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Fiction Experiment: French Roast

Continuing with my Creative Writing Prompts, here’s today’s effort. A couple of notes here before you jump in: The prompt for midday was Your pet dragon has been misbehaving. I moved “Bart” and family into the future and kept his parents married past his seventh birthday. Note, again, as this is a work of fiction, my mother is/was not a coffee addict…at least not to the point of getting grouchy in the morning if she didn’t have a cup. Beyond that, enjoy! Continue reading “Fiction Experiment: French Roast”

Fiction Experiment: Garga Seeks Treasure

In an effort to get some practice, experience, and confidence with my fiction writing, I purchased A Year of Creative Writing Prompts. Below is one of my attempts from today’s assignments. They provide a five-minute exercise, a mid-day exercise, and a dinner time exercise. I decided to kick these out all at once, just to get rolling. Will post these as I think the warrant sharing. The trick for me will be to insist on the discipline of daily writing, even if it’s someone else’s assignment. Continue reading “Fiction Experiment: Garga Seeks Treasure”

Poetry Interlude: Thunderbolt

Thunderbolt

It starts placidly enough:
A couple ice crystals of thought
bumping into each other like
random atoms,
inconveniently colliding as they make their way
purposefully through the universe.
The collisions create energy, though.
The atoms collide with others,
inconveniencing their fellows
up and down the cloud.
The ice itself grows thicker,
building higher,
billowing into a floating, bloated mountain,
feeding on the heat and energy below.
The collisions keep coming,
bringing the moving mass out of balance
with the rest of the world.
Abruptly the atoms achieve critical mass,
crackling with an energy all their own.
No force can stop it,
no logic will deny it;
the wavering electrons must go somewhere.
In a moment, they discharge their fury,
unleashing their destructive force
on the nearest, most prominent target.
With the speed of light
and the righteous power of the gods,
they smite their target, blasting through water, air,
artifacts, people.
The place where the atoms strike is charred,
a smoldering, blackened ruin
where once there had been innocent peace.
The storm passes,
the atoms of thought no longer colliding or inconvenienced.
But the damage has been done.
An ashen hole in the ground marks the thunderbolt’s passage,
eventually to be covered by forgetful grass and weather and time.
But the damage has been done.

/b
11/15/18

Still

Still fluffy on the outside. Plush.
Still bumpy on the inside. Mush.
I don’t pretend to know how to fix
the mess inside.
My only weapons or tools or saviors
are work and peace and writing and time.
Work for distraction.
Peace outside to emulate inside.
Writing to get the gunk out where I can see it,
push it around into smaller, grimy piles and sort it out.
Time to heal and rest and forget.
Maybe, eventually, time to make some slight repairs
to the messes I’ve made, the things & people
I’ve broken.
But I can’t repair others
until I can heal myself.
And the much-too-tender soul
underneath the exterior crust
needs time, as much as the world can spare.
I have a lot to learn about how to heal
and be kind to all, even myself.
Still so much to learn.
Still.

/b

10/12/18