Christine Ray (Brave And Reckless) – Moon Ate The Dark Writing Prompt Challenge

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 […]

via There is still time to submit to Brave and Reckless’s “Moon Ate the Dark” Writing Prompt Challenge!! — Brave and Reckless

Prose – Terry Tempest Williams, “When Women Were Birds: Fifty Four Variations On Voice”

hand-holding-seashell-water
Photo by Biel Morro

“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

She

Singing Heart

@KaremIBarratt

female-warriors_00413201I 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

Left behind.

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

Believe her.

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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Departures and Grief

Eadar Doodles + Cheese

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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