This writing came from a "popcorn writing" exercise with Esther. The words that were used in both of our stories as a result of the activity are underlined in this one. For more info on how to do popcorn writing, see our writing section.
The Lioness was groggy after a long siesta under her favorite tree. She blinked a few times. Thunder bellowed in the distance. The wind was blowing fast and darkness was headed her way. She sensed she wasn't alone. Before she could attack, her mate's scent reached her, touched her, calmed her, excited her. He was still sleeping.
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This writing is based off the prompt "I remember."
I remember selectively. It's like the storage unit in my brain randomly loses files or maybe they are just locked away and will one day return in a flood wave of memories. This writing is based off of the prompt "Why is Ian struggling to steer his car?"
Well, obviously it's because he died. But he doesn't know that. His mind hasn't registered that it's not a wheel he feels between his translucent fingers but the memory of what a wheel is supposed to feel like. When an arm in amputated, a war veteran may experience similar sensations. Even after being educated on the 'phantom limb,' the sensation tricks our other senses into thinking they are still working. This is what Ian is experiencing. When we die, our souls still intact allow our memories, emotions and sensations attached to this dead thing override our other senses. At this point, we aren't even aware that we no longer possess these mortal senses. Some of the living have already tapped into their immortal senses before their bodies die. Those are the lucky ones. The ones that have a leg up on the war that begins the moment you die. The war that none of us are truly prepared for. This story came from our anagram activity. We started with a word - catastrophe - and from that made as many words as we could. We came up with a list of nearly 100. I used all of those words in the (rather silly) story below. For more info on this exercise or for other ideas, check out our writing section.
There are pros to being a poet. Scrambling the woes of the world into words for the soul. Words so tangible that they leave a permanent trace on those that feel the weight, hear the depth and see the past all etched into a living thing, words. Sometimes, the trace may be a scar, but without fear it may become a star- This writing is the result of a "popcorn writing" exercise with Christine.
It had no start. It had no end, yet it was not a circle. How could this be? Looking down upon it one is unaware of what shape it may take or what treasures it may hold. The only clear feature was it's texture. Scaly and smooth, constantly shifting from hard to soft. It gave off a dangerous vibe, yet it's texture lulled the feeler into a false sense of complacency. *Beep Beep Beep* |
Ubuntu: I am who I am because of who we are. AuthorEsther was born in Utah, raised in Durham (Bull City), North Carolina. Over the last 6 years she has lived in 6 cities, 3 states, and 4 countries. She doesn't like traveling or anything... Archives
June 2017
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