Linda G Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday Prompt: Above/Below.
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Above
below
I sank under the waves
and watched the sky fall away.
Above
below
I swim towards the sky
with my eyes closed.
Above
below
I am sailing on waves
past fishes
who watch me with wide eyed curiosity as they swim by.
Above
below
I am flying by
birds who sing to me as they float away.
Above
and below
I am traveling
on waves that touch the sky
with blue.
Linda Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt: The Beginning/The End
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The end rolled to shore, just down the hill from where I live, sometime after breakfast. I was eating a blueberry muffin.
Through my kitchen window I saw the sky flash and for one second, one little second I tasted copper. My eyes itched a little and when I moved them to look up my face felt to heavy.
I saw the sky turn dark blue, I saw it was streaked with purple- it looked like a giant bruise.
Did I try to get up? Did I try to run? I think I called for my dog, my star to lead me away from whatever was about to happen, but there is no way for me to know if the words ever left my mouth.
After all.
When your world crosses paths with a magnetar you pretty much take your last thought with you before you die- because really- it is all over in the blink of an eye.
I was a ghost for awhile.
I drifted. I slept. I had dreams about the sky exploding over my head.
If I had a name I don’t remember it, I know I had a dog. Did dogs look like Maple Trees? I remember what carrots tasted like. I remembered being warm, I remembered being cold. I remembered how good it felt to run.
Funny, I don’t remember liking to run.
But my thoughts, untethered always came back to carrots. Isn’t that funny?
I wonder what they looked like. Did they have legs? Did they bounce when they hit the ground?
When I wake up, when I think about carrots or blueberry muffins and what had legs and who had eyes, for just one moment I see the ocean- or maybe it’s the sky and it isn’t on fire.
It’s cool. It’s quiet. I’d like to touch it, but of course I can’t. So I try to remember it , just the way it is now before I fall back to wherever it is I go when I’m not here.
Yesterday. I know it was yesterday because I watched the Sunset and I saw it rise again, I remembered one thing- pools of dark gentle lights, a warm breeze, I could smell carrots.
I remembered carrots were orange, that they did not have legs or arms and when you bit into them they crunched.
Do you know what else I remembered? Macbeth liked carrots too. We used to sit on the bluffs and watch the tide come in and out and we ate baby carrots together.
So that was it! That was the last thing I said, the the last thing I saw before I flew apart atom by atom into the morning sky, was ” Macbeth ” .
My dog. My companion. I used to call him my Dog Star.
My dog star, Macbeth.
And this is our story, this is what happened to us after the sky exploded.
We have been sailing together since the end, parts of him, some of me, bound together by what we saw, the sounds we heard everyday of our lives.
Together we have been like a cloud hugging the top of a mountain or the branches of a tree.
I’m starting to remember before, who I was, that I used to do things like brush my hair and that I liked listening to music, that I used to have a family but I’m thinking that is not important anymore.
So when Macbeth and I settle and I think it will be soon, when the winds stop pushing us from the water to the land again and again, I don’t know who we will be or what we will be and that is okay.
This is, after all, the beginning.
Linda G Hills Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt is: “close eyes and point.” When you’re ready to write your post, open a book, a newspaper, or whatever is handy and close your eyes and point. Whatever word or picture your finger lands on, make that the basis of your SoCS/JusJoJan post.
You need to have a voice to sing,
legs so that you can walk and run
hands to grasp things with
but
you do not need eyes to write.
You don’t have to see to create.
In this portrait of Victor Hugo
all you see where his eyes should be
are two pools of darkness.
I wonder if his eyes were really that dark
or if the painter was telling us a little story about Victor Hugo.
I think his eyes in this painting tell a story about his works of art, his writing, his dedication to his causes weren’t exactly the stuff of comedies. I wonder if he had a sense of humor? What did it sound like when he laughed? Could he laugh? His beloved daughter died by drowning before she was 20 years old. Her husband died trying to save her. I wonder if the sound of his laugh changed after her funeral. I’ll bet it did. How could it not have changed?
e really enjoyed going over this painting, it brought up some great ideas, made me think of the way we react to the world and what happens in it and the mark it leaves on us.
In this case the world left it’s mark on Victor Hugo’s face, it left it where his eyes used to be.
Victor Hugo
by Léon Bonnat
The Light House By Victor Hugo
Octopus By Victor Hugo
Linda G Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday Prompt: First Thing
First thing I saw when I opened the door was the small dark room lit by one window covered with spiderwebs and dust.
The pale yellow light struggling through the window did nothing to drive the shadows away from the aged books on the shelves that lined the walls.
The floor was littered with more books but like the books on the shelves, some of the covers were faded, others looked brand new. Some of the volumes spines had been broken with care, and others with unbridled enthusiasm.
Who read these books, I wondered, who put them on the shelves? Who left them on the floors and piled in the corners?
I reached down and I picked one up, I opened it and turned the pages slowly one by one.
The pages were blank.
I walked into the room and set it on a table.
I went to the shelves and I took down one book after another and turned the pages and found that they were blank too.
I was about to drop the last book I had pulled down on the floor and instead I put it back where I had found it.
This small dark room I had wandered into was full of books covered with dust, discarded, abandoned, forgotten and left to rot where they fell or where they were left.
There was an old chair next to the table, I pulled it back and carefully sat down. It creaked a little but it held.
I pulled one of the books towards me, I opened it’s cover and I turned one page and then another. It didn’t smell musty, it didn’t look moldy, so
I reached for a pen- one of a dozen or so scattered around the table and I thought about what to write and then it came to me:
It was just me, all alone in a dark room full of dust and spider webs and books waiting to be written.
So I wrote,
The last thing I heard, before I started to write was the sounds of creaking boards and a gentle breeze making it’s way through a small dusty window filled with sunlightt