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Look UP a Little More – Six Sentence Stories

Look up a little more.

IMG_2458These 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

– 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 Unchartedplate.

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The Border I have Built


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

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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.

© 2017 Crystal R. Cook

Wishing & Waiting

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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 . . .

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.

© Crystal R. Cook 2017

Written in response to The Daily Post – Visceral 

 

Daily Haiku Challenge – Booknvolume Blog

Morgan, at the Booknvolume blog, is running a Daily Haiku Challenge, and I kind of love haiku, and I always love a good challenge as well. Believe it or not, Haiku can prove quite challenging.

The goal of haiku is to fit something filled with meaning into three short lines consisting of 17 syllables in total, it needs to invoke feeling, and make sense. This is how I’ve always thought of haiku.

Traditional Japanese haiku is, for lack of a better way to say it, simple complexity. I’ll likely never master it, but I do enjoy trying.

A recent walk around the neighborhood served up inspiration, and fortunately, I was able to capture it . . .

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Nature thrives divine
despite effort made by man
to maintain control

cRc