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.”
My confidant is in a rut called, “Why should I care?”
Nothing needs to be solved. I just want him to listen and acknowledge me.
“Offer me a cold drink,” I said. “Say something nice.”
I told him it's what best friends do.
I want to invite him into my world, share myself with him, the trivial and the stellar.
Marriage in our forties has been rough. But I can envision us soaring from this point on. He doesn't want me to. We circle the runway because we might crash.
He's afraid of it all coming to an end again.
(Originally published 2018/07/31 at 10:32 pm)
Photo by Pixabay
Broken. That's how you left me.
Breaking. That's what you're doing to me now since you've come back, driving me to brokenness once more.
Broken. Chains that bound me to “worthless,” “useless,” “stupid,” “aggravating," and "not good enough.”
Breaking. Trust, peace of mind...our bond.
Broken.
But not shattered.
I will always rise again.
(Originally published 2018/05/30 at 4:47 pm)
Photo by Snapwire
She wanted to disappear, to just evaporate on the spot. His words reduced her to nothing and cut her down when she came to him with everything.
But she knows herself, possesses that knowledge, and knows that the love she gives is not a desperate request for more, but rather a deposit made to him from her wealth.
The rejection hurts as much as it did the first time. She knew the risk when he came back.
But she believed then, as much as she believes now, in a man capable of love.
This unwavering belief will not disappear.
.
.
Yet.
(Originally published 2018/05/22 at 9:04 pm)
Photo by Egor Kamelev
She wept.
He kept to himself and only engaged in the niceties of life, but nothing more than that. He locked her out of his interior life. She'd been softly knocking at the door for years.
Yet again, he threw back the door and cut her down with indifferent criticism. He's right, she thought. I don't know who he is.
Out on the deck she took her medication. She drank a glass of wine and reflected on the surf, the setting sun, her fifth glass of wine. Narcissism. It was her fault.
It was all shutting down now.
She slept.
(Originally published 2018/05/20 at 3:32 pm)
Photo by Kristina Paukshtite from Pexels
James took his last breath while holding Emily’s hand. She never left his side, not even to notify family. That last precious intimacy belonged to them alone.
There was just one complication. Pain cinched tightly around her chest. She collapsed on his arm, still gripping his hand.
At their celebration of life, family shared anecdotes and read aged love letters their parents had written.
While on the other side of the lake, there was also laughter disguised by rustling leaves. The sun created a brilliant mirage: James and Emily on a blanket, sharing a picnic. There were no complications now.
(Originally published 2018/05/19 at 8:02 pm)
