There are five more days to submit to Brave and Reckless’ Moon Ate the Dark Writing Prompt Challenge! Writing Prompt: “Moon ate the Dark” Using the writing prompt above, write a 100 to 750 word original piece that integrates the writing prompt. The prompt can used as the title, you can use the phrase intact or break it […]
This is where you may go This is what you may grow This is where you may drink This is when you may wink This is what you can wear This is what you may bare This is who you may love This is how you stay above This is what you must pay This […]
“Why this relationship to Mother and water?
Breaking waters. We are born from what is fluid, not fixed. Water is essential. A mother is essential. The ocean as a mother is mesmerizing in her power, a creative force that can both comfort and destroy. My mother and I came to trust each other on the beach where we sat. Between the silences, we played together. We entertained ourselves. On the edge of the continent, looking west, we came to an understanding of the peace and violence around us. Power is the sea’s thundering voice, the curling and crashing of waves. Water is not nothing if not ingemination, an encore to the tenacity of life. And life held in the sea is surface and depth, what we see and what we imagine.
We cast a line, we throw out a net, what emerges is religion in the form of fish.
My mother’s trangression was hunger. She passed her hunger on to me without ever speaking a word. Solitude is a memory of water. I live in the desert. And everyday I am thirsty.
When I opened my mother’s journals and read emptiness, it translated to longing, that same hunger and thirst Mother translated to me. I will rewrite this story, create my own story on the pages of my mother’s journals.”
– Terry Tempest Williams
I am she,
Who screamed at the night,
Demanding justice for her blood,
Spilled by a knife,
Legs held by the mothers who
Were supposed to love her.
I am she,
Who held her baby tight,
As the bombs teared her world,
Walls falling down, her child
Of light, now the colour of earth.
I am she,
Looking at the boys passing by
On their way to school, laughter
And jokes echoing against her hut,
As she stays, alone, knowing she has been
I am she,
Crying in the corner, silently,
The shadow of his fingers still
Hanging around her arms, she
Trying to drink her tears, telling
Herself lies, for no one would
I am she.
Alone, unfed, hurt, turned
Into a shade, heavy with burdens
Beyond my age. I am she, seeing
My young face reflected in the eyes
Of those who shriek…
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I’ve been preoccupied with death today. More accurately with grief.
A colleague found out on Monday that her sister had died. Based on what they know so far, she died in her sleep. The sister had not suffered with a long-time illness. She was healthy in all appearances. Strong, happy, and healthy is how my colleague described her. Happy. This adjective is the least meaningful in a diagnosis, but it is still so important to the people that love her. “She was happy, how could she die?” or “At least she had a happy life.”
To get that call — someone you love has died. Not a death you were expecting. Not an elder come sweetly to the end of their winter. Not the afflicted finally at peace. She was strong, happy and healthy. And now she is gone.
But you are still here — waiting your turn or running…
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A great poem about how shit hits the ceiling when we least expect it to.
Source: Time Fell Off
The diagnosis arrived: Dear Sir/Ma’am, your son/daughter is not a legal dwarf. Please pay full amount.
A laconic flash fic with the slighest smudge of humour, which I came across while surfing the net. Enjoy!