Time travel, a bookmark, the angel gabriel.
‘Angel Gabriel, how did I die?’
‘Your mother was Hera, your father, Zeus.’
‘So they made me die?’
‘It’s so dark here.’
‘Use the light from my wings, follow me to the Underworld.’
Mint tea in clean mug,
warm and small feelings of joy,
which I hold onto.
Today’s Savannah Brown writing prompt is:
How would someone else do it?
the L illusion
I have noted in these past few nights,
that Confidence is not found in the usual places;
it is not found inside another person
between cracks and small openings,
between the rust and rubble of
someone’s dampened heart,
or broken art,
but rather among
leather, lipstick and lingerie
— and no, I don’t list these because I am an object,
but rather because I am creating one.
I am creating the L illusion,
the mathematical formula for Confidence,
the concocted potion in a witch’s pot,
as my hot, boiling broth of
newly found esteem,
spills over the edges,
rising in steam,
and falling onto the floor
only to be caught in my palms.
I take a sip of the potion.
The formula flashes before my eyes:
leather jacket + red lipstick + lingerie = the L illusion,
This poem was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017 [Day 13, Poem #7]
WRITING PROMPT #70
Write a poem or story in eleven lines or less. Write it as if you were writing a photograph. You can make the moment personal or choose to write from fiction. What was that moment like, the second your firstborn child came from his mother? Describe the moment you heard terrible news. Or Goldilocks, when she first woke to find herself surrounded by three grizzlies. Let images take the place of feeling. Let the atmosphere set the tone. I know I say that a lot, but I mean it EVERY TIME.
She ran the quill’s feather through her fingers, with each stroke an old thought arrived and vanished. These thoughts fluttered around in her head, like a million different birds all singing different tunes to tell things to one another in secret codes. How was she to decipher their songs? A neatly bound book fell under her gaze; it had been placed at an angle on the left side of her father’s desk. Her fingers abandoned the quill and reached for the volume. And so, with a new play-thing in her hands arrived a new thought — should she be doing this? Perhaps her father was right, women were not suited for the life of a novelist. Thinking this, she opened the front cover of the novel, and inside read: ‘Pride and Prejudice, by Jane Austen’. This, she thought, is whom I aspire to be. She immediately relinquished the songs of the birds, and instead listened to the quiet, dipping back into her mind and her quill into her ink, writing fervently.
This was written as part of National Novel Writing Month 2017, [Day 6, Writing Prompt #70]