Just Write

Writing can offer solace and salvation.

From the October 2014 issue of Writer Magazine, “Writers on Writing,” Roxane Gay:

“Writing, at its best and truest, can offer solace and salvation for both readers and writers.”

Vivien .book. 2011Marlene’s Musings: Sometimes we want to read something good, just like we want comfort food. We need you, Writers, to do your best to create those words that soothe and settle us.

Use the prompts sprinkled throughout The Write Spot Blog and Just Write!

 

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4 comments

  1. Ke11y

    May I introduce myself; my name is Sebastian Olivier-Kelmscott. I am a toad, horned, and ready to croak. I have heard that it is a human nature to show a kindness, having a treasure chest, a sea of good intention. But, alas, I am an animal. Ah, it would take but a momentary brush of a woman’s lips, a kiss from the abyss of loneliness, from the sad world, from the lips of regret, ravings, and laughter, to touch upon my toady skin. Kiss me and I will rise, telling of insanities, romantic landscapes, all so primitively beautiful. I would become a caveman on the page; a scratching heart looking for a body. A darling toad who wants so much to be a Prince. To suffer. To be killed time, and time again. To feel the delirium of warm lips and safe arms.

    Kiss me and I will be born again, my thirst restored, my hungers satisfied, my shouts and dances wild and free. Allow me to glimpse upon you, and bring an end to my earthly pain, the pain of a million thunderbolts, one for every wart on my moist back. If not a kiss, maybe a glance, those lightning’s of the heart; lightning’s that stitch sorrow to sadness. But I, Sebastian Olivier-Kelmscott, am saved for your wonderful world of sadness, a world of hopes and regrets, ready to begin the romance, that wonderful world of adventure, full of desires and joys. One kiss of a beauty will allow me onto the pages of sweet mortality? Don’t let me live in some stagnant dark of a hopelessly unromantic swamp. Kiss me, won’t you. I have the talent. It cries out. You know it. It’s raw and stupid and silly but it’s real.

    This is where I live, a woodland pond stunningly beautiful. The trees come down to the water line in places, hanging their branches out over the water. It is a pond without reflections. It is a pond that floats a child’s motionless boat. It is the pond where my grief cuts open the wound, and I bleed from the heart. It is just a sheet of water that covers my reality. It is a pond moved only by the breath of the willow trees. It is the hallowed pond of dreams; the ashen water in which no April moon will ever shine. It is the pond of my tears.

    My voice has risen. It is a cry. It is the croak of want. Will you deny me comfort, growth and direction? I demand to be heard. I demand direction. I demand total commitment. You hear…you hear me…I’m simply the voice of a toad before you kiss me. You’d deny my need? Sometimes, I’ve heard it said, a woman can love such a creature before he kills himself in the madness of pain. I can but wait your arrival. Come then, winds of darkness, visit the accursed, for the wetness on my lips tastes sweet; perhaps it is the taste of relief.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Fascinated by this piece. . . I alternately shake my head at the wonder of this imaginative writing and at the saga of this little toad who has such a magnificent name. Surely, he is destined for something wonderful. Well, he dwells within some mighty fine words! Keep writing, Little Prince, keep on writing.

  2. Ke11y

    She woke on the horizon at midnight. I heard her moans. Could it be that on this day she will send me to hell, dripping in dark dreams? Four days out, and my first communion with her is one of fearful apprehension, even to the sailor in me. I take down the linen as her endless screams come closer. She has woken, yes, and she comes to offer me a requiem. The open cathedral of the Atlantic swallows her sounds as the ocean waves flee ahead of her. She comes: sobs from hell. I taste the salt on my lips, bite into them to take away thoughts of fear, preferring pain; because pain is warm, and concentrates the mind.

    What a phantom you are tonight, you cursed wretched child of a storm. Now you hang out there waiting to strike at me, teasing me enough to dry my shirt, but I know you are coming, proud and powerful in all your regalia. My work is done, I can but wait her arrival. Come, winds of darkness, visit the accursed. But my prayers are answered. She passes to the west, afraid of this snot-nosed kid who yelled his defiant young life into her face; now just an old sailor, fearing the music from on high.

    1. mcullen Post author

      Tantalizing writing with interesting phrase choices: “my first communion with her” and “take down the linen” and “preferring pain; because pain is warm” and “What a phantom you are.” Love the dark, mysterious aspect of this excellent writing. Thanks for posting.

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