Sometimes, It Comes For You

Today I took three pictures and each one came with a story as  captured them.

It was like a little play that I walked through at lunch time.

Interesting.

amm

Act1

PHOTO A.M. Moscoso

This cat used to be two rabbits

and then one day it changed

Did it eat the rabbits you might wonder,

or did the rabbits run away?

Act 2

Photo A.M. Moscoso

There is a face

that is screaming

because it’s trapped against this wall.

Nobody ever sees it, nobody hears it

nobody cares about it at all.

 

The End

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Sometimes

he said to me sadly,

as his world came to an end

Sometimes

you don’t have to go to Hell.

Sometimes.

It comes for you.

 

SFC Prompt: ALLIVIAL MINING: The World’s A Stage

There You Are, You Little Devil!

From The SFC Prompt ALLUVIAL MINING- Looking under rocks for ideas

I was never a grave digger, but I did learn as I watched a gravedigger use a back hoe to break ground for a grave that it’s a skill a not unlike the one I was learning at the time.

The modern day digger could bring this smallish piece of heavy machinery into a  cemetery, navigate it down the little drive that was really only big enough for cars to proceed one by one, he could raise it’s arm up through the trees ( without breaking a branch or knocking off leaves ) that shaded some of the graves- then he did his part and before you could say ” Bob’s your Uncle ” he’d be done and gone before anyone saw him because let’s face it, how would that look to a family seeing their loved one off?

Frankly, I was amazed. I can’t even use a weed wacker without getting the line tangled up or hacking some poor innocent plant to death and here was this grave digger at work during the day opening a grave like a Ninja.

Did I find that inspiring? Did the writer in me see something, did she learn something?

Oh. Yes. I did. And I’m still dining off those moments to this day.

Some moments, when you can step back and let them open up and play in front of you are so full of sights and sounds and color and textures it’s possible to feel overwhelmed. So soak it in and record it anyway you can and squirrel it away for future consumption.

Today I wrote a poem that was stark and brutal- the prompt itself encouraged us to write a poem about our origins and where we thought we were going:

We’d like to challenge you to write a poem of origin. Where are you from? Not just geographically, but emotionally, physically, spiritually? Maybe you are from Vikings and the sea and diet coke and angry gulls in parking lots. Maybe you are from gentle hills and angry mothers and dust disappearing down an unpaved road. And having come from there, where are you now?

I guess I was wondering, how could I take my life- which was pretty much over before it began- let’s just say I was never expected to do much or matter much and I haven’t.

So how do I dress that up?

I didn’t dress it up. Not even a little. It turned out a lot of people liked it-which honestly surprised me:

 

I’m Not A Viking, That’s For Damn SURE

I came from nothing

I going nowhere

I am  from the worst house on the street

surrounded by fences topped with

jagged barbs called ‘words’.

 

I am from the town of

‘Settled For Less”

hidden in the county of

” Good For Nothing.”

I came from nowhere

and I am going nowhere

that’s where I am from

and that’s where I  will stay.

So why did people like such an angry poem? Aren’t poems about love and passion and perfection in form and clever turns of phrase?

Consider this:

Pablo Picasso “We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand.”

In the end though, I am really inspired as a writer by stories- all kinds if stories from a buffet of sources. My family loved to tell stories, especially ghost stories.  I loved to read I love to listen to music. I’m not picky about the quality, I just want something to whisper into my ear and I want it to give me the chills and I want it to light my brain up and make me glad that I am a writer:

Okay, I found that clip awesome so I wanted to share it and I did.

But seriously, did I find it inspiring? Will I write a story or a poem about the feeling it gave me, or will that tattoo above his hip end up making an appearance one day because I was sitting there thinking as I write…now what, now what?

It will happen, it always does.

Like I said, take it in give it a home and see where those images and impressions take you.

Photo A.,M Moscoso

I’ve mined for ideas in all sorts of places and what I wrote about here were three in particular- my own experiences, writing prompts and going over books and stories and art and music that I enjoy with the goal of learning something new and becoming a creative person with something fun to share.

Bon Appetite!

For your consideration:

Tales From The Medieval Crypt

Soul Food Café Writing Prompts

National Poetry Writing Month

Goodreads.com

Wickedness

Bancroft Manor Prompt1 Part3

Wickedness isn’t born like me or you or a kitten, it doesn’t sprout from the ground like a flower or a tree.

Wickedness is created, like a painting,  stroke by stroke upon an unyielding piece of canvas

like a mural on a wall with nothing to stop it  from becoming something else other then a sturdy, weather worn brick wall.

Wickedness is like Frankenstein’s Monster stitched together in secret from stolen corpses taken from the ground in the dead of night against their will  with rough hands and rusty shovels.

Wickedness in a tribute, a memorial to the remains of good things

that should have been.

Jingle Gravesend’s Treasures Arrived Today

Bancroft Manor  Prompt 1 Part  2

The crates arrived

at Bancroft Manor

not at night

but during the day- just after breakfast in fact.

Not that anyone was in the Manor House that day to eat breakfast, or even lunch.

The Manor was, as it had been cemetery quiet for a very long time.

 

They were stacked neatly in the foyer, three  crates bound shut with leather straps,

in front of two movers who wear wearing tombstone gray overalls.

The boxes were side marked

” Jingle Gravesend-top floor ”

 

Earlier one of the movers said to the other mover as they brought the crates inside-whose name I think was Frank-Frank said ” That’ a weird name.”

Frank’s co -worker Lem agreed.

 

” Wonder what kind of things someone named Jingle Gravesend would be sending to herself to a Manor House where nobody has lived for 60 years. ”

They looked around, almost furtively- what they could see of the furniture and the woodwork was old and faded but not neglected. The paintings though, the paint looked oddly wet and almost a little too vibrant.

” This place used to be a hospital.” Frank said and he stepped back a little when his voice echoed back at him. ” Heard it’s going to be a private residence now. ”

Lem looked down at his shoes and then he wiped his hands against his chest. ” What kind of hospital.”

” The kind you got sent to, you know,  for a rest.”

The men looked sadly up the stairs that led to the attic. ” I suppose it’s haunted or something. ” Lem said. ”  Old Manor House out in the woods that used to be a hospital for the, what do you call it- the infirm.  How could it not have, issues.”

They  agreed, without speaking a word that they were getting those crates with the weird named stenciled on the sides up to the top floor and then they were going to hot foot it out of there.

Eyes forward and hop to it gentleman- that was the name of the game.

Frank took two of the crates and Lem  loaded one onto a hand truck and then they made their way up  the slightly dusty stairs.

Their footsteps sounded muffled as they slowly climbed the marble staircase, very much in the same way a hand reaches over your shoulder and clamps over your mouth to stifle your scream when you are walking down a corridor or maybe up a long dark staircase in a house that is not only watching you but listening to you too.

Lem and Frank did not notice.

Photo A.M. Moscoso

 

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

 

The Journey Started Somewhere

Inspired by a new Creative Adventure :

The World of Georgina McClure

Prompt 1 Part 1

Photo by Guillaume Meurice on Pexels.com

How far would you go to save someone you care about?

How far would you run or fly or crawl

to save somebody else?

 

How far would you go to save

yourself?

Have you ever tried, was it worth it? Did it matter

at all?

 

We all come from somewhere

and I suppose in the end we all end up in the same place

with the same question in our eyes

and frozen on our lips.

 

But before I do that, before I  give up the ghost

I’m going to make one final trip, I’m going to give myself one last chance

to use the key, I’ve kept hidden in my guitar case

and open a door with the bronze hinges shaped like hands

and

go somewhere, because I came from someplace

and sometimes in the storm of confusion that rages in my head,  I know exactly what to do.

 

There is an abandon house

just passed the crossroads

outside of town.

It’s called Bancroft Manor

Writers used to live there and I heard a dancer died there and a sad lady

dressed in red and black

sings in the garden that smells like orange blossoms and chamomile and wood rot when the night sky is full of bats and falling stars.

 

I think the singing Lady in Red and Black is alive,

but she came from someplace and she is going somewhere

all I know for certain is that she hasn’t left yet.

Perhaps she can’t leave

or doesn’t want to leave

just now.

 

The Dancer stands at the top of the stairs, where this isn’t much light

and from the corner of your eye

and only from the corner of your eye

you will  see her  lift  her arms above her head in a graceful arc

and she leaps as she always does,  to nowhere.

 

But she comes back from somewhere and she dances

for no one

every night.

 

The kitchen is warm but there hasn’t

been a fire there in years

and the cupboards are full

of  jars with things that used to grow in the vegetable garden

that is next to the fruit orchard

that hides the cemetery

where no one lives.

For now.

 

Tonight I will leave

for Bancroft Manor

to my room in the attics

that are large and dark and bare

there is a cloudy, dusty window that looks out to the Sea

and the door with a lock that is shaped like and eye

and has iron hinges

shaped like hands that holds the door fast to the frame

waiting to open

because

 

We all come from somewhere

and I suppose in the end we all end up in the same place

just passed the crossroads

at a house

hidden in the woods

called

Bancroft Manor.

 

 

The Cat Came Back

I like to think of my writing as a separate animal and that animal is a cat.

It’s temperamental, it’s independent and if you make fun of it, it  will  cough up presents for you and leave them in places like your favorite pair of shoes or in the middle of the living room floor.

All kidding aside,  I do see my Cat as being like the cat in the song, ‘The Cat Came Back”

The reason being, just when I think I don’t have a story to tell or a freshly butchered Poem to present to the world- my Cat comes back.

I know better then to tell it what to do, or what it should look like or sound like. I just let my Cat do what it does and when I do that- things are swell, great even.

But this is what I  know about me and my Cat, no matter where my head is or where my life is at  and no matter what is going on inside of it my Cat is always there.

It always comes back and the look on it’s face when it does is one of purrre satisfaction.

Photo A.M Moscoso

Photo A.M. Moscoso

Photo A.M Moscoso

Dig Tree Activity#1

( Creating my Writer’s ‘Map’ )

Surprise!

 

Over the Christmas holidays I asked my friends for their real addresses so that I could send them Christmas cards.

I was surprised by how many people told me that  they were excited about getting mail, actual real mail that you can touch, delivered by the Post Office at Christmas time.

I thought that reaction was fun and interesting to experience because ‘sending out cards’ had slolwy turned into one more thing we felt like we ‘had to do’ during the holidays and then e-cards came along and that was that

This somewhat unfashionable ritual made  feel a bit nostalgic  for the ‘old days’  and once I sent my cards out  I put it out of my mind until my friend who lives in Australia sent me a card and some Lifesavers in flavors that we don’t have here in the States and what can I say?

This dark little thundercloud was tickled pink and that made an overlooked, formally time honored tradition fun again.

Photo A.M Moscoso

Photo A.M.Moscoso