Tag Archive | writing

Secret Rendezvous – Caught in the act & still she couldn’t stop

imageShe never meant for it to go this far. The whole thing began in innocence, I suppose it often does though. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, right? She just thought she needed something, something more, something else . . . She felt selfish at the thought of it, but the feelings of need and desire only intensified with the passage of time. The more she tried to quell her longings the more they grew until the intensity was too much to bear and she gave in. It wasn’t the first time. She knew too well how it could all end.

She began to steal moments in the day while the family she loved was away to feed her hunger, to satiate the desire that burned within, and for a long while she was satisfied. She felt no true remorse; no one knew what she did during those fleeting moments in the light of the afternoon sun. What they don’t know couldn’t possibly hurt them right? Soon though, it wasn’t enough. She began to take chances. Late into the night when she was certain her love was sleeping sound, she would sneak from their bed for a midnight rendezvous.

The old flame had been rekindled within her and once again she felt the rush only secrecy can hold. She began to grow careless, every so often a giggle would escape and float down the hall, she hoped the closed door would spare her husband the sound of it. It was only in those moments she felt the slightest twinge of guilt, knowing what she was doing was wrong. Knowing when the morning came she would be weary and the day would be long, but the thought of what the night held for her was stronger than those moments of guilt.

Days, weeks, months went by before she realized something was wrong. She had no idea she’d woken her husband with her carelessness many times. She had no way of knowing how many nights he spent, listening through the door, wondering what he should do. He made the decision to confront her, to catch her in the act. When the night came, he kissed her sweetly and whispered his love to her. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep until she slowly slid out of the bed, tiptoed across the room and quietly closed the door behind her. He waited. Patiently, giving her enough time to begin doing what she had snuck out to do. He slowly opened the door just as quietly as she had closed it and made his way down the hall until he could see her shadow, glowing in a soft, flickering light.

His heart sunk. It all made sense now. The tired mornings, the hastily prepared meals and earlier bedtimes . . . All of her energy was devoted to the night, he wasn’t going to lose her to this . . . thief. No, he would not be robbed of his precious wife, not again. He was going to save her, just as he had done before. He approached her; gently placing his hand upon her shoulder. She jumped and tears began to fall when her eyes met his.

“Why?” is all he could manage to say. She hadn’t an answer to give, not one that could make him understand. In that moment she realized she was tired. So very, very tired. She looked into his bloodshot eyes and softly said she was sorry. He knew she was. He motioned to the object of her obsession and she knew what she had to do. She reached her shaking hand forward, gently moving the mouse until the arrow was atop the ‘shut down’ button. The screen seemed to beg her not to, but she had to. She knew she had to.

She closed her eyes and did it. The click of the button was deafening as the room went dark. She took her husband’s outreached hand and followed him back to bed. She closed her eyes and slept. It was a beautiful sleep. She dreamed of writing and blogging and Facebook and Pinterest, of all they to offer, the freedom to express herself, the joys of acknowledgment, the recipes, the silly cat videos, the motivational sayings . . . they were always there for her. Now there would be no more midnight visits to the vast world of point and click.

She awoke the next day, refreshed and ready to take on the world. She stared at the computer, remembering an email she was waiting for. She didn’t think it would hurt to quickly check. The minutes passed quickly, the hours even faster. Her husband came home and found her wide-eyed, fingers flying across the keyboard. He had been beat. He decided to give up. He ordered pizza for the kids, gently kissed her forehead as if to say he understood. She didn’t even know he had come home.

Crystal R. Cook

10 minute writing prompt – wind, storm & secrets

10 minute writing prompt — wind, storms, & secrets

– Set a timer and see what happens –

My secrets tormented me. Writhing within my soul, parasitic monsters feeding on my ever waning sanity. Taunting and teasing me from within; a cacophony of soundless voices reveling in and reminding me of all my hidden sins. My peace would only come when the howling winds of a wayward storm came to drown out their never-ending chatter.

2281fd6267c6ace097652f2194e1edaaEvery tempest became my friend. I sought protection in the midst of every storm which came my way. Then came one day a gentle zephyr, and it spoke, urging me to share my secrets, promising to carry them away, someplace far, far from me. So I whispered all my secrets into this breeze, and one by one, their voices grew silent until I could hear them no more.

I thought my freedom had finally been found, but the fluttering wind I thought was my friend had lied, and round me the air began to fill with the ghostly echoes of my foolishly whispered secrets, and not even the gusts and gales that once masked them could lend me their protection.

Sometimes now as they flutter and float though the air like swirling autumn leaves, my secrets will sing softly through my open windows, sometimes they will bellow in the night, just outside of my door.

Once my solace, now my captor, the wind knows my secrets and I will forever be bound by them . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Amazing Instant Novelist . . .Does anyone remember this?

Amazing Instant NovelistI stumbled across an old memory today on Pinterest, check out these archived screenshots of my old haunt – The former AOL site was the brainchild of Dan Hurley, the original 60 second novelist, you can check out his book here on GoodReads.

Amazing Instant Novelist was affiliated with Chicken Soup for the Soul, it was filled with message boards for writers and readers alike. I found the site in 1997 and was hooked. I read and I wrote and I became part of my very first cyber family there. There were contests and prizes and tons of camaraderie, it was, for lack of a better word, fantabulous.

It wasn’t long before I was asked to join the ranks as NovlQwiet, and became one of their volunteer admins. I was rather brokenhearted when the site was acquired by some other entity and faded from existence. I still miss it to be honest. The years I spent there are treasured.

It was there I realized I had something to offer, something I didn’t need to keep to myself, buried in notebooks and journals . . . my words. They read them, they picked them up and they displayed them; they valued them. I was encouraged and applauded and it was good. So good.

I’d never been in the company of other writers, I wasn’t even certain I was one of them until they assured me I was. The other Novls embraced me, the writers who came there to write respected me, and the readers who simply came there to read uplifted me. It was kind of a beautiful thing and I’ll always, always be thankful I was a part of it.

Crystal R. Cook

 

Magical Doorways

Magical Doorways

The classics . . . pieces of art and history, penned by the hands of literary masters, caretakers, and keepers of words; their works have stood the test of time, remaining while all else changes . . . forever.

My childhood was filled with magic and mystery, drama and suspense. I was a time traveler and a princess, a mighty hero and a damsel in distress. I’ve flown round the world and journeyed to the center of the earth. I had grand adventures when I was young. I could go anywhere and do anything because my mother led me to a me a magical doorway, an entrance into another world.

She gave me a wonderful gift when she taught me to read, it was my key to unlock the doors of imagination and knowledge. When I was six years old I found a weathered copy of The Old Man and The Sea, I read it front to back without pause; I’ve read it many times since. The same softly covered book, printed and bound in nineteen fifty-two, holds a place of honor in not only my memory, but in my home as well. Once I stepped beyond the boundaries of everyday reality into the wondrous world of literature there was nothing I did not desire to read.

Herman Melville and Ernest Hemingway were my best friends. Shakespeare and Mark Twain accompanied me to school quite often. Hawthorne and Homer waited patiently for me at the end of each day. I’ve been to secret gardens and lived in enchanted castles. I’ve known the greatest of love and have felt the deepest of sorrow. I played with Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn; I’ve even been to the moon and back again. I’ve sat along the shores of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River with the elephant’s child and pondered what the crocodile ate for diner. I bravely ventured into the mind of Poe.

I remember going to the fair with Charlotte and Templeton and investigating every mystery with the Hardy Boys. I was in the skiff with the old man Santiago and I felt the wind in my hair as I rode atop Black Beauty. My tears stained the pages where the red fern grew.

Aesop, Anderson and Kipling often joined me for lunch with James and his companions beneath the giant peach tree in the backyard. I traveled with Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and met the great wizard Gandalf. I befriended elves and fought ogres in search of the ring.

I held hands with Jesus in stories from the Bible and I was with Daniel in the lion’s den. I stood atop Mt. Ararat and gazed upon the most beautiful rainbow with Noah. I’ve been both young and old, taken many forms and seen many places. I’ve ridden high atop unicorns and slain dragons. I’ve even soared on the wings of angels.

I will forever be thankful to those who penned their dreams and fantasies, for in doing so; they bestowed upon me a treasure of great worth. I adore my books, though the pages have aged and the bindings have seen better days, I still go back to them, I visit my old friends often, adding new ones along the way. I never know where the magic door will take me or who will be my guide. It may be a quest for infinite wisdom or a marvelous retreat into days long since passed. Perhaps the future awaits my arrival on some distant star.

Who knows, maybe it lies within me, just waiting to be printed and bound . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Eleventy thousand things, cobwebs, poetic advice, & rhyme.

I have eleventy thousand things to do, that’s just a rough estimate, mind you, (eleventy is a thing, my thing) — by my estimation I have time enough to complete approximately three of these things, and this is assuming I remove myself from the computer reasonably soon.

Problem. I would rather write. Or read. Or nap. –sigh-

Of course, writing is among the eleventy thousand things I must do, and for some of this writing, looming deadlines are attached. I’ve already procrastinated past the point of saying it can wait one more day. Today is kind of that day. –ugh-

Since the new bloggy bit I would rather be writing is going to have to wait, I’m dusting off the cobwebs from one of my early posts, which was seen by five people according to the statistical analysis of The Qwiet Muse. Actually, I am going to kind of, sort of, merge two posts together since the subject matter fits, and now that I’ve read them, I find pieces and parts I want to change, fix, adjust, add to, and . . . –argh- no time.

Now I must be productive and responsible and –extended sigh- get to work . . . I am going to need more coffee.

Poetic Perfection?

Dance of Words by Crystal R. Cook

Is there truly such thing as a perfect poem? What reads like unblemished perfection to one, may not receive the same praises from another. Poetry is a subjective art. There are guidelines a writer can follow which may endear their words to a greater audience of readers. The words of a poem provide the reader sustenance with which they can quell their hunger, but the presentation, the way in which the writer chooses to craft their words upon a blank canvas, is important to a readers palate as well.

A poem needn’t be epic in length, think of the power the words of haiku hold.

Writer - Haiku - Crystal R. Cook

Poetry is something which comes from within, composition and form are secondary to the words which will bring meaning and life to the page, but important still. Poetry comes in many forms, perfect to one – nonsense to another. What matters is the author’s voice tickling the reader’s ear through the whispered words of the page.

You needn’t use big words or flowery verse, it doesn’t have to rhyme, and it doesn’t have to be explained; the words and the composition of them should suffice. Writing poetry can be healing, thought-provoking, and at times, profound to both the writer as well as the reader. The perfect poem is the one that touches your soul when you write it, and invites the reader to become one with your words.

Seeking release

The laureate lamented
for her words were skewed,
her altiloquence mistaken
as being quite rude.
Her style clinquant,
her affectation too much,
too many mistakes,
like catchfools and such.
Circumlocution
and too many clichés
made all of her readers
turn quickly away.
What she thought
to be eloquent
was really quite fustian;
due to forced rhyme
she lacked any . . . lyricism?
Pedantry ad nauseam,
not even done right,
left the young writer
feeling contrite.
She vowed to improve,
she promised to change
and pay more attention
how her words were arranged.
Convinced of her talent
she started again,
but was soon held up
by heteronyms.
She stopped and she sighed,
then she started to cry,
for her poetic juices
had completely run dry . . .

CRC

Simply awful with that bit of forced rhyme and the ridiculous use of unnecessarily big words. I must admit though, it was quite fun to write.

Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. If you cannot rhyme well, you shouldn’t rhyme at all. Forced rhymes destroy what may otherwise be a fine piece of work. Rhymed poetry needs to have a rhythm; it needs to flow seamlessly as it is read. It needs to make sense.

If writing a rhymed piece, ideally each stanza should have the same amount of lines; the rhyme scheme needs to be consistent. There are several ways to craft a rhymed poem, once you’ve chosen your style, remain true to it throughout the piece, the jarring effect of switched up rhyme schemes can throw a reader off.

Every line in a poem does not need to be capitalized; many writers tend to do this, for the reader though, it is often hard to distinguish where one thought ends and another begins. A poem can have commas, periods, and question marks. These details can certainly serve to enhance your work; don’t be afraid to use them.

Poetic beauty is personal passion, as it is with any art. There are those who love and admire the work of Picasso and others who are perplexed and not attracted to it in the slightest, yet both recognize the value of the art itself.

Words never rest,
an endless dance
of thoughts
and epiphanies,
which must
be forgotten
or given
life eternal
upon a page.

Words
ease fear,
create terror,
heal, hurt,
make
insanity
the norm.

They never
cease,
they never
fade,
never fail,
never stop.

CRC

We Write by Crystal R. Cook

And because we spoke of rhyme . . .

Stymied by Rhyme?

Rhyme

To rhyme or not to rhyme, if you choose to rhyme, you must rhyme well, for if you don’t, it will sound like . . . Well, you understand don’t you?

From the Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce – RIME, n. Agreeing sounds in the terminals of verse, mostly bad. The verses themselves, as distinguished from prose, mostly dull. Usually (and wickedly) spelled “rhyme.”

When asked about English words without a rhyme, most will quite correctly say orange, purple and silver. There are actually many words in the English language lacking a partner in perfect rhyme.

If it’s true rhyme you’re looking for, you may want to steer clear of the words: anything, January, stubborn, apricot, dictionary and xylophone. Good luck with chaos, angry, hostage, rhythm, shadow, circus, crayon and glimpsed. Angst and empty, depth and width will be tough to rhyme, just like glimpsed and else and diamond and chocolate. Penguin and galaxy do not have any true rhymes, nor does elbow or engine, anxious or monster.

A perfect rhyme, sometimes referred to as true rhyme or full rhyme, is defined by the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language as; a rhyme in which the final accented vowel and all succeeding consonants or syllables are identical, while the preceding consonants are different, for example, great, late; rider, beside her; dutiful, beautiful.

Pure rhyme can be broken down even further. Words such as dog and log are single pure rhymes. Silly and willy would hence be referred to as double pure rhymes. An example of a triple pure rhyme would be mystery and history.

The longer the word, the harder it will be to find a perfect rhyme, this doesn’t mean they cannot be used in the context of rhyme however. Para-rhymes are defined as a partial or imperfect rhyme, often using assonance or consonance only, as in dry and died or grown and moon. This is also called half rhyme, near rhyme, oblique rhyme, slant rhyme or forced rhyme. This refers to words that do not completely rhyme, but use like sound to form the desired effect. A common example is the word discombobulate, to create a fluid sounding rhyme, three syllables must be utilized, populate would work well as a half rhyme in this instance. Hill and hell or mystery and mastery are examples of para-rhyme.

Masculine rhyme, or monosyllabic rhyme, is among the most common; this technique stresses the final syllable of each word, as in sublime and rhyme, or went and sent. Feminine rhyme differs in that the stress is on two or more syllables such as pleasure and treasure or fountain and mountain. Identical rhyme is simply using the same word twice.

There are various other examples of rhyme; eye rhyme is a rhyme consisting of words, such as lint and pint or love and move with similar spellings, but different sounds. Rich rhyme is a word rhymed with its homonym such as blue with blew, guest with guessed.

Scarce rhymes are words with limited rhyming alternatives like wisp and lisp, motionless and oceanless. Wrenched rhyme is the rhyming of a stressed syllable with an unstressed syllable as in words like lady and bee or bent and firmament.

Internal and external multi-syllable rhymes utilize the rhyming of more than one word, in this example, bleak and seek are internal rhymes; words within the body of the stanza, while night and light are external rhymes and fall at the end of a line.

So she found him
in the bleak of night,
lost on his quest
to seek the light.

Assonance rhyme is the matching of the vowel sounds, feast and feed, fever and feature. In syllable rhyme, the last syllable in each word is matching, pitter and patter, batter and matter. Consonance rhyme is matching the consonants in each word, her and dark. Alliteration is matching the beginning sounds of each word, often used in a series; perfect, poetic, personification.

Many people wrongly assume writing a rhymed poem is an easy task, until they actually try to write one, that is. There is much more to it than seeking words that rhyme, but we’ll discuss it at length some other time.

Crystal R. Cook

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The Documentation of Experience -Writing

My Words by Crystal R. Cook

It makes my heart smile when someone reads the words I pen and they resonate with them in some way. I feel blessed when they respond, when I realize the message I intended to convey came across as I’d hoped it would.

Often, I write to share a truth or an insight I’ve gleaned at some point in my life. If it taught me something, perhaps it can do the same for someone else, or at the very least, validate a truth of their own or set them on a path they may not have known was there.

There is something important I wish to impart when it comes to what I give to the page, I am not necessarily going through what I write of in the exact moment I write of it, sometimes, but not always.

A writer’s mind, at least my mind, does not completely maintain a foothold in the here and now. The ebb and flow of my stream of consciousness is forever churning and changing direction, my thoughts rushing in as raging rapids or as gently trickling droplets.

I can think a thought or experience a moment of epiphany about depression or anger or grief during the happiest of times, sometimes I share these thoughts because I still need to learn something from them or simply set in stone what has already been cultivated from the garden of my experience. I share these thoughts in the hope someone may need to hear what I have to say.

Writers can also be a wee bit melodramatic — I once wrote two agonizing pages about fear, anxiety, and what was lurking in the shadows just waiting to get me. In actuality, I was in the park on a sunny afternoon watching my children frolic, yes they frolicked, and when I looked down I noticed an eensy weensy spider coming toward me at a speed which made me slightly less than comfortable; it startled me. I went with it. I didn’t have any curds and whey, so I ran with the whole deepest, darkest fear thing.

There are times I write of lessons learned long ago and my words may convey a sense of the now, when in fact, I have long since moved past that moment. I do this for those who may need to hear it in the now and might relate. I do this because it is a part of my story, it is how I felt, who I am, and how I came to be.

Sometimes I find a few scribbled words scratched upon a crumpled piece of paper I’ve left between the pages of a book, something I once wanted to write, but somehow forgot about, and it all comes back to me, begging to be set free and given its say. I almost always oblige it.

I can travel my own timeline as a silent observer, I take notes and create a written history of the events, the feelings . . . I capture them and breathe life back into them so none of it is forgotten or experienced in vain.

Everything I write is a truth, it may be an old truth realized and finally made tangible in print. It may be something I hadn’t felt the need to share just yet, or perhaps I was simply waiting for the right words to find me.

Maybe those words were just waiting for the right person to share them with.

Crystal R. Cook

.coms and avocados

My Favorite Sites and an Avocado

 

I was 27 the first time I used the internet, I was a stay at home mom with four young house trolls and a husband too often far from home in service of his country. I had a computer, I got my first one In 1993. It was a beast of a machine, a wonderful machine, really not much more than a glorified word processor, but it allowed me to print my words to more than scattered notebooks and scraps of paper, it didn’t stop the notebooks and scattered papers from piling up though, it never will.

Fast forward to 1997 and we were dialed in the World Wide Web of Wonder. I was in point and click .com nirvana. I searched out and soaked up so much knowledge. I emailed friends and family everyday, at least I attempted to. I found places to write, to mentor, and learn, I became part of the online community.

Internet friends started talking about Facebook, encouraging me to join. I didn’t. I wouldn’t. I checked it out, but my usual non-judgmental self became judgmental and I concluded this Facebook thing was for attention seeking, over sharing, drama addicts and bored housewives.

I figured it was probably much like MySpace, which I thought was simply dreadful. So, I refused to take part . . . but then . . . my family members joined the Book of Face and I realized it was actually a pretty cool way to have more of the interaction with them I so desperately desired. One day and I was hooked like a fish with a juicy worm on a hook.

I re-connected with old and dear friends I never thought I would see again, I made amazing new and fabulous friends, something I am generally incapable, or maybe just unwilling to do in the real world, and my life actually felt fuller. I kind of love Facebook.

Then there was this invite for a beta site called CafeMom. Pfft, dumb. I was bored though and the idea of being among the first to check out a new website and offer insights and suggestions sounded intriguing, so I joined. Life changed for me. It truly did. The life altering change happened when a stranger, a beautiful, fantastic, and wonderful stranger invited me to a group she was building there, an autism support group.

Historically, I have always steered clear of support groups, I never truly found much support within them. Something just felt right though. I have two boys on the spectrum and thought, if anything, I could offer support, advice, and encouragement to other moms blazing and tumbling along the same path. I never expected to be the recipient of any of those things, but I was.

The friendships I forged there transcended the group, they became more than my autism support group friends, they became my true, real, and lasting friends.

Then this thing called Pinterest popped up. Ha! Waste of time for sure! No way was I getting sucked in to that nonsense. I suppose you can guess what happened, the vacuum that is all things positively pinteresting sucked me right in. I can truly say I am addicted to Pinterest, to pinning and re-pinning. This may sound silly, but it’s therapeutic for me and quite calming. I kind of love Pinterest.

I write. A lot. When people would find out, they would always ask where my blog was, what blogging platform I used, and why the heck don’t you have a blog? You should totally start a blog.

Honestly, I used to think of blogging in much the same way I felt about avocados and I didn’t like avocados. I’d never actually tasted an avocado, but I knew I wouldn’t like them. In truth, I didn’t really know what a blog was. I had no idea most of my favorite places to visit online were, in fact, blogs.

One day, I accidentally ingested a bit of guacamole. Taste bud heaven opened up, I loved avocados. Loved them. I figured if I could love the vegetafruit called an avocado, maybe, maybe I was being wrongly stubborn about other things.

I started a blog. I love blogging. I love blogging and avocados and Facebook and an online support group and Pinterest. Love them.

I just know ya’ll were simply dying to know my history of all things internet, (you didn’t know you wanted to know, but you did and now you do). Then again, I may have just bored ya to tears, which was actually my inspiration for writing this all down, not to bore you to tears, but because I was bored.

I shouldn’t be bored because I have tons to do, other things I should be writing, and laundry and getting dressed, which is precisely why I am doing this instead. I don’t wanna do those other things . . .

Crystal R. Cook

#confession, #1000speak, #octothorpe

#1000speak

 

I have a confession to make.

I hate hashtags. I love octothorpes. At least, I love the word associated with the symbol commonly known to most these days as, and I cringe to say it, a hashtag.

I am not entirely certain why I have such disdain for the new terminology. I don’t deal well with change. I realize octothorpe is archaic terminology, some even dispute its correctness, but I embraced it long ago. It has been called many things, pound sign, number sign, hash mark; none of which I have ever objected to, but for some reason, hashtag annoyed me the moment it became a thing.

I vowed to never, ever, not ever use a hashtag. Perhaps it was my way of rebelling against the text-speaking society we have become. It bothers me to see my beloved words reduced and mangled and mashed, I don’t want to spend precious moments deciphering messages like a spy.

I tried it once. I wrongly assumed WTF meant way too far; the conversation did not go as planned.

Back to my confession, I have embraced, semi-sort of and in a round-about way, the hashtag. Not entirely mind you, and it wasn’t without hesitation, but the reason for my change of heart is worthy. Well worthy.

#1000speak

1000 Voices for Compassion. Well worthy indeed.

The blogosphere is filled with amazing, talented, beautiful people and two of these beautiful people had a conversation, one that led to an idea, a glorious idea. They realized our world needed to embrace compassion, and indeed it does. Because of their compassion, a movement has begun.

The idea of 1000 bloggers, 1000 voices from around the globe coming together on the same the day to share a message. Brilliant.

On February 20, 2015, the interwebs will be inundated with words of hope, kindness, acceptance, and love . . . It will be filled with compassion, because of compassion.

It doesn’t have to stop at 1000 voices, we all have a voice. We share a global platform from which we can shout out this message, the world needs to be reminded compassion can change us, it needs to change us.

I invite, challenge, encourage, and implore you to join us on February 20th to share your thoughts, ideas, and from the heart feelings. You don’t have to be a blogger or a writer or a poet, simply share your message of compassion with your Facebook families, your Twitter fans, your Instagram and Tumbler friends.

Don’t forget to use the hashtag.

#1000speak

Crystal R. Cook

When you over medicate a writer.

image

I’ve not been feeling well, not well at all. I’ve been coughing and moaning, aching and groaning, all for great and good reason of course, I am sick. And tired. And sick and tired of being so very sick and tired, as anyone would be, quite obviously.

The aches have turned to pains, actual and intense and relentless pains, so much pain, in the matter of all things factual, I can barely walk. My back, the lower portion of it, has tightened and old injuries have found new ways to complain.

No matter, I have Pinterest to keep me occupied and my bed to comfort me. Neither are doing me much good, but at least I am semi, sort of, and somewhat comfortable. But not really.

There was going to be a point to this rambling. I think there was at least. Rambling! That was where I was heading, straight towards the rambling.

Because of the incessant coughing I was experiencing, I took some medication, the packaging clearly made promises of cough calming relief. Inserts included with such medication often make false promises, as this particular insert clearly did.

After some time, I took a muscle relaxer because of the pain induced by the coughing that was anything but being calmed. Because of the coughing and the pain, I was having great difficulty falling into the blissful, healing sleep I so desperately desired and needed, so in my sleep deprived, pain filled, chest congested misery, I added to the mix the smallest dose of something to help me sleep.

In theory, it all seemed the smart thing to do. Theories are sometimes ill-conceived and do not result in the outcomes expected. It was a long and strange night filled with fitful turnings and the oddest sorts of dreams.

I clearly remember waking, several times and reaching for my pen. In my groggy state one thing was clear, brilliant ideas were brewing. I recall writing what I just knew was going to be some sort of inspired masterpiece.

This afternoon, yes, the morning passed me by, I begrudgingly awoke with a wee bit of excitement to read what my subconscious had penned to the page.

Something was seriously amiss. The notebook and the pen and the reading light lay by my side, but the scribblings which greeted me were not quite what I was expecting. Not quite at all. A sampling, I give you . . .

www.theqwietmuse.com

It was, at least I think it must have been, at the very most, three days before the second evening of the month. I remember it was in the eve because she was tucking the sun into the horizon and placing the stars where the sun had spent the last part of the afternoon, and at the very least it could have been only yesterday.

   Ticktock, I’m lost and I’m late and it’s almost time for something.

For what?

   Something.

How do you know?

   Because it’s always almost time for something.

It is?

   Yes, actually.

Like what?

   Something, for certain. Sometimes lots of somethings.

You’re so dreadfully difficult to understand.

   I know. It’s delightful though, isn’t it?

It’s something.

   Almost.

It turns out my brilliance was not nearly as brilliant in the light day as it was in the darkest and deepest parts of the night. sigh

Still, perhaps I can use my nonsensical, over-medicated  ramblings to create some sort of little story someday. In the meantime, I will return to my misery until it subsides . . .

Crystal R. Cook