New blog post by Miracle Writes!
I have had a number of people ask me where I get my story ideas from. I was always put on the spot in some circumstances and didn't know how to answer other than a shrug of my shoulders. Friends, family, random people I've come into contact with have asked me this question. So I sat down and thought about my universal answer. I thought back to the time of my youth where I spent hours upon hours sitting in front of my stereo listening to the various late night radio stations or during the day as I listened to Garth Brooks, Enya, Loreena McKennett (during my Celtic music phase which I still enjoy to this day). I'd allow my mind to wander over so many things at that age; daydreaming of a life that wasn't mine at all but someone else's. I never wrote of these fantasies, instead I 'wasted time' or was accused of having ADD. I probably did or do, but I put my tendencies to daydream to good use as I got older.
I've kept a journal since 1989 but didn't start writing prose regularly until I was roughly sixteen. Some of my earlier prose put me to sleep as an adult (yay, teenage angst). I marveled at how reflective and insightful I was at that age with a lot of the entries. Although I had written countless poems, I found that the prose eventually morphed into a more consistent stream of incredibly horrible and dark poetry (we are our own worst critic). Some of those poems turned out pretty epic and ended up published. I then moved on to short stories, burning the midnight oil spinning a yarn or two for class. I had even gone so far as to take upon the burden of other classmate's assignments with great enthusiasm. I'd make any excuse to write. On and on my daydreams continued until there came a point where I could not sit through the four minutes of a song without writing them all down or writing something down. I keep a journal of ideas now along with my standard journal on occasion. Most of the time now, my readers are my journal.
I don't 'waste' as much time daydreaming as I used to in my youth. I do have my moments when there is a particular song playing and it incites thought and I drift off into my own little world. I'd 'waste' fifteen minutes here and there but that doesn't happen often. Sometimes I'll even sit in my car and wait until a song ends; hit the repeat button once or twice before I get out of the car and go back to my reality. But for those of you who ever wonder where I get my ideas...
...I find them within my soul.
"Pen elusively accepted the story behind this one;
Rat a tat tat!
On the door by my bed,
whispering in closets
seething with temper.
underneath the vellum coating;
the parchment burning with words.
Quill, a sparrow whose beak
Tap, tap, taps away
fire of ink, indigo buried within bloodroot.
Within a spent shell casing whose
fire-retardant closure still smolders
through the expended shot.
Empty of its resin, powder
primed at the ready
though not too fall at the heel
though the screaming sound had fallen.
A bride who gains not a drop of apathy
from her thirst-
and then the stepping stone creaking under foot,
whose pads and souls have unwound the ties
that bound her ankles.
Twine and pieces of string, heavy as the lead spokes
like the wheel of a unicycle
wrapping and distorting her flesh.
There is no joy found in that it seems,
just a sad little smile and shadowy paints-
watercolor eyes, nose, and mouth among the blending shadows.
Pen elusively accepted the story behind this one;
it meanders on telling stories, written within the shrapnel
with the precision force behind a scalpel.
And the bow that bends the natural form
of a tree outside constantly rattling the windowsill
coiling through the quiver bound with arrows,
unable to draw back and shoot
broken, like a piano string.
The whispers continue its tale, inspiring old wood
and sodden horsehair filaments,
plucked from the rim of life before eddying down into
an abyss of something that would
ultimately be intent.
To chase down the condemning feet upon pavement,
edging and circumventing,
tumbling down on bottom to every shallow recess.
Upon cracked old concrete
like the leathered face of Yellow Woman
whose dreams led to adultery.
Scavengers they are, their soft coo at the innocence
as it ravages in wild ignorance.
The bride though, stands within water;
tattered feasting eyes
with feigned triviality of the slaughter
hand in hand with subservient bygones.
She gathers sword-paintbrush in hand,
clatters to the ground,
blemishing the granite monotone cocoon
from which the pharaohs of their time had engulfed.
The double-crossing sounds of whispers
biding time in closets
gathers the shadows within mouth
taste and bite,
beating drums of leaves falling from air onto ground
surrounding the plague of humanities’ risen.
Though, once the chime of the rat-a-tat tat
fades into the jazz
and spirituous sound
of clarinet and ball-basing bugle
it will fall into a synchronized gale of laughter.
Misfortune had struck again
in these parts.
Shelves upon shelves of parts lining walls
locked away in basements and cellars
never to be used after the dust settles.
The rust chips away and splinters
from their misguided use.
Greasy fingertips claw at the walls
like a beast lurking within the shadows
with intent to escape;
risen from the ashes like a pipe snake slithering
through excrement and fecal commonality
bringing with it, tethered to its rattling tale
a fine stream of hope it keeps locked hidden,
Sometimes you can hear its call, the shake
of an infant toy,
lulling the world to sleep with false promises.
False to flower, the petals fall an hour
rejuvenate with more promises
and then fall again.
Their soft tendrils weeping
browning at the edges,
collapse into a heap,
and then suddenly blow away
by whispers and a rat-a tat tat.
A beat of a cane, so gentle as punishment;
a reminder to those who misbehave
And like a flame to a candle
I’m breathed out, last breath in taking
one last chance.
Though time is reckoning, wielding
grains of sands in glass upheaving.
To collect the leaves and build a pyre;
create a woman and name her mother,
singing those last horrid songs
while the pen-brush drops smoothly into hand,
Allowing the teardrops, my ink
and those lovely grains of sand to run through them.
© 2013 J.V. Stanley