Moda-Creative Thinking‘s post is made up entirely of images, so I simply provide the link below. Enjoy!
I was browsing the beautiful site Short-Prose-Fiction and stumbled upon this gorgeous poem (one of many). I hope you enjoy it.
by Short Prose Fiction
In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
Federico García Lorca
open your veins Andalusia
let him drink from your lynx blood
inject the rhythms of the flamenco
under the coldness of his eyes
tattoo his flesh with tiles of azurite
pour the sounds of castanets
into his arms
my fingers swirl
the flesh of ripened olives
covers the old shroud
the flow of blood from the white shirt…
(Continue Reading via Andalusian Resurrection)
I used to share some of my favorite posts from other bloggers. Then my speculative fiction prompt took over my blog! I’m taking advantage of my current travels to share some favorites.
My friend from Li’l Place posted this one almost a year ago and then took a blogging break for about 6 months. I hung onto it, and now that she’s returned, I finally get to share this beautiful piece of writing. Enjoy.
Foxtrot in the Kitchen
by L’il Place
It is the most wonderful thing when a memory catches up with one unexpectedly. Maybe it’s the balmy summer night air or maybe it’s the sight of a box of waffle ice cream cones that sat unopened on my kitchen counter top. But, I found myself pulled into a dance that took place half a lifetime ago.
When I just started working, I had rented a room from a landlady. To keep her privacy, I will call her Mrs. C. There was no a/c in her old but cozy house and it was a particularly humid and hot summer. We would open up the windows and run the fans to their max to try dispel the heat. My favorite place in that house was her kitchen. I would watch her cook many hearty, delicious Italian meals which she shared with me most generously. In fact, she was the one who introduced me to white clam linguine. Before that, I had foolishly thought that all pasta dishes were doused in tomato sauce. She called the white clam linguine the easiest pasta dish to prepare and thanks to her, I have prepared it many times for my own family. Dinners with her and her husband, Mr. C, were always followed by ice cream cones…
(Continue reading: Foxtrot in the kitchen)
Basilike Pappa of Silent Hour writes wondrous poetry and prose. She also shares some exquisitely written artwork by others. This flash story of hers struck my fancy. Suspense, romance, mystery, fantasy, and humor all wrapped into one. Enjoy.
by Vassiliki Pappa
It was a night like many others. It involved me and an old book of fairytales I wanted to be alone with. The book wanted to be with me too; its leather-clad spine fit perfectly in my hand. I curled with it on the sofa and soon forgot everything else in the world.
After a couple of hours, I looked up and out of the balcony. I only wanted to give my eyes some rest and to get a glimpse of the night outside. The moon looked back at me and I smiled. It was actually a streetlamp, but I liked to think of it as a full moon.
And then I saw him: a midnight-black rooster, with blood-red comb and wattles, and eyes fixed on me. He was standing still in the middle of my balcony, with something of the dandy in his stance. He obviously has a way with hens, I thought. Indeed, the more I looked at him, the more I knew that, had I been a hen, I would love to have him jump on me and peck on my neck. Our chicks would be midnight-black, with blood-red comb and wattles. But I would like them to have my eyes…
(Continue reading: Incredible Eyes)
A powerful piece of writing I’m honored to share. This was Iain Kelly’s response to a Sue Vincent prompt: Crow.
Per the author: “The Battle of Culloden in 1745 was the last pitched battle to be fought on British soil. The defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie and the Jacobite Army by government forces was followed by the Highland Clearances and a brutal clamping down on Scots culture and way of life, an attempt to ensure no uprising could happen again.”
By Iain Kelly
Through hard-falling rain a bird, black from beak to tail-tip, swoops and glides, buffeted by wind that swirls around the surrounding mountains.
From the elevated height, black beady eyes see across the flat, windswept moor of the valley. In amongst the heather and wild grass the eyes see something unfamiliar.
Wings angled to ride on the air current, the bird drops through the misty clouds to join the other black-feathered dots already gathered.
Similar black, beady eyes, belonging to the Duke of Cumberland survey the battlefield. Over in less than an hour. A fine mornings work. The rain batters against his cape, large drops drip from his sodden hat.
Over the noise of pattering rain the cries of the wounded hauntingly fleet across the moor. Gratifyingly, they are the cries of the Jacobite rebels, only a handful of his army have fallen.
He shouts an order to those that can hear him: ‘This is not the time to gloat and crow in victory. This is only the beginning. You have your orders.’
Cumberland turns his mount and leaves the field, banners raised high in glory. The Kingdom and the House of Hanover saved, the Stuarts and the Catholics crushed. Faintly, he thinks he can hear the cry amongst the charge: ‘No quarter to be given.’
Cumberland allows himself a smile of satisfaction. This is the beginning of the end…
(Continue Reading: CULLODEN)
I’m switching around the blog schedule for NaNoWriMo, which I’m unofficially participating in this month. My goal is 80,000 words. Uh huh. I’m a nut. My muses are out drinking ale at the fire pit while they scheme about how to make this happen.
Anyway, my “Sunday Blog Share” of the past will still be my every third post, but it will be on random days. So I’m renaming it “At the Mirror.” The Mirror is a reflective lake in one of my books, and when someone looks into its waters, they see the true beauty of their souls. The blog posts that I share are beautiful to me. They evoke emotion… sometimes joy, sometimes tears, longing, memories, or plain old awe.
Today’s post is by Diana from A Holistic Journey. The format didn’t allow me to post the beginning here. So… all you get is the link… ❤
Source: Route 91, A Festival
Mike Allegra did it again. He had me laughing until my sides hurt. Happy Sunday.
The Fire Inside
by Mike Allegra
Transitioning back to my house husband role was easier than expected.
The new high-tech washing machine that Ellen bought turned out to be cooperative and friendly. It even sings a little song at the end of each load, which is far more pleasant than the roaring, meaty farts offered up by the dryer.
I cleaned out the refrigerator — throwing away the squishy things that were supposed to be crisp and the crispy things that were supposed to be squishy.
And I reworked Ellen’s filing system; that is to say I “filed” and created a “system.”
After removing the old and unneeded documents from these files, I found myself with a stack of paper about four inches high.
My son, Alex, stopped me on my way to the shredder. “Don’t shred them,” he scolded. “Burn ’em!” This idea seemed slightly psychotic, but…
(Keep Reading: The Fire Inside)
A sublime piece of writing for the passing of summer into autumn. Comments are closed here; please click over to indulge in the beauty of this short “not a poem.”
What If: Not a Poem
by Jan Malique from Strange Goings on in the Shed
What if I could bring back all that you’d forgotten? Will you smile then, run in fields of glory, be the child bathed in laughter?
Piece by piece assemble the memories of past joys and sorrows. Unveil faded images, lost and now found. Bring back Summers of familial bliss.
Offer a brief glimpse of smiles thrown beguilingly, of tears shed in anger, of sighs whispered in solitude under star laden skies…
Continue Reading: What If: Not a Poem
In the mood for a laugh? The muse stories expand to the animal kingdom with two hysterical posts from a couple of funny bloggers. Meet Mike Allegra’s furry rodent muse, Lucy, and join Molly Stevens as she hunts for her muse in her backyard. I’ve attached intros and links to both posts and, since it’s Sunday, closed comments here. Enjoy 🙂
A Muse for Youse
by Mike Allegra at Hey Look a Writer Fellow
“You’re lying on the couch,” my muse observes with an arched eyebrow.
“Yes,” I say.
“You’re eating ice cream,” she continues. “While lying on the couch.”
“Yes,” I repeat.
“And you’re watching Spaceballs.”
“Yes,” I say again. “I am watching Spaceballs while eating ice cream while lying on the couch.”
She chitters with disapproval. “Is this a new way to write that nobody told me about?”
“I’m writing,” I reply. “Writing is about a lot more than typing, you know. You need time to, you know, ponder things.”
“Oh, so this is ‘pondering,’ then?” She flicks an invisible speck of dust from her whisker. “Because what you’re doing looks an awful lot like ‘farting around.’”
“Well, that’s why…
(Continue Reading: A Muse for Youse)
Old MacDonald had a muse, e-i-e-i-o-my
by Molly Stevens at Shallow Reflections
The more stories I read about writers getting intimate with their muses-with-issues, the more fearful I was to encounter mine. What if she is a tyrant with no sense of humor? But what would I miss, if she is more fun than a barrel of animatronic monkeys, hanging out in amusement parks? Like Disney World?
I mustered the courage to look for her. And since I didn’t have money in the budget for a trip to the Happiest Place on Earth, I decided to hunt for her in my backyard.
I searched for a Muse Hunting Call in the app store, downloaded it, and put it to use. It made a throaty, grunting sound.
To my surprise, a full grown, bull moose lumbered out of the woods, looking confused as to why a middle-aged woman without a gun or a moose-hunting permit would call him.
He asked, “What do you want?”
I said, “There must be some mistake. I was calling my muse, not a mangy moose.”
“Hey, watch who you are calling mangy…
(Continue Reading: Old MacDonald had a muse, e-i-e-i-o-my)
I’m enjoying meeting all the muses that my post kicked off.
Allie Potts goes on a clever, caffeine-induced search of her muse.
Comments are closed here on Sundays. Enjoy Allie’s post.
The air was heavy with procrastination as I heard the door open behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to recognize her perfume, a mix of earth and chocolate spice. It could only be Moka. Moka Chino. She spelled her name with a k rather than a ch. She thought it gave her an extra shot of originality. I’d never had the heart to tell her I thought it made me question whether her head was on right.
She sashayed into my office as if it hadn’t been years since we last met. Though I tried to keep my expression neutral, I couldn’t help drinking in her appearance. “What brings you to the old neighborhood?” I asked as she removed a pair nutmeg shaded glasses, revealing mascara stained eyes underneath.
“It’s Latte. She’s missing.”
Latte was Moka’s cousin. Tall and skinny, though just as smooth. I’d met her at one of Moka’s parties and we’d spent the next hours in easy conversation. Latte’s side of the family wasn’t nearly as rich and she’d offered to help with the occasional job or two for whatever change I could spare, which was never much.
It was worth the expense. Her contributions might cause me the occasional heartburn, but…
Continue Reading: An interview with my muse – a fiction challenge