Story Starter January – Confluence by Ingrid Ruthig

**JANUARY CONTEST CLOSED**

Great news, writers: the OWC Story Starters Contest is back!

To enter, write a short piece (100 words maximum) inspired by the art featured below. It can be any form or writing (poetry, prose, dialogue, haiku, etc.) as long as it is original. Submit your entry in the comment section below. Check the full entry rules and format here.

CONFLUENCE, 2013, Ingrid Ruthig

CONFLUENCE, 2013, Ingrid Ruthig

Ingrid Ruthig
Ingrid Ruthig is a writer, editor, visual artist, and architect (retired). Her work has won a Petra Kenney International Poetry Prize and the Eden Mills Writers’ Festival literary competition, and has appeared across Canada as well as internationally. Ingrid’s books include Slipstream(ARKITEXWERKS, 2011) and Richard Outram: Essays on His Works (Guernica Editions, 2011), and her ‘textworks’ – a visual art fusion of writing and image – have been shown in galleries, art festivals, libraries, and other public venues. She lives with her family near Toronto.

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  • I’d thought I should never have accepted his invitation. But when he reminded me that a resisted temptation is a lost opportunity, I caved in. The studio was cavernous; it was actually a re-purposed hanger that he had bought for a pittance when the private airline company went bust. That is how I found myself posing for him. It was my turn to remind him that that a resisted temptation is a lost opportunity, so I set to with the paints, palette, and brushes – and within the first month I had been ‘discovered’ – and I had made my first million.

  • It started as a speck. Floaters, the doctor said. But I knew…the way you know when you meet someone who will change your life, the way you know when a pain shouldn’t be ignored. You just knew. Slowly the spot expanded. It gained depth and width and weight, becoming a swirl of colors that obstructed my vision and blotted out the pages of the morning news. My world faded away and all I could see was that long tunnel to nowhere. Until one day I noticed someone waving at me from the other side. And I knew. I just knew.

  • Little do you know how much hurt there is behind that smile
    Imagine if you could see through everyone’s facade
    This life is nothing but a vortex, it sucks you in thinking there’s nothing better
    As if there’s an entire mountain on your chest
    One must believe there is something better
    To have patience, and accept what has been ordained for you
    How do we know that this is not a blessing in disguise?
    That in order to receive the ultimate success, we have to go through this hurdle
    We have no answer, we only have hope, patience and trust.

  • Imagination.
    ‘Tis a blessed invasion,
    wrought without demand
    or provocation.
    Vestiges of reality
    twist in the winds
    of other worlds.
    A confluence of creation;
    seeking order and direction.
    I submit to the challenge
    acquiesce to demand.
    Take up my pen,
    and make my stand.
    I am inspired.
    I am resolute.
    I am a writer.

  • I’m following a path to a world of bright light, but the only way to go is through the black night.
    My heart is lost, what should I do? I had nothing and no one to live for but you.

    The last time I saw you heading for the night you slipped into the vortex of bright lights. As I stretched forward my hand to stop you from this flight, you slipped in the abysses and now nowhere in sight. As I stand above this spinning vortex I must decide what I must do to save your life.
    My love my one and only child, hold on Mommy is coming to extend your life. Stretch your hands one more time to pull me into your world, your world of bright lights.

  • My words slip sideways letter by letter, white soulless characters skirting the void. It’s blue in there, a kind of circular womb of inaction. Certainly confusion. Down, down off the page, each bit streams away on its own journey, the whole perversely confounding my efforts to corral them.

    I am a writer.

  • Once, I thought the world was round. A sun that rises and sets, seasons that change on cue, leaves that fall and grow again. Order. Then life happened. A swirling vortex of beginnings, endings, plans, obstacles, joy and sorrow. Chaos. But underneath, the pattern is there…inexplicable and beautiful…it’s there.

  • Like the rabbit beckoning Alice down the rabbit hole,
    The words on the page entice me to follow them.
    Falling into a vortex, I emerge in another world.

    A silent shadow. I observe the inhabitants.
    I listen to them speak and laugh as they move through the story of their lives.
    I am drawn to them. I weep in empathy with them. Cheer when love, honour and truth win out.
    Intrinsically wound into the core of their story.

    The words end and fade
    I am reluctantly thrown back into my reality.
    Disoriented, lost in another world,
    I sigh with pleasure.

  • A thought, idea, emotion, dream, passion, a word, a phrase, a sentence, a paragraph. When sufficiently prepared the writing process begins. As it intensifies, the words release themselves from our consciousness and form their own story. They co-mingle and merge into a new creation, a story with its own direction. The words and syntax swirl around in the sub-conscious and out of dark print rises enlightenment. This is the birth of a new story, pulled from the depths of our minds, driven by the process of writing, the confluence of the conscious and sub-conscious.

  • The only words he made out on the dusty scroll before he saw the transformation were “Stranger in a Strange Land”. That the words were of his own language was incredible enough, but the pastel sun and frosty snow actually moved on the page as he tilted it one way and then the other. The tales of the elders were more than true! Those before them could meld the world to their will like magic. A magic lost in the Apophis. In the cool, dim, silent cavern, the alabaster columns towering fifty feet high around him pondered his next action.

  • It’s after the third ‘mmm’, muffled behind the paper, that I realize she hasn’t been listening to me, again, not really, and a hollowed, swooping sort of truth blooms up from my stomach. She is my whole life, and I’m content and simple enough for that, but I’m not hers. Ma’s universe is too big, too vast, to have a centre. Or a sense of time, or place, and so how can I exist there at all? I peek around the paper’s edges and I know with a settled sort of sadness that she’s not even here, now. Not really.

  • I stand with my fists clenched at my sides. They know I can hear their mocking as I struggle to read the words in front of me. I hate their cruel rules of who is worthy and who is not. None of them have ever stopped to think that maybe I am special in my own way too. The words on the pages that they read so easily twist and blur so I will them to vanish and the letters tear away, spiralling into my imagination where mere words are never enough to describe the creativity inside of me.

  • “House Fire Rages…”
    Words ignite, swirling into the next layer of newsprint, and the next, pulling me into the same charred hole. I tumble through a Caribbean tunnel to its narrow end. Smoke chokes and blinds me.
    I’m in front of a war time house that’s blanketed by black smoke. Red paint drips from the number 23 over the door. A little girl with black hair like mine clings to a woman, under a long coat. A fireman backs down a ladder and shakes his head at them.
    My mother lived at 23 Maple Lane. She barely remembers my grandfather.

  • He had chipped away tirelessly from inside, for hours. Exhausted, his little heart beating fast, so fast, his head lolled onto his wet, golden wing. As his round, baby belly rose and fell with each laborious breath, ancient memories of the method began whirring through his brain like encoded motes of thought. Aha! He inhaled deeply, waited a moment, and then crashed his head forward, beak-first, breaking through membrane and stubborn eggshell. Free at last, the long-awaited, golden dragonet stretched his wobbly legs, unfurled his wings and spiraled up, up, up to join the others, who joyfully awaited their champion!

  • He’d decided to stay all night with no pay during the blizzard. They were stuck somewhere on the road and he had no key to lock the place up. He could have walked home through that storm but stayed to secure the shop. Did they phone or thank him? No! They were livid that he had not turned the heat down for the night. Punishment for his crime of kindness was to get fired. What a strange land! The man shredded the elegant letter of gratitude he had written to his employer and watched it swirl down the toilet.

  • Elusive Words

    elusive words devoured by time and space
    swirling into hazy blues and yellows
    fading into greens of envy and despair
    slipping away from my pen, my sight, my mind
    until settling on some unseen plane
    a new novel, a new poem, a new life yet unlived
    a fresh “once upon a time” for another age
    words like birds flutter away, spiralling out of reach
    until my weary body awakens and my brain revs
    alerted by the scent of coffee and aroused by toast
    i crack my knuckles, stretch my back
    and reach into the vortex of my mind for those
    elusive words.

  • The waves swallow my shredded past and nudge my boat reluctantly forward towards they receding sun. The sorrows that burden me float way as I cross the deep blue sea. My soul is devoid of all feelings. A cool breeze pricks my skin and whispers comforting words that urge me forward. Dare I trust? Dare I feel? No, let them echo forever in this darkness. The warmth of the sun reaches across the gloom to welcome me. I want to resist it. The boat pulls me towards the warmth despite my desire to wallow in my river of melancholy.

  • Just when I begin to relax the eye opens and she is watching me through the newspaper. I try to hold the newspaper steady. The last time it was through the mirror on the hospital wall. It shattered and luckily I wasn’t blamed. The pressure builds on my brain as she searches for new data. I have three weeks to search out the source or my life is forfeit she reminds me. I have my own reasons to locate this being. If I can communicate with it perhaps I can stop her from watching me.

  • New Years Eve night casts a wistful spell
    Time between past and what will be
    Happy memories mingle with forlorn regrets deep in thee

    Dear young woman, the city’s June rose
    Kind heart so warm and smile so bright
    Sweet teacher who perservered to make things right

    So ferociously ripped from our hearts in a blink
    An unspeakable crime; no punishment seems just
    The system of law says black and white is a must

    A gentle glowing in the distance gives hope
    In the cyclone of wrong versus right
    It echoes, “justice”, for the angel of New Years Eve night

  • “Crime and Punishment”-the words leapt to my eyes as I sank to the park bench, weakly scanning the paper in front of me, with great weariness. Ending my life had been the all encompassing absorption of my body and soul for weeks now-maybe forever.
    Was there really a punishment for suicide, as I had learned at my mothers’ knee? If so my crime was living, merely living and giving into total despair.
    And was this blue and gold vision, with its’ beautiful embracing light -was this the beginnings of hope, or the end of that despair?

  • ADHD

    I ride on the waves of twisted emotion,
    I crave, I yearn, to succeed just like you
    Like whirling eddies my mind swirls,
    thoughts converging, colliding,
    I ride on the crest, then surrendering
    I wait for the changing tide.

    • Love this, Robin, especially the part “I ride on the crest, then surrendering
      I wait for the changing tide.”

      • Thanks Cindy, ADHD and ADD are both a crazy part of my life. When I saw this piece of art I thought wow, someone painted it! Robin Martin Duttmann Children’s Picture Book Author, Zoo on the Moon

  • —It’s just that…
    —Don’t start.
    —But you said…
    —Not now.
    —It’s just that we…
    —No. We don’t.
    —Maybe just…
    —We’ve done this before.
    —What, that we…
    —Yeah.
    —But that time didn’t…
    —But it did.
    —I said I was…
    —That’s not what…
    —If I could…
    —If you could?
    —Never mind.
    —Right.
    —It’s just that we deserve…
    —I know.
    —So can we just…
    —We’ve already…
    —But can we just…you know…
    —Why?
    —Because…
    —How many times?
    —Once more. Once.
    —Fine.
    —Really?
    —I said…
    —Oh crap, I think your flight is…
    —Yeah, I’ve got to…
    —I know. So…
    —So, yeah…
    —Yeah?
    —Yeah.

  • Storms have eyes. Papa told me so. The eye of the storm, he said, is quiet, like a summer day without a breath of wind. When all the birds and creatures have gone silent and you can hear every thought in your head. Outside the eye, the storm rages, angry and strong. Swirling and swirling, grabbing up cars and cows, dropping them on rooftops and other places where they don’t belong. Leaving them there after the storm moves on, its fury all spent. But that eye is where I want to be. Calm, serene and so, so quiet.

  • Jean L. Burbidge January 9, 2014 at 8:29 pm

    The words rise in ever widening circles in my mind, from meaning to beyond meaning. I follow their path into a world that casts a spell of escape; passion as I have never experienced, spiraling into a place of creativity I have never known. Irresistible, it carries me to a country I never want to leave, wrapping me in visions of light, imagination, inspiration. But I know I cannot stay. Life winds me back to the day and my place in it. Forever changed but forever the same. Always seeking, rarely finding. Bereft, I spend my days in despairing hope.

  • The Milky Way protruding out of the center of the universe, creating a timeless evolution and rotation of its’ Sphere in the Plant Earth and Outer Space, causing a distinct connection between the two atmosphere to validate their existence and function in the universe, as a separate Plant on Earth and Outer Space. The center of this vermouth propels the joining together to evoke, to release, and to sustain every movement past and present into its’ center for a complete rebirth into the next generation of human beings transiting into Outer Space to pave the way for our future generation.

  • ˈkänˌflo͞oəns,kənˈflo͞oəns/

    The writing cons
    floating backwards e
    ESL derivation and
    a dangling apostrophe,

    picture a juncture
    backward slash swirl
    chiveled block pixels
    riding manic glee

    hued vicarious see
    starlight words and
    textual vagaries,
    the wind blows up
    to all-seeing she.

  • The shredder whirls with an angry whine, turning my work into confetti. Not good enough. Must start over.
    Draft number 3. Better, but still not speaking to me. Into the shredder it goes. Whirl, whirl, whirl goes another hour worth of writing.
    Stand up. Stretch. Pour another cup of coffee.
    Back at my desk, I gaze out the window at the overcast skies. Not an inspiring day.
    At mid-day, just before I lose my mind something in my mind clicks. The words flow, from my creative mind onto the screen, faster than I can type.
    This is my happy place.

  • They call him a dreamer
    His now is our forever

    His fertile thoughts threaten
    thin paper-mâché minds

    So they fold his heart in halves
    Razor him down to a square

    Confine him to a cardboard box
    With only a book for a window

    At night as we tuck neatly into our shadows
    He journeys out to the innermost pocket of his soul

    He walks layered streets of prose
    Rolling words on his tongue till they¹re ripe with meaning

    Here he finds truth

    Meet along the fringes of his interior world
    And maybe one day, he¹ll take you there with him

  • Sitting at my desk last night, I stared at my open textbook, for what I felt was, like, 10 hours. But, I just couldn’t make any sense of it, no matter how many times I re-read those same damn passages over and over again. Karl Marx is such a tool. His writing makes my head spin. Around and around his writing goes, what does he mean? I don’t know. I wish I could just snort the chapter, let it swirl around in there for a bit until it drains right out of me and onto my exam. That’d be perfect.

  • At the bottom of the pit, there he laid, a soul, a spirit of light, graceful and true. He rises up to the top to look beyond the forces of the land, anointing, as he passes along, leaving his presence unknown to man. A touch of love, vibrates everywhere, forces of energy fills the air for passerby to feel. A smooth wind to caress the cheeks, knowing that someone cares, nothing short of the Sun, and Moon, Lighting Flashing everywhere to welcome the dawning of a New Day, something special, something new, rapture to the soul to see beyond the Pit.

  • He has written me so many messages containing words that lifted up my countenance. Words to display the depth of his love. Now he has left. The words once scribed swirl in my head and become mingled, with the expectation of being reunited, simultaneously, with the darkness forced by our separation. They cause a resurgence of hope as they surface and also despair as they disappear into wisps of fragmented letters. The light brightens and words become clearer again, not in print, but in my memory. They are strength during this time of waiting.

  • we draw up our lives
    and create our own characters,
    eventually losing our will to be animated
    – it seems futile
    in a world where everyone’s story ends
    no promises, but for transience

    yet permanence is of few trifles
    dear one,
    in a world where you do not exist
    to gift the everlasting
    with purpose

    what is a book
    without your animated hand
    to leaf through its chapters,
    its words meaningless
    without your fluency,
    the adventure nothing
    without your courage
    to read on

  • Sparkling words and scenes
    ignite a luminous theme,
    literary star.

    So sorry. Why is such a simple thought never complete?

  • January Jefferson January 16, 2014 at 3:24 pm

    Swirling mass of Energy
    High above the Earth
    Surrounding
    Whooshing
    Swooshing
    Concentric
    Electric
    Eclectic
    Magnetic

  • As I lay waiting for death to come and free me from this painful burden of illness, my mind swirls with everything that I thought I knew to be true. I finally realize that I know nothing, least of all who and what I really am. There is an intense rush of fear, something grasping and desperately trying to cling, but to what I do not know. I feel myself fading away from this life, yet strangely, expanding at the same time. The story of who I thought I was, gently falls away, but I; I remain.

  • Discourses of hate and prejudice have stitched the eyes and lips of the artist shut. Protecting those who need to hear it. Preventing those who long to see it. How do you censor the senses without extinguishing the fire ignited by the third eye of the storm? Creation becomes distorted. Turned into fragments – mere ashes of what could have been. The life and death of idealism joins into a confluence of meaningless semantics.

  • You see, Mother Nature is in control, swirling, and swirling like a volcano about to erupt, around, and around you swirl like a dancer dancing in the moment to the sound of its own beat. You connect to one, and you connect to all, swirling, and swirling deeper and deeper into nature’s own Zone like a passenger of time. Nothing to declare, a high density to preserve, a journey to fulfill memories of the past, a picture of beauty to enhance your nature, you share with us your Bench Mark for life a symbol of love to conclude, Confluence you are.

  • The maelstrom paints the centre of a wall of sense and sensibility made from the black and white bricks of written expression.

    Graffiti is the modicums of truth, the swirling winds of thought and the coloured chaos of creativity that both threatens and invites us.

    Take courage in the deconstruction of the construct, epic Re Visioning.

    Embrace the vortex, release controls, and reach for the light amidst the shredded surfaces the fated fall into profundity.

    The hope for that perfect fusion is spawned both In, on, with, and off the Grid.

    It takes me now … … …@. …. .. …

  • Joyce M. George-Knight January 19, 2014 at 9:45 pm

    A central theme grips the eye of the writer’s mind. Ideas spin out-of-control. Fragments, borrowed from others’ works attach to mine as truth is sought. Words. Permanent black type on pure white – there’s no mistaking what’s there. As that central theme attracts ideas and discards those that do not fit, the piece, as if modified by a mystical spiritual power, molds into shape. Such a process brings renewal or a rebirth of the original thought. With time, patience and endurance comes strength to believe in what I have produced – the masterpiece!

  • Holly H. H. Dobbie January 20, 2014 at 2:18 pm

    “I saw that fella’ over there and there was a… and a. Chicken sandwich.”
    “It’s okay mom, a chicken sandwich sounds really good to me too right about now.”
    I adjust the coat over her gown.
    “Where are your parents?”
    “Well, I’m here with you mom, and my step-dad is standing over there and this is
    my husband.”
    “You’re married?”
    “Yes, this is my husband here.”
    He grips the bed rail. The midnight phone call isn’t mixing well with the haggis and scotch- bad timing, for her to fall on the same night as our annual Robbie Burns’ celebration.

  • Spiral Drift

    Words need space
    As light,
    Dark.

    Flecks of spiral drift:
    It is the spaces that fly
    Between short strokes, abrading.

    My father at 65, younger than me, now,
    Watched his words trail meaningless
    Down the page to the right corner
    Till there was only space
    Nestled in the spin of crumbling fibres;
    A web of devolution
    Calling me, calling

    And when the silence
    Comes to my door
    I will be ready.

  • Melissa Cerantola January 25, 2014 at 3:21 pm

    Her obituary stares me in the eyes. Words can be so final. But the pain and suffering do not match these words. Take me with you I say; let me get caught up in the words so I can cope with the reality of losing you. The blurb this newspaper writer has compiled of your short life does you no justice. As the days pass, the other obituaries on the page begin to fade; only yours remain. The words eat me up, like a starving lion eats his prey. They have me, and I can never let go. Lost.

  • What words can express a feeling, when a feeling becomes more then a dramatic composition.
    When you pick up your pencil and challenge the letters to make a word….a word to create a sentence…a sentence to create a paragraph…and a paragraph to create your chapter.
    A chapter of your legacy, that challenges your passion that only you know lies beneithe mere letters.
    To put all of your soul into a piece of jumbled words to intice a reader to see your heart.
    To become the best piece of YOU that ever exsisted on paper, to set the stage for the most in depth look at your talent that can only be discribed as pure passion.

    I AM A WRITER.

  • Whirls and swirls of spiraling curls,
    Cascade our mind to outer worlds.
    Depending on your frame of mind,
    Swirls may be another kind,
    The type that fold and wind within,
    To rest and fall ‘til seen again.
    Reaching inner core they seem,
    Become quite calm and so serene.
    Colors light up sparkling bright,
    ‘Aft resting there throughout the night.
    And, when it’s morn they rise up keen,
    While we ponder; “What ’s it mean?”
    The whirls and swirls of spiraling curls,
    Can calm emotions silk like pearls.
    Without the turmoil we’d not know,
    The perfect way for us to go.

  • The reams and streams of colored beams,
    Cascade by wind into my dreams.
    Rainbow colors seem to be,
    Revealing an epiphany.

    Blue and green and red and gold,
    Swing neatly by as they unfold;
    Wildly waving on the breeze,
    Bending branches to their knees.

    Oh colored wind you reign supreme,
    I’m happy when you can be seen.
    When rainbows show their colored hue,
    You hope they’ve come to dance with you.

    To dance and sing in colors new,
    Brings peace of mind into my view.
    Rainbow wind should you remain,
    You will relax the hurricane

  • “Yes, we know…”

    “No, really, I did my very best…”

    The Angel smiled at that.

    “I did my best,” the human continued, her eyes scanning the earth’s surface, “And, and,

    and…what about the time I fed that stray cat? Or the way I helped my younger brother, I

    always helped him, what about that and all the other good stuff I did before…”

    The Angel’s face returned to that neutral equanimity.

    “No, I, I don’t want to go back there, I want to stay here…I want…” She felt herself pulled

    toward the vortex which led to reincarnation.

  • I’m sitting here reading it, then the words slowly swim into the edges of my vision, swirling in a mass of cool blues and muddled yellows. It blends murkily sucking everything in with an inescapable pull. There’s only sinking into the whirlpool, into lightness. Sinking until I stand in the folds of the pages. Until I see the words fly and exist vividly before me. But then a startling jolt plunges me back into the real world, void of the adventures I alone experienced between these lines. The world and the vortex seemed separate – now I’m stuck existing between them.

  • ABYSS

    Deep muddy azure of sky before night
    Meets amber, creating an enticing sight
    Of spirals that sing, of colour so bright –
    And there in the eye of this storm is a light.
    Lighting the darkness that pools in the blue,
    Lighting the chasm of sad souls too.
    Relighting the spark of hope in those who
    Are fighting a whirlwind of mourning anew.
    What entity blooms in the beauty of this!
    In words on that page telling tales of souls missed,
    Of the wrongfully doomed to taste Death’s kiss.
    It is them falling into the crack of
    Abyss.

  • Seeing this picture, I think only of time–of plunging into that conical helix like Alice down the rabbit hole. The top is the beginning—when days, months and years were forever; when all of life was the future and the future was an eternity away. Time continues downward around the narrowing tube, faster and faster, ever moving toward the bottom. No more years of consuming time while eagerly awaiting that next event. Now comes the realization that there is no more time, the bottom is fast approaching and that bottom is the end of time.

  • Letters from a soldier

    The enemy creeps in while we sleep
    Planting IEDs and lobbing smoke grenades
    Dead dogs that’ll blow you to bits and
    Sweet little brown-eyed girls with baskets
    Brotherhood under attack, we wake to screams
    Mine or his, all the same but
    I can’t get the sand out of my eyes to see.

    Day’s horrors relived, we’re drenched in sweat
    The burning red ends of cigarettes begin to glow
    Held tight by shaking hands that can set a trip wire
    Just fine in daylight, thanks.
    This isn’t the letter I’ll write to you.

  • The Fight

    You hurl word-swords so hard
    Spit stings my face
    My trebuchet slings
    Can’t penetrate the concrete mask
    That hides the man I married

    Shields up, I remember my Father
    Spitting again we pivot
    Spinning deeper into the tunnel
    Words dipping, twisting out of control
    I remember dancing with Daddy
    My feet on his
    Strong arms holding me up
    But in this dance
    No one takes the lead.

  • Gone

    My Great-Aunt Ruth had a rose garden, then Alzheimer’s
    Couldn’t remember her brother’s names or her own
    But sang all the words to her favourite hymns ’till right near the end
    When she’d stare off, I’d get close
    Look into her watery blue eyes
    And imagine the whirlpool at Niagara Falls
    Waterlogged word-boats with faded letters
    Soundlessly coming apart at the seams
    Grey names, faces peeling away
    Memories bobbing in cold black water
    Spinning faster and faster into the depths
    No life preserver petals in sight

  • ALWAYS A CONFLUENCE

    Gemini born
    I stand astride my two selves
    mutable between spring and summer
    layered in soft air blues and yellows
    choose which self today to flaunt or hide away
    think one thing, say another — to suit
    go with the flow
    smile with understanding, balled fist behind back
    analyze sorrow’s tears, justify them as joy
    mercurial actions, fast on the feet
    expectations, tact, conformity, manners
    adventures of the mind, words, thoughts
    always a confluence

  • She comes from deep within, this desire, this need of mine.
    But, when I don’t listen to her, when I don’t pay attention,
    she begins to churn
    Gently at first
    Brewing.

    I am faintly off put, but the demands of my day easily distract.

    The longer the diversions pull my gaze, the force of her vortex increases.
    She gains speed as the speed of my life crescendos.
    Both swirling, spiraling, surging

    But she is stronger. Always stronger.

    I finally look to her light and the long-awaited words come.
    My words.
    The diversions grow dull.
    I’m hers again.

  • Precious pages consumed in a lifetime, stored away in pockets of memory.
    As days passed the quotes became muddled and longer silences filled the space between them.
    She felt the discord of her thoughts and the words that came from her mouth. More and more she was incapable of revelling in cherished words written and read.
    She could sometimes see the dark void where all she knew or ever would know was disappearing one letter at a time
    Going, going…
    The neural paths in her brain unravelled like flax fibres and soon would be no more.

  • A Writer, an Artist, a Pen , a Brush, a creative imagination, a Collage of work, an Artist Master Piece, a challenging skill, a Gifted Talent revealed. An Artist lure, one to consider, one to explore, a mystery on Canvas to behold; an experience to ponder, a journey into the unknown, one to unravel, a message unfold, a code to break, a stroke of luck, an Artist Brush encodes Fame, a scenery, a story retold every time, an Artist vision, a Craft defined, one of a kind, applaud an Artist, a work well done, include everyone, a picture of life.

  • If I thought I lost you, I was wrong. In the midst of the universe we are anchored. Full of light and endless possibility we begin our journey. Merging experiences of wonder and fear, acceptance and love, we end this life assembled. No longer a part of a word unexpressed while looking to find all that we have lost. Revealed, as the origin, we matter…we are transcendent. We expand into everything and need reach for nothing. We are souls at the Confluence.

  • In blue and green the mountain range,
    Runs north to south affecting change,
    Majestic in their height they rise,
    Appearing very smart and wise.

    While in reverse in red and brown,
    Wind through desert and resound,
    Vibrations loud they do appear,
    To follow you throughout the year.

    As cactus guard the red and brown,
    The blue and green they stand their ground,
    Blue and green or red and brown,
    In mountain chains gold can be found.

    Each mountain chain it would so seem,
    Differ so in great extreme,
    Until you hear the wind up high,
    Humming tunes across the sky.

    As notes do blend in song and theme,
    We sit and sing and hum and dream;
    Fraternal twins make it okay,
    Having links along the way.

  • Emmet worked relentlessly at his old typewriter. Reams of paper filled his basement apartment. Everywhere there were stacks of paper, manuscripts half finished, not quite abandoned, always to be finished at some later date.

    Then the flood came. Water filled the basement, rendered the old typewriter unusable, washed the papers into a sodden muddy mess, purged the manuscripts of words and Emmet of ideas.

    Emmet works at a factory now. But he always talks about the book he had been writing, almost finished, the next best seller. Another casualty of the flood.

  • Unsent Poem

    If words could heal
    I would wrap you in them
    Words like resilience, practicality, and strength
    Although at the moment the words ringing through me
    Are more ragged:
    Outrageous, unbelievable, unfair
    The random sorting of cells, chromosomes
    Things so mysterious
    They are beyond my comprehension
    And I awake in the night grieving
    The more because I know you are grieving
    My beautiful daughter, perfect in every way

    Sometimes I wish time would hurry up
    The future would come faster
    Because time WILL heal

    Hope, faith, optimism
    These are also good words
    But of course you will find your own words
    To translate this reality
    To see it in perspective
    Racked against
    All the love
    In your busy life
    Other chances
    Days full of heart-wrenching joy
    Gifts yet to be delivered
    Hope fulfilled

    In time you can
    Put this sorrow away
    In a sacred place
    Of your choosing
    Where it will sit quietly
    Only occasionally visited
    A small box
    On a special shelf
    Growing smaller against
    The backdrop of your life
    With each passing day

    Love is all that matters
    All that remains
    No use wondering why

  • He’d been writing for hours. Fingers contentedly typing, having found their rhythm. He was almost whistling, tickled pink that after months of failed attempts he had finally captured the dragon that had been alluding him – the story line he’d been seeking. The words now flowing effortlessly. He took a second to breathe in this magical feeling when Marianne suddenly and ruthlessly invaded his pages. She always did that. Just when he had something, she’d enter like a tempest, whirling and reeling, destroying – word by word – all he had created. There was never any stopping her, and she cackled in delight!

  • Every day the papers come,
    Bringing news of tragedies:
    rapes, murders, thefts, our rights eroded, the vast gulf between rich and poor, pollution, extinctions, wars, famine, fire, floods,
    On and on it goes,
    Pounding in my head, pressing against my eyes, until my brain feels like one swirling mass of rage, disharmony, blackness, corruption
    I must
    Tear the papers apart, into tiny, tiny pieces,
    Throw them into the sky, they fly around like a murmuration of starlings in an ever-whorling vortex,
    I spin with them, faster, faster . . .
    I see the sun,
    White light,
    At the centre, peace.

  • REMINDER THAT OUR JANUARY CONTEST IS NOW CLOSED. GOOD LUCK TO ALL WHO ENTERED! NEED ANOTHER INSPIRATION BOOST? CHECK OUT OUR FEBRUARY STORY STARTER!

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