Tag: Creative Writing

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14 Day Creative Challenge

Sun and Moon and The Dusty Fridge of the Sky

As he spun his web of gold around the evening, Sun smiled on the river children, below. Oh, how they splashed and cackled and loved!

What would Moon think of this beauty, Sun wondered, knowing how his dear and sleepy friend ached for the pain of the humans. This sight would surely glimmer her into a new and cheerful day!

But where was Moon?

Not dangling upon the cherry trees, nor casting a shimmering trail along the rivers’ edge. Tonight, Moon was tidying the evening sky, waiting for the river children to fall tired, and find their sleepy ways.

‘But Moon!’ said Sun, ‘The humans are smiling, look at them! Each of them laughing all along the shore!’

Moon put her quiet finger to her lips. Gently, without changing the calm expression on her face, she pointed to a patch of earth, darkened with gloom.

‘Oh, Moon,’ said Sun, heart broken as he spotted a small child, among the darkness, sad, cold and alone.

‘The others don’t know about him, Sun. They can only see what shines upon their day. This little boy needs me, Sun. I see him. I am ready.’

And with her words of calm and compassion, Moon spun a ball of silvery blue and cast it upon the lone boy of the earth. The boy, who had previously been lost in a puddle of tears, caught sight of Moon’s shine in the pool at his feet.

‘Look, Moon! He’s not crying anymore!’ shouted Sun, like a ball bounding along the open horizon at daybreak.

‘No, Sun. I don’t suppose he is,’ Moon smiled, wiping the last of the cobwebs off the dusty fridge of the sky.

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14 Day Creative Challenge

The Unfortunate Story of A Large Dog.

The German Shepherd changed things. She considered revenge, but then, he had always nurtured a sick fantasy of being mistreated by women. How inconvenient life could be at times.

Still. He had known she would only consider small dogs, and so, it was absolute that he must pay. The unfortunate event would be dressed as an accident. She would smile politely as a fall occurred.

Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months without a glimpse of opportunity. No staircase to fumble him down, no veranda step to miss at the expense of his face. It was odd. And yet, she remained vigilant, eyes wide open to any subtle clue that the Gods of revenge were ready to offer a hand in support.

The dog, whose name was Bart or Simpson (or something vulgar) was really rather sweet, which became confusing. It was as if a thorn in her thumb had become a familiar, almost welcome, friend; the sting long gone. All that remained was the dog, and her aloof husband who, for some reason, was acting a jealous fool of the dog and her joyous embrace of his overly large paws.

She would think on his odd behaviour again, in the morning. Or now, perhaps, as the Nurse set her cast for the third time in three weeks and told the same old story.

How unfortunate that the nurse had also fallen down the stairs in that very same year.

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Life

Writing

It comes when it is ready to come.

It chooses, I have no say.

I just feel and write what the feelings translate to.

A miraculous marvel.

A beauty of life I’m so, so thankful for.

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Writing

The Orange Light. Micro Fiction.

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Burnt orange light feels safe.

Pop’s old library is full of it; lamp dappled walls, beautiful to look at, even more beautiful to feel.

How do you describe a feeling? You can only feel, and open up so others can know what you’re trying to tell them. Some people never open up. Some open and close and open again, like a snail rolling in and out of its shell.

I look for the switch, every day. The switch for the orange light inside of me. I’m the snail, and it is dark in here.

            I will keep searching until I feel the light. When I feel the light, I will open, and journey on.

Again.

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Writing

Moon Unconditional

‘Sun?’

‘Yes, Moon?’ said Sun as he fell into the evening sky.

‘I shine every night. I brighten the humans’ world. Why do they not love me?’

‘Moon?’

‘Yes, Sun?’

‘You have a chip in your tooth.’

‘Do I?! Oh, no! Maybe that’s why!’

‘Moon?’

‘Yes, Sun?’

‘It’s a tooth.’

‘I know. And I don’t want a broken one.’

‘But you have a broken one.’

‘Sun! You are not hearing what I am saying! The humans don’t love me and I don’t want a broken tooth.’ Moon stormed around the sky, looking for her lost boot.

‘Moon? I love you. And you have a broken tooth. Not but, and. Did you hear me? And you have a broken tooth.’

‘Sun. I have no idea what you’re on about,’ said Moon, putting her found boot on and keying in her crescent shine coordinates.

‘I know, Moon, I know. You’ll understand one day.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You will.’

And with that, Moon said goodbye and shone unconditionally for the humans below.

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Life

Creativity Rises

I intend to write one thing and another is born.

Creativity rises.

It controls me, not the other way around.

The poem I’ve just written began with a feeling of being stuck. Stuck in COVID lockdown. Stuck in a middle ground of dried up creativity.

So I sat down. I opened my computer. And I saw a cupboard on the blank screen of my mind.

I was in there.

In a dark cupboard, looking out at something…a little brighter.

The story began from there.

But it wasn’t the story I’d expected. It was something different, not at all what I’d originally planned.

Isn’t

creativity

amazing?

It drives.

I am just here.

Allowing it to be what it chooses.

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Life

A Mysterious Animating Force

The sweet divinity that lingers at the edge of life.

Writers and artists know it well. Actors and musicians feel it within their bodies. And none of us have any clue as to what it is. Not even those who believe, beyond a doubt, that they do know the source of this most beautiful, magical wind.

To understand this force would surely be like bottling and dissecting infinity. How could you bottle a never ending force like that? More to the point, how could you ever truly understand what it was or where it had come from? I just don’t think it would be humanly possible.

I read a book a little while ago, by Sue Monk Kidd, named ‘The Book of Longings’. I’ve been re reading it, and last night I couldn’t help but smile as I came across a familiar idea. The invisible divinity. She mentions it in the book, and right away I knew I had to share it with you all. Surely as readers and writers, both, you have felt this invisible magic. How beautiful it is to know we are not alone in our recognition of it.

The act itself of writing evoked powers, often divine, but often unstable that entered the letters and sent a mysterious animating force rippling through the ink.

Sue Monk Kidd. The Book Of Longings

At University, I studied writing. One of the units I studied was called, ‘Writing: Finding your Voice’ but the thing was…it never seemed as simple as that, to me. That we each have a ‘voice’ we can use to write with in a unique and beautiful way, or that one could simply ‘find’ this voice. Like finding a tennis ball beneath a shrubby, weedy bush in the desert.

All I can say about this mysterious voice is that I feel its magic arise when I relax my entire body and stop thinking. I’ve heard the phrase thrown about that, to evoke the force, we need to ‘get out of our own way’. To me, this is both entirely accurate and also impossible to comprehend.

Just whose way are we getting out of exactly?

And what, exactly, is the mysterious animating force behind it all?

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Categories
Poetry

Wherever I May Go

Life and her currents.

I feel them like tears in my bones.

And all I can do is let the river run,

let the stream carry me

wherever I may go.

Through the high clouds of white.

Through the deep dungeons, dark.

I will be there.

Life,

I will be there

to follow the rainbow, home.

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Categories
Life

Creative, Loving,Life

I’m very aware of the rich soil of this place. How I am peeking through the soft earth, unravelling beautifully. How I am fully becoming myself.

Over these past few weeks, I’ve been allowing myself to be as I am, just watching the world go by. Watching all the expectations I had for my life and my dreams fall apart, so sweetly.

I am here to create and to love.

That is all.

It seems that, for most of my life, although I have been creating, although I have been loving…I have been looking to frame this creativity and love within an identity. Within a ‘reason’. For example: I must write a book in order to write legitimately, to be accepted under the culturally approved model of what a writer/creator must wish to strive for.

But I don’t wish to strive for this. Although it would be lovely to hold a book of my heart in my very own hands, I am so fulfilled by life that it truly does not feel necessary, to me.

I only wish to create. To be utterly fulfilled by this most beautiful connection with myself and the people I write for.

How or where my creativity (my essence) finds these people has become unimportant to me. I trust my words and heart will find home, effortlessly. I know this logic might make no sense to some, but for me, to flow through life feels like the only right way.

I never had to write a book to be a writer. I never had to be ‘a writer’.

I only had to be my wind.

Living. Creating. Loving.

Because this is my life.

This is my creative, loving life.

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Categories
Poetry

Tomorrow’s Rose

How delicate it is, the garden of eternity.

Interwoven; the past, present, future

of our sleepy meadow, dear.

One cannot possibly know how

or what

the wind of today will drift to the valley

of tomorrow.

One can only hope to gather roses in arms

and lay them down, admired.

But what of tomorrow?

A dried rose is surely a beauty.

A delight preserved from time gone by.

Take these roses, fine.

Take this heart

and scatter my soul freely

into the arms of the dreamers, next.

Tomorrow’s rose.

Today’s quiet and careful sun.

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