Chance Encounter...

You never know who you'll meet who might change your day. The past night I had a five minute conversation with a man on the street. Somehow, he said the exact words I needed to hear. He said them with sincerity.

"I want to read your book."

...

I've been frustrated lately with my writing. Some of you know, I'm working on a book about personal family issues. The writing has been taking me through a ringer of emotional ups and downs. 

So I distanced myself form writing, from the issues, yet again. But it keeps pounding in my mind anytime I have a moment to breath.

I took some advice from the author of Eat, Pray, Love. She spoke on an NPR program and stated she talked with her creativity (muse, writing voice, or whatever you want to call it) as if it's a person. It was a challenge. Give creativity time as you would a friend. Let it know your intentions, as you do in any good relationship.

This gets a bit tricky, because as you speak out loud to creativity, people around you tend to think you're going crazy. Being viewed as crazy might be worth it though. I asked recently for help from creativity, for guidance, for support, for courage. And she provided me a stranger on the street to talk "story" with, to give me encouragement that even if some people don't want to hear what I have to say, one person does... And one person can be everything.

Bell Tolls...

Church bells rang across barren city. Not mechanical ringing of old, but pulled warning human hands upon rope, controlling metal tongues reverberating against steel. Heeding alarm, body turned and ran upon crumbling cement. Leaf of changing season fell from hand, embedded between left behind cracks--lost from hopeful thought. Dress swayed as bare feet pounded echoing sidewalks. Sidewalks speaking stories of times past--children playing, dogs barking with waging tails, sun bathing and blue skies. Everything in play now, brown with dust. Clouds covered homes left in sinister expression. All life running, all hiding.

Hands clutched, soles dark with dirt, panic took over. Panic to live. Life ingrained deep in soul. If trigger for survival wasn't there--none of this would be happening. Bells would be silent, sidewalks bare, homes only inhabitants would be the skeletal bones of a race lost by their own makings. And yet--running, breathing, hiding, waiting--a race remained, if only just.

Sound deafening--a heavy whistle cracked space crashing against ears. Hands cupped them to provide small relief. Only seconds and explosion hit, pulling body from earth. Feather thin fabric whipped face and there was ringing. Ringing jarring the bones. Ringing attempting to escape the frame. Blood trickled from ear to chin. Lips parted and mouth tasted empowering iron. Life still clung on to move.

Earth still shaking, a hole on the remnants of a hollow city left by weapon. Debris covered feet, legs, torso, arms. Body's only portion not bathed in battle: Ears.

Ears cupped by hands. Ears ringing, ears fighting, ears waiting. Waiting to listen--listen to words that would explain: WHY?

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @abaa (click on name to see photo)

Helium Rising...

The party was over, and everything was quiet. That was the problem of living in a small town. Friends could only come over for a short stay. There would be an hour of running, getting in trouble, scraping knees, and telling each other what we would do when we grew-up. And then they'd have to leave, driven away by their parents, not to be seen until the next school day, and the quiet would creep in.

My parents were doing their own scraping. Each dish brushed, cake crumbs and melted vanilla ice cream found its way into the garbage. Another birthday and the same routine after. Ma and Pa talking of what I'd become. Ma wanted me to be a doctor. Dad had his heart set on lawyer. He kept talking about needing to get me into the right school, which didn't make any sense--as I was already in school and he knew that. Somehow they didn't get I was going to be an astronaut. I had told them this for the past year. All my friends knew. I was going to be the first man to walk on Mars. One small step for man, one giant leap to see a real alien. I had my heart set on it. I wanted to squish the red dust between my toes.

But my parents never seemed to listen--they just seemed to know. So I stepped out of the house, taking with me the only salvaged balloon from the helium war my friends and I had fought. Would helium have the same affect on my voice on Mars as it did here on Earth.

Yellow and floating, the balloon trailed behind me as I past the line of our back yard into the field that was part of our house. The field stretched so far, and yet I could still make out the fence line. Everything here was sectioned off. The houses distant from each other still had boundary lines. The cows could only feed so far. And then there was me being placed into the mold of doctor or lawyer. Me stuck in a small quiet town that looked open and free, and yet here I was, fenced. Everything was fenced. Everything, but my last birthday balloon.

I let the balloon slip from my hand a bit. It rose high above my head and I held on tighter. The sun was setting and the yellow plastic glowed. I saw the sky above waiting for it. Space waiting for its arrival. I wanted it to be free. I wanted to be free. So I let the string go and watched as it drifted upwards, slow and steady, and I saw the rocket. The rocket I would one day be on. I saw my feet stepping on the red dust of Mars, and I saw the green alien that would be waiting for me--yellow balloon in hand as a welcoming.

Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @jdcowboy (click on name to see photo)

Glockenspiel...

Night was spreading. The clock tower sang in the light of the moons rays, ticking down time. Time--and people would be moving in line with the clocks chimes. The cafes lined the streets waiting with steaming urns of coffee and tea. Waiting, waiting for the crowds to come and sip the liquid down with their lips. But now... Now the streets hummed with the quiet vibrations of anticipation. The breeze whispered with the trees of all the journey's and places yet to be touched as it pushed the last of the day's clouds away for the stars to shine.

Petra sat motionless on a bench. She was staring at the towering clock--the Glockenspiel. With each tick of the second hand, each inching move of the minute hand, her eyes blinked--not able to fathom how time could move on. Tick-tock.

The barista in the cafe had shuffled past her, not willing to serve, as if she wasn't there. The tables lay empty and yet no words were spoken, no water offered. So Petra had moved, moved to the bench, and was now stuck to listen to the empty streets, staring at time as it past uncomfortably by. Everything was empty and she wondered if time had played a trick on her: Was she early?

Then the bells began to dance and with each echoing chime, the flags waved high on the tower. People flooded the streets, hailing each other to stop, take a moment to converse. The cafes filled and Petra heard of daily routines, spoken in unison behind her. It was all behind her. Her eyes didn't leave the clock as a long black car pulled up in front of her. The car door opened and the lean man in his gray suit looked down on her,

"It's time."

Petra stood and took in the last gleam of the hour hand shifting. Time passed by as she stepped into the back of the hearse. Tick-tock--nothing stopped.


This is a random project I thought would be fun. Take an Instagram photo I liked and give myself 30 minutes to write and edit a short story. Try to find the photo that inspired this bit of writing by following @bono73 (aka Flavio). Click on name to see photo.