You might ask yourself that question when you check out that category on this site. Some songs really do inspire stories or story seedlings or keep the fire burning for something I am writing. Other songs just feel good in the moment and make ME feel good and appreciate life or are just something to vibe to.
Got any songs that do those things for you?
(Prompt: Thumbholes)
Kaylie pushed through the thumbholes of her cardigan, hugging herself tightly. The chill in the autumn afternoon reminded her of the day Cal proposed. Now he was gone. Nothing seemed right. And she was lost without him. The chill matched the coldness of his stiff ashen body at the funeral. Recapturing the rhythm of life without him took time. Yet the ring on her hand still sparkled with hope. He’d wanted her to move on, to find love again. She intended that, but not as he’d imagined. Her art would hang in galleries again. The light in the darkness. Hope.
(Prompt: What foulness am I going to be consuming?)
Freshly baked bread and simmering soup aromatically filled their home. Marzi whipped chocolate mousse, humming. Frank would arrive soon. She wanted perfection.
“Honey!” She gave him a passionate hug that he barely returned. Gone was the love. Today she felt his abject rejection even more.
Frank called for his dog for whom he always showed the deepest affection.
“I made you something special for dinner.”
"What foulness am I going to be consuming?"
Deeply wounded, Marzi said. “I'm leaving you Frank.”
He searched for his dog, ignoring her.
She smiled wickedly at the pot as she left. “Enjoy your soup.”
“Katie would just burst out with glee.”
“No matter what trial came into her life, she was a scrapper. She didn’t let things keep her down.”
“She was kind.”
“She was wise. She learned from her experiences and encouraged others.”
“She never gave up easily. She was dedicated and loyal.”
“She counted her blessings and you really knew it if you were a blessing of hers.”
That was the kind of talk among those gathered at Katie’s memorial service from people whose hearts still held the fingerprints of God that Katie left.
Seven bright chrysanthemums lie upon her earthen grave.
(Originally published 2022/03/06 at 4:33 am)
Moonlight bathes the sky creating a silhouette of the tree in the front yard. The house sleeps. She types and only the intermittent clicks of the keyboard and the ticking of the wall clock punctuate the stillness.
Deadlines.
Bursting creativity.
She gives in to creativity and hopes for the best in meeting those deadlines, shedding the angst in story writing while she composes her essays for graduate school in the back of her mind, a sort of double-writing.
No longer a mother of little ones, she still wavers between duty and dreams, asking, "Why not?"
She has not slept tonight.
(Originally published 2022/02/27 at 4:52 am)
In a rainbow haze she arrives.
She is fussy and spoiled and I am overjoyed.
Random moments, unrelated, gel together making sense.
Her diaper is dirty.
I’ll buy her this dress for Christmas.
Spongebob, cats, carnitas…
At once I remember her favorites.
She laughs: “Hey-yeah!”
and I smile again.
She naps, then wanders from her toddler bed to find me.
I hold her.
Gently, I place her back in her bed.
And I lie down.
At dawn my eyes pierce the brightening day, searching. Yet, she is a fading wisp.
Where has she gone?!
I panic.
I remember.
I ache.
(Originally published 2021/05/31 at 7:06 pm)
“You read what I write?” He had said he didn’t care.
“Occasionally.”
“Then you should know that it was filled with hope for quite sometime.” She let the world know how she felt because with him those feelings were all on her. It took courage. “These are seeds for new stories.”
Did he snort or choke? Haha. Serves him right.
The word challenges were private, though published. All exercises in committing to word what the heart cannot bear, what the heart hopes. Life is messy, love prevails. She would hone the art of concisely conveying that paradox.
(Originally published 2021/05/16 at 11:45 am)
Photo by Dua Chuot
The explosion of feeling. “You always let him get away with things. Why do you need to parent? He’s an adult.”
Which to respond to?
In calamity she found peace in small reminders: the morning sun greeting flowers. In her world there were no clouds gathering and threatening to storm. No fear of angering him; no fear of the marriage deflating.
“I will tell him that the dishes must be be put away each time there are dishes in the drain.”
“Until the next time.”
No response. No fear.
They continued: two people in two spaces beside one another. Coexisting.
(Originally published 2021/05/16 at 11:32 am)
Photo by Pixabay
She approached him to share a simple everyday thing.
He, annoyed: Are you talking to me?? I can’t even hear you.
She repeated herself. His expression? Whatever.
Brokenhearted. Again. Why did I choose him? He is like my mother. I am an annoyance.
A simple plan. A simple dream. A quiet new home with just her thoughts and her cats. Peace and quiet, blossoming joy. Visitors that are happy to see her.
She’d never spoken to him that way. She entertained the thought of starting. It was not her way. She loved him too much. Why?
To each his own.
(Originally published 2021/03/29 at 10:48 am)
Photo by Cup of Couple
“I’ve been thinking about what I said about not being able to love you the way you love me. I can’t love anyone like that and I hope that makes you feel better.”
“I don’t care about feelings anymore. But I am glad that you are feeling better.” We are still separating.
He thought they’d stay together; she was not the person he wanted her to be.
Later, he yelled at her. She declined to yell back this time and imagined her own place, smiling. No one would yell at her there. Ever.
Life opened to life. She grasped it.
(Originally published 2021/02/15 at 11:19 am)
Photo by Lukas
"You'll find someone perfect for you!" Katrina clasped Heather's hand and gave it a squeeze as they walked the densely populated beach together.
"But you don't understand the violation that is. I like who I am. I look forward to grad school, to writing, to my own place."
"I didn't mean - I guess I was self-projecting."
"No worries. A new partner is what you'll find when you are healed. Healthy attracts healthy and he will be a good man. As for me, I am single-minded. I really am happy."
They hugged, both facing a new beginning.
"Cheers," they whispered, smiling.
(Originally published 2021/02/15 at 10:50 am)
Photo by Mike C. S
She picked the dandelions and made a bouquet because they were hearty and beautiful, just as she was.
“Silly woman. Those are weeds.”
“In the eye of the beholder.”
“Everyone knows they are weeds.”
“It does not matter to everyone. Only to some.”
“They make me sneeze.”
“Deal with it.”
The discord, deeper than a shallow grave, sprouted dandelions. She picked them because she chose to embrace them. No corpse would generate “weeds” that she could not harvest and make something beautiful.
“Nonsense as usual,” he said.
“Beautiful nonsense. Authentic, beautiful nonsense that mystifies and makes perfect sense to me.”
(Originally published 2021/01/06 at 10:47 am)
Photo by Damian Apanasowicz
Rows apart,
hearts grow closer.
Friendship sprouts beneath a new dawn.
All a sign of spring.
A harsh winter ended.
Death chilled the earth, the harvest long ago.
Soil tilled, gently unexpected but welcome,
new life has arrived.
What will grow is unknown.
It is new and undiscovered.
Between us the breeze whispers softly.
Can you not see and hear?
Yes, the weeds will come.
Have faith! The Gardener will pluck them!
Let the soil not be packed with expectation!
Loose the need to control what Nature sows.
Rows apart friendship grows from the seed.
This is all we need.
(Originally published 2021/01/04 at 7:03 am)
Photo by Andrea Piacquadio
A new, black bed frame; a black wooden headboard; sheets and comforter in light and deep grays; pewter curtains; a silver fluffy rug; a black mini fridge, even a fresh coat of paint. Monochrome-just how she views life. Not black and white, but all the grays in between. Not without color, but crisp images of a life well lived and loved.
Her own room, her own space, her sanctuary. A place to cuddle with cats, to watch comedies and dramas, to write.
Sunshine fills the recesses of the room leaving nothing shrouded in pain.
Clean and new. The Queen’s Room.
(Originally published 2020/09/17 at 3:56 pm)
Photo by James Wheeler.
Old furniture and boxes of everyday life filled the small apartment. Elise envisioned fresh paint, polished floors, a cozy nook to read in when the sun shined. Her sanctuary.
She'd lingered far too long waiting for Paul. In the end he chose to move on. Now, two paths diverged.
Her phone rang and she answered.
"The papers have been filed," Paul said.
Sadness. They ended the call, cut the connection, and she paused at the ephemeral fragility and resolute finality.
Then, there was relief.
A beckoning path lay before her, calling her to autonomy.
She chose the road less traveled.
(Originally published 2020/05/20 at 4:44 pm. Re-imagined 2026/01/10 at 9:53 pm.)
Photo by Pixaby
He jammed a pike into the floating ice. She watched it split jaggedly and separate. For the second time, he sailed toward a better life without her.
There would not be a third.
As his image diminished with distance, she imagined soil beneath her feet. Grass grew.
The sun rose behind her and she turned to face it. This time she would sail away, too.
The ocean gently nudged the ice-raft westward. She lifted her chin. She did not need to rise this time because she had never fallen. Her heart encapsulated the Phoenix. Ice would never imprison her.
(Originally published 2020/03/25 at 3:05 pm)
“I said I would go to hell for you. That's how much I love you. I would go, I would find you, and I would bring you back with me.”
“What if I can't love you like that?”
“Have you ever loved anyone like that? Has anyone else loved you like that? Because I'm here, we're here. That's what's real.”
“What if it's an illusion?”
“Then make it the best damn illusion there ever was.”
“But I don't want to hurt you again.”
“Too late.”
“I can't do this.”
“We can.”
(Originally published 2019/02/13 at 5:29 pm)
Photo by Pixabay
You,
arrived to a new country,
new culture,
without family,
without friends,
only me to greet you,
welcome you,
create a home.
Me,
struggling with depression
and mania.
Passion,
the glue that bound us.
Never doubt.
Don't Dream It's Over.
We,
raising two exceptional daughters,
a manic-depressive son,
a daughter that died,
a son that would struggle.
Her death.
My clinical depression.
Your isolation and loneliness.
The pressure broke us.
She saved you.
You came back.
Years of painful healing,
incrementally building,
growing,
learning to accept
and love
each other as we are.
The 18th anniversary.
I still love you.
(Originally published 2018/09/23 at 10:54 am)
Photo by Le Vy
Four in the morning,
three at night;
just take the pills
to make it all right.
No voices, no intense jealousy and hostility. No paranoia, no taste buds covering all things, or chicken gizzards and hay growing out of my face. No plunging despair and immobilizing depression.
“You've changed,” he says, disappointed. He never says how.
“I have changed.” I am funny and happy and love life and my family and have work with purpose. I like to write and take pictures of my cats. I am no longer disabled by my disability.
Yes, I have changed. For the better.
(Originally published 2018/08/24 at 9:00 pm)
