worth more than
LIVES
I hear again and again.

And yet there’s a growing chorus
Of voices.
Young
Old
Female
Male
Gay
Straight
Black
White.

They scream for CONTROL
United against a bigger threat.
They don’t want to hide
Afraid and alone
from angry people who take their rage
like tidal waves
and crash into innocents.

They want change.
Not to take all the GUNS away
But to restrict the types
Create stiffer rules.
What threat is this
to your freedoms,
My GUN owning friends?

They should be free
to feel SAFE
In a Grocery store
In a School
At a Concert
At a Hospital
At a Synagogue
At a Church

ANYWHERE.

But the NRA has friends
who view CONTROL
as an evil worse than plague
WHICH IT’S NOT.
When did your fellow Americans’ LIVES
come to mean so little?

I see this on my screens
In our papers.
As a Canadian,
I’m thankful for our GUN CONTROL.
I feel SAFE.
If only the change Americans need
would come on swift wings.
I wish you all could feel SAFE
On every day’s journeys.

You see,
I think no man, woman or child
should be afraid to leave their home
for fear of flying bullets
shot from vicious GUNS
hunting them down.

Very Short Stories, Week 8

Your favourite Monday post is here, and it contains my #vss365 for the week! Seems like I enjoyed darker themes, but they have their place, too, right?

Twitter’s #vss365 has kept me going, and engaged on otherwise horrible days of late. It has kept my anxiety, depression, and etc at bay. I am very thankful for the word prompts that @_Irene_Dreams_ is coming up with, day after day, as a result. Check her out if you want some inspiration on a less than inspiring day!

Anyways, here are my very short stories!

 

June 4th

Sitting in the #lotus pose, she imagined a shield surrounding the green energy of her mind. Like a gardener, she plucked out the colours that belonged to others, and reinforced the wall. One day this will be second nature, she hoped, but first I must control this gift.

 

June 5th

Dressed in black, the figure stood before him, surrounded by fog. He clasped his hands before him in silent prayer, desperate for the #phantasm to evaporate. Eyes shut tight, he was startled by the weight of a hand on his shoulder, and he screamed his fear like a banshee.

 

June 6th

Words unspoken clawed at her throat, desperate to be released. But she knew if said, the divide would be too great, and the fires would burn past remembrance. Instead she played the part of a #craven, and smothered them into her darkest depths. Hopefully it was worth it.

 

June 7th

The #century’s past was one mired in
blood, sweat, broken bones,
and mangled bodies.
War,
Famine,
Pestilence,
and Death
rode forth,
claiming time
and land
with their cruelties.
Those with Faith
remained strong
and rallied.
Fighting for a Dawn
still hiding.

 

June 8th

Pillars of #smoke darkened the sky, and blocked the warmth of the sun. Rubble littered the street with both the dead and the living. Buildings stood on toppled legs, waiting to fall. The eerie silence filled with wails, and commands.

All on an otherwise normal day.

 

June 9th

The greens and browns of the room spoke to a woodland #motif, calming and wholesome. A crib made of maple stood in the corner, and beside it, a changing station. Sat in the nursing chair, she folded clothing on her growing tummy, and hummed lullabies to her future babe.

 

June 10th

#Wings float and flare above the water
Wings dip and dive through the air
Wings lift and laugh with the sunlight

Wings share the colours
Of a forgotten rainbow

Wings twirl and dance before our eyes
Wings magic and muster joy inside
Wings falter and fall from our lives

Finding, Removing, Replacing Words

It is a daunting task to be complete master over your work. Both its creator and editor and in some ways, its ultimate judge. We are our worst critics and this goes to whatever we produce.

The trick? Don’t feed that voice too much, because it will keep you frozen and you won’t move forward. It makes you think avoiding doing anything is the best choice and to follow the herd instead of yourself.

But tell the mother *&%$&* to shut up! Do what you need to do. At the end of the day, there is always that process of editing, erasing, replacing words, lines, colours. If it isn’t quite right, because YOU think so, you can fix that (or recruit someone to help if needs be).

It’s tedious, but I like finding, removing, and replacing words in my book. It adds, it changes, it evolves as a result of this process. The same way a painter, a sketcher, or a knitter build in layers, so too must a writer.

First, it starts with creation. Get it on a page, good or bad. It may feel like shit at points, but it is better to work with something than nothing. Kind of like trying to make a baked potato, but without heat. You get it on a page and then you apply heat to cook in the form of editing, revising, rereading (out loud to test flow). You get feedback and you use it grow your book, mold it into the final product.

And today that is what I have been doing (despite a late start and seemingly complete disregard for my self-created schedule). I am apply some more heat to my book by finding new words (creating new details, sentences, etc), and removing words that don’t work or do what I need them to do. The words I remove are sometimes replaced which I have a lot of fun with (just don’t try and brainstorm with me or I’ll lose the thread!).

I have only gotten two chapters done in this stage of cooking today, but I’m hoping to get five more done before I gotta make dinner and do laundry (the fun stuff, right?). I had to add some content, because of one of the changes and I enjoyed it.

Got my tunes going, my bottle of water in reach, and fingers not yet tired from scrolling/typing!

Hope today is full of productivity (if you want it to be)!

 

I don’t sit there waiting for that perfect, beautiful sentence, because I know I’m going to sit there forever. So, as I tell students -start out by tripping, why don’t you? Then get up and fall over again. Just as long as you go. ~ Kathryn Harrison

 

P.S. New song find of the day on Spotify for me:

Down by the Water by Amy Macdonald

Despite The Fear And Hate

{Below awaits my attempt at the Quatern style poem. Hope you enjoy!)

 

Stand tall despite the fear and hate

And drop their sharp blades from your hands

Pick up the pen, and write again

Fill the pages with scrolling lines

 

Work with the light of day and night

Stand tall despite the fear and hate

Quiet the doubts swirling inside

Break free the bars that cage your might

 

Your tale needs telling, use your voice

Others will listen, given the choice

Stand tall despite the fear and hate

Use it to fuel your writing craze

 

It is a daunting task you’ve set

One many will never have met

Success awaits the effort, and

Stand tall despite the fear and hate

Clothing, My Cross To Bear

My clothing mocks me

Every time I put it on.

It whispers awful things

And makes me wish I was gone.

It hangs from my shoulders

Or hugs my flabby hips.

It tells me how fat I am

In harsh and hurtful quips.

My clothing mocks me

With its drab and ugly shapes.

I’m too big for nicer clothes

Always drawing eyes that gape.

Okay, that part might be a lie.

I keep my gaze on the ground

Afraid of their hateful stares

That judge every single pound.

In the end it’s my own sight

I wish to dodge in the mirror.

It rips me apart each time

Feeling me with dread and fear.

I wish to change,

Start down that path

But in my way

Are mocking laughs.

You see, it starts with my clothes

The ones I put on every day.

They judge me harshly

And they’re always in the way.

I wish I was skinny, healthy and free,

But I don’t know if that will ever be me.