Tag Archives: fiction

Zentangle #15 Two Ravens

img_20161113_190323

TWO RAVENS

I had
two ravens
one
to forget everything
remember
you become sad when
you 
let go

Handwritten Pages #15

image

     She ties the dressing gown around her waist. Lines up her toes where the metal coping separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom tiles. A diver’s stance. Anticipation of the tiles’ coldness.
     She steps. Plummets. Side steps the bath mat. Plants her feet squarely. Small ripples quickly subside. The cold tiles prickle the soles of her feet until it stings. Tapers off to an equilibrium.
     Repeatedly she will lie on her back on the bathroom floor undressed. Lets the cold of the tiles fight with the heat of her body. She relents. Acquiesces. Adds a layer of permafrost to her heart against the fire of her mother’s tongue.

Handwritten Pages #14

image

     It is the rhythmic rasp of the sandpaper she likes best. A counterpoint, and companion, voice to her grandfather’s asthmatic wheeze as he makes furniture and occasionally toys. Punctuated by the cough of the match head on the striking paper to light his hand rolled cigarettes.
     She can discern by ear the coarseness of the grit against the grain. Jarrah, pine, mahogany. He gives her the cork block and a sheet of sandpaper. Converses with her through each stroke.
     She knows, one day, this conversation will cease.

The Articulation of Stories as Scars

Last week during a reading of some blog post or another (and for the life of me I wish I had kept the reference to link you to it; I went searching through my browser history without luck) and this idea developed:

screen-shot-2016-09-09-at-9-45-20-am

My apologies to the original author whose work I was reading because I don’t think my thought is originally mine, simply a reworking or a remixing of what I had read and I don’t want to pass this statement off as purely my own. I’m using it as a launching point for discussion. 

As a story teller, the narrative I am creating has a purpose. For my writing, I want to explore the lives of ordinary people, to understand who they are, their decisions and the ramifications.

I do not write autobiographically so the story is not an attempt to exorcise a past, redress an indiscretion or justify a choice. But a narrative, once released to the reader, can wound or heal. 

A story has the potential to open up issues in the reader’s past, or to dress a wound. Such is the power a story can wield. As a writer, I don’t know what the impact a story will have on the reader, and it is my hope that the story I write will move the reader in some way.

The stories we tell one another, orally or written, are evidence of the life we have lived. Those stories are like scars; wounds inflicted by accident, neglect, or others. They are markers of who we are, what we were, what we have become and what we want to be.

Sometimes those scars are worn with pride. Sometimes those scars are hidden. Sometimes those scars are repurposed, redecorated.

This is the power of the story.

Zentangle #7 Bare Feet

bare-feet

Every so often
walk with bare
feet
in the trees
stand and
imagine

And a bonus black out poem

the-other-side

I know 
the other side
I know
another direction

Zentangle #6 Celestial Bodies

celestial-bodies

celestial bodies
would be
quite unbearable

And a bonus blackout poem for your enjoyment

odd-things

Handwritten Pages #13

image

Sonia waited on the platform, trailed by her shadow, for the last possible moment to board the train. She wanted to time her entrance into the carriage with the closing of the doors to separate her physical body from her shadow. So far, she had not succeeded.

Today’s Handwritten Page was inspired by this image. It was a  random prompt given to me by a friend. 

train-station