#OctPoWriMo (Day 3 of 31)

DAY 3

(it’s still day 4, I’ve almost caught up with the crowd! )

Prompt – The Taste of Metal

Write a Cherita using the following prompt as inspiration – The Taste of Metal

A cherita is a form of poetry referred to as hexostitch. It is a 6 line, 3 stanza poem. The first stanza is 1 line, the second, 2, and the third, 3. Cheritas are typically untitled and unrhymed, each cherita should tell a tale.

(Sometimes I follow directions, sometimes I use them as coasters. There is metal in my cherita, it just isn’t being tasted . . .)

* * *

Small metal box, cold to the touch, wrapped in the tulle of an old wedding veil.

Frail and fragile hands caress the top, lift the latch, reach inside.
Watercolor eyes, wet with tears, blink and stare at the treasure within.

One by one she holds them. Word by word she reads them. Each fading page brings memory back to life, she holds his words like she once held his hand, and spreads her wings to join him.

Previous Challenge Posts

#OctPoWriMo 2017

Day 1 – How Did You Get here?

Day 2 – We Write Because We Must

#OctPoWriMo (Day 2 of 31)

Oct4

DAY 2

(really, it’s day 4, still late to the party)

Prompt – We Write Because We Must

Free write for ten minutes stating, “We write because we must”

* * *

We write because we must . . . because the alternative might be madness.

Sometimes words take us by the hand and lead us to the page, we slip off our shoes and dance with them, dance with them for days. We give them reign and let them roam, following were they go, and when we tire, we lay them down, off to rest they go.

Sometimes they beg to rise, once we lay down them down to sleep. We haven’t the time, we need to rest, we pray their souls to keep. Just for a while, precious words, for a while please be still. But with their silent pleas and sorrow, they lead us to the quill.

Sometimes they command, demand attention and release. Overwhelm our thoughts and take control of all our dreams. Not to be ignored, they rage, lest we put them on a page.

There are those among us who can quell the voice within, for others, the only way to quiet them is with a page and pen.

We write to free ourselves, and set others free as well. We write because there’s stories, so many stories we must tell. We write to right the wrongs we see, to fill in voids and blanks. We spread out words before us, and within them, we escape.

We write to soothe our souls, to scream in silent sound, we write to fill the silence with a different kind of sound. We write to find out who we are and what’s inside us.

We write . . . we write, because we simply must.

Previous Challenge Posts

#OctPoWriMo 2017

Day 1 – How Did You Get here?

#OctPoWriMo (day 1 of 31)

Oct4

DAY 1

(really, it’s day 4, but I’m late to the party)

Prompt – How did you get here?

Forged in fire,
tempered with faith,
in battle I’ve broken,
been mended by grace.
Wounded warrior,
still standing to fight,
shrouded in darkness,
bathing in light.
I stand before God
courageous and scared,
I stand before God,
my soul laid bared.
Mountains I’ve climbed
have filled me with strength,
the miles I’ve traveled
have given me wings.
I tell of my journey
in verse line and ink
in poetry and prose
I breathe and I think.
Chapter by chapter
my story is told
my heart,
my heart is beating,
on the pages you hold.
Every path I have walked,
every detour I’ve trodden,
are mapped on my soul
and never forgotten.
Every step, every stumble
is writ upon my heart,
an unfolding, living story
in which I play a part.

The Qwiet Muse Follow Giveaway

Sep29

Ya’ll have heard of Facebook, right? It’s been around for a while now, all the cool kids hang out there (I do, so . . . )

So here’s the thing, The Qwiet Muse has a home away from home on the book of face, and It’s occurred to me I’ve never formally invited any of you to stop by.

I’m an introverted, slightly less than normal writer-type, so social graces are often lost on me. I’m working on it.

That said, I would like to cordially invite you to click on over and say hello! Feel free to get comfy, click like and come back anytime, the door will always be open.

I have a present for you

You can use any of the links in this post or just look a little way down over there on the right side of this page and you’ll see my little Facebook box.

Now, if you click on it and likeThe Qwiet Muse on Facebook this week, you might get a little something in your mailbox from me.

In one week, next Friday evening, I’ll be randomly selecting one new follower for a giveaway, it’s not like a million dollars or anything, but it’s something. Just a little token to say thank you for following.

To enter, simply like The Qwiet Muse on Facebook and leave me a comment under the Giveaway post to say hello and introduce yourself so I can add your name into the random drawing. If you’re a blogger and have a Facebook page, drop me a link (here or on Facebook) so I can leave some love on your page as well!

I’m looking forward to seeing you there!

I’m not leaving out those who already follow me on Facebook! If you’ve already followed there, but haven’t subscribed to the blog, pop on over, subscribe and leave me a comment on the giveaway post to enter the drawing as well! If you’re not a WordPress subscriber, you can still get new posts via email.

I’ll be holding more giveaways and some contests in the coming months, so stay tuned and join in . . .

Look UP a Little More – Six Sentence Stories

Sep28

Look up a little more.

These days, he spends so much time looking down – his head is bowed, but not in prayer, he holds an alter in his hand, the god he worships speaks to him in 140 characters, hashtags, and memes, using click-bait to reel him in.

Look up a little more.

His friends consist of profile pics and avatars, voices speaking in emoji and acronym in a silent cacophony, deafening him to the sound of life beyond the screen.

Look up a little more.

He types LOL without even smiling, he lives for likes and filters himself for others to envy while his life passes by, he feels lost and alone in a crowd when wifi is weak, he doesn’t know he’s alone until the battery dies and he looks up, surrounded by strangers he used to know.

He needs to look up a little more.

Six Sentence Storied

This weeks word was UP, thanks to Ivy at Uncharted Blog for keeping us writing every week!

The Tomb at the Top of the Stairs

Sep24

– A Six Sentence Story –

The attic looked much the same as it always had, the cobwebs were bigger and the dust was thicker, but it remained, as it had in her mind, a mausoleum of forgotten things and fading memories.

Being there left her with a physical ache deep inside, but the movers were on the way and if she wanted to salvage something, anything her grandmothers hands once held, she had to keep the tears from clouding her eyes and find it.

Picking things up and putting them down, she sifted through the moth eaten past packed away in boxes and stacked in precarious piles, she nearly missed the faded green volume propped almost proudly amidst generations of detritus no one could bring themselves to throw out, but like a guide, a sliver of sunlight found its way into the attic from the small vent beneath the rafters and lighted softly upon the gilt lettering decorating its spine, making it dance just for her.

The dust plumed and swirled and waltzed in the air as she gently wiped the powdery remnants of time from a beautifully illustrated copy of The Children’s Longfellow, tears again filled her eyes when she looked beneath the cover, a faded ex-librīs revealed the books lineage, her great grandmother, her grandmother, and her mother’s names were all printed there on that bookplate.

She stood and tiptoed back through everything she was leaving behind, cradling the book close to her heart, she closed the door to the tomb at the top of the stairs for the last time.

Sitting at her grandfathers desk, she carefully added her name beneath those of the women who helped shape who she’d become, leaving room enough for her own daughters name to one day be written.

* * *

My six, ever so slightly run-on sentences inspired by this weeks word from Uncharted, plate.

The Border I have Built

Aug24

Border – a Six Sentence Story

It was always meant to keep people out, not everyone, there is a door of course, one I’ve locked up tight and hidden away the key.

I built it stone by stone, piece by piece with my own two hands and it’s served its purpose well.

I’ve made a home behind this wall, where it’s comfortable, safe, and warm.

The only way in is to be invited, and sometimes even then, I may ask my guests to leave.

It’s quiet here, so very quiet here, sometimes it is too quiet here.

It was always meant to keep people away, a border between them and me, but sometimes I forget the way out and the only one in here is me.

Beneath the Poet Tree

Aug24

I’ll tell you
a tale
once shared
with me,
of a magical place
and the
Poet Tree,
where muses
dance
in the
gentle breeze,
and butterflies fly
with gossamer wings.

It’s been told
a word
was planted,
and a tree began
to grow,
the trunk rose
high above,
the roots reached
far below.
Her branches lifted
toward the sky,
upon each leaf
a poem
was writ,
she shaded
wandering scribes,
who chose
that place
to sit.

Some say
the tree
called out,
to those it felt
would hear,
they sensed a
gentle pull
when they
dared to
venture near.

They say
the leaves
would whisper
in softly spoken
rhyme,
with pure and
perfect recitation,
line by
lovely line.

They felt a
temperate presence,
like a ghost
from days
of old,
weaving words
around them,
so the story has
been told.

With unseen
inspiration,
their words
began to spill,
filling full
their parchment,
emptying
their quills.

Oh, how I long
to hear
her softly
whispered plea,
to take
my place
and rest
and write
beneath the
Poet Tree.

With pen
in hand
and heart
agleam
I’d script
the hopes
and thoughts
inside me,
and words
would waltz
and words
would breathe,
upon a stage
they’d sing.
The words
would dance,
they’d be
dancing
with me,
while I dreamed
a paper dream.

Wishing & Waiting

Aug23

S’il vous plait . . . as you wish . . . but not just this moment. I would, if I could, gift your hearts desire, if only I could – if only.

Words. Spoken without meaning, knowing my yearning could not be quelled, would not be quelled, not yet.

Not now, not at this time, perhaps when morning comes.

I hunger through the night with bitter longing, anxiously awaiting the morn when he’ll rise and grant me my wish. But when the morning arrives he whispers, “Wait.”

And wait I must, and wait I will.

It’s better this way, the donuts are fresh in the morning.

Written for 100 Word Story – “wish”

Brought to us by Thin Spriral Notebook

Oh, but I will rise . . .

Aug23

Enemy Within by Crystal R. Cook

Thought and intellect cannot quell the voice within . . . it slithers beneath the surface of who I know I am and who I know I’m meant to be. It whispers lies, it screams in a cacophony of silence, a deafening roar to bind me.

I tell myself I’m safe, it tells me there is something to fear. I tell myself the skies are clear, no storms gather up above, it points to distant clouds and says, oh, but here they come.

I breathe, I pray, I think on other things, but still, it speaks.

I tell myself I’m strong, it reminds me I am weak. I battle this voice, I’m a warrior without a weapon facing a foe no one else can see, knowing I mustn’t surrender, lest it become all that is left of me. It tells me I’m a prisoner, trapped inside a shell, but I know – I know, I will escape this hell.

I breathe, I pray, I think of other things, and I begin to speak.

I reclaim my voice and rebuke the spell that brought me to my knees, I am bigger, I am more. I will not surrender to the trespasser trying to rob me of my peace. There are cracks somewhere within me I hope one day to repair, sealing forever the places the thief finds its way in, until that day I’ll continue to fight, and I’ll continue to win.

Anxiety, visceral disquietude buried deep inside, engaging me in battle. This enemy may knock me down with doubt and fear and lies, oh, but I will rise.

Written in response to The Daily Post – Visceral