Blur

It's raining hard tonight.
The stars are blotted out and instead
Run in rivers, steadily down to a
Cracked and dirty earth.

I can hear them falling from my room.
They're pounding the earth with their blur.

I'm behind a waterfall.
Looking out, I see night
Fragmented by falling water.
The sound ambushes my ears,
The mist gently caresses my face.
All is good with the world:
It's becoming new again.

The stars are blessing me with
Their uncertain presence.

I want to sit in their downfall.

"Our separation need not be final"

Using random phrases from other books (identified with italics), we were asked to develop a story.
Here is my tragic tale of a purple lily...

The purple lily was quite content in his home. He'd been there ever since he was a seedling (obviously, since he was a flower). From his niche in the world he could see the lovely forest and the wide wide sea. The sun smiled down on him often, unless it was sad or else otherwise occupied and then the rains would come. His life was good to him. He was a smart flower and had many many friends, his most dearest being that which covered his roots: the soil. The soil was a constant friend to him, through rain or sun, or if he felt miserable on particularly miserable days. The soil anchored him in place and told him of who he was and what he could be.
One particularly sunny day in the month of Perpetual Sun, the dear lily was feeling keen on life. Soon a shadow descended upon him. Momentarily he questioned the lapse in sunlight but disregarded it as nothing.
Then he heard the scream from the other side of the forest.
Worse than the scream was the wailing that ensued after. It was nothing he'd ever heard before. He and his soil were terribly confused.
Before shadow descended once again, he felt an uneasy quivering deep in his roots. Something was horridly wrong. Then a clamp came down around his waist and his roots felt stunningly cold. He looked down and understood the scream of before: he was being taken away.
"Our separation need not be final!" he called down to his weeping soil.
The gaping hole was soon smoothed over.
Looking away, the lily saw that the deep magical forest was made up of only the graceful stalks of those like him and that wide wide sea was just a bucket of water.
                                                                         *******
The purple lily sits in his new home, his watery prison as he often calls it. He was being crowded from all angles with the others still in mourning.
He is not the only one.
                                                                         *******
A few weeks passed and the lily and his new companions don't acknowledge leaving their second home. Old and withered, the return to the outside.
Their separation was now final.
                                                                         *******
Kermiac patted my wrist affectionately. That bouquet had been my favourite.
But this one looks nice too.

Harsh

The prompt for creative writing was to use the words harsh, presumptuous, mortician, belly of a whale, airport, sulfer dioxide, 7-11 as many times as possible in a piece.
This is my second of three such works.

Harsh.
Starts off strict and hard
Ends softly, resoundingly,
Letting you know that it is not yet over-
There's more on the way

Shhh... don't be presumptuous;
That's what got you here in the first place.

These words are not harsh.
Harsh is in the interpretation.
Harsh is living in the belly of a whale.
Next time you doubt me, I'll send you there.
My good friend, the one who lives at the 7-11,
He's been there.

And back.
He'll tell you.

Har- Here we go again.

It's a Writer's Thing

I hold this sword within my grasp.

With it, I can defeat the rest;

With it I can

Leave this ordinary world

As it is

And create my own.

The torrent of life

That streams from this sword

Floods the enemy with

Whatever I choose:

Whether love or sorrow

Fear or joy

With this lovely weaponry I unleash my wrath

With enough power to destroy

Or create

Whatever I choose. 

Eb and Flow

Lovers sit on the dock-

miles from the protected swim area,

eons from the land-

And they just sit and look.

Their faces point outwards away from the land

And towards the unexplored beauty

Of the molecules of hydrogen and oxygen.

A foot stretches up from the blue

And is examined lazily, carelessly.

Neither the foot nor the ocean are the subject

Or observation here:

It’s the other.

The mystery of simplicity in another person.

Faces point out while eyes glance in,

Trying to snatch a look of the

Sun reflecting off of smooth, tranquil skin,

Looking for a hint of longing

To enter the deep dark space ahead.

Before them the sun sets.

They choose to return.

Fortune Cookie

Out of two halves, one fortune is found

Trusting in delicious outside forces tends to lead
to disillusionment.

Forgetting leads to nothing but disaster;
forgiving creates new friends.

Pretending isn’t worth the effort it requires

        (Unless you’re pretending to be a dragon

         for your own enjoyment. Then go for it)

The truest forms of freedom are found
in the tiniest of circumstances.

Your future holds many exciting adventures…

Start one with another cookie.