To walk as a stranger, or to exist as a stranger. Often invokes the sense of a melancholy or loneliness one might feel as a person alone in a foreign land.
“-ize” means to convert or change into.
For nothing is ever lost that [The Universe] wants you to find.”
― Shannon L. Alder
A life spent being fearful of showing your soul is a life not worth living.”
― Shannon L. Alder
having a strong urge to write
“A simple gift of a fountain-pen, triggered her scripturient passions that manifested in the next book in the series.”
Thanks for joining in.
tools of expression,
but oh, so limited.
They need to be learned
and cannot break
the barriers of language
dialect, accent and culture.
My body speaks
just what I think,
no more, no less.
I can speak to animals
and humans alike.
I love, I care,
I look, I stare.
Yet, I need words
to frame my own thoughts
and label feelings,
to ignore the tremors
but say, I do not fear,
to be depressed, but
smile and spread cheer.
Words are the barriers
between me and myself
Words are a mask
Words are diplomacy
Words were created
as tools of manipulation
Inspired by JSW Writing Challenge
That is not unmotivated, however; it is of Aspatia’s own choosing and of Amintor’s hamartia. Francis Beaumont: Dramatist Charles Mills Gayley
The pathetic devotion of Aspatia is essential to our understanding of Amintor’s tragic weakness, his hamartia. Francis Beaumont: Dramatist Charles Mills Gayley
Hamlet’s tragic flaw in Shakespeare’s play “Hamlet” determines his tragic downfall. Hamlet’s hamartia is his indecisiveness. He cannot make up his mind about the dilemmas he confronts. https://literarydevices.net/hamartia/
Aristotle introduced the term in the Poetics to describe the error of judgment which ultimately brings about the tragic hero’s downfall. As you can imagine, the word is most often found in literary criticism. However, news writers occasionally employ the word when discussing the unexplainable misfortune or missteps of über celebrities regarded as immortal gods and goddesses before being felled by their own shortcomings.
You don’t have to apologize to people that won’t listen.
― Shannon L. Alder
Feel free to jump in and tackle the prompt yourself. Please keep your posts under 300 words. If you link back to this post, I will re-blog your post to my site. This JSW Prompt goes until Sunday.
“It wasn’t a question?”
“No? Then why did you put the question mark at the end?”
“You can’t see that when I talk.”
Lucy cocked her head. “Yeah, I can. I’m magical like that. So let’s start again. Is that blood?”
Think quick. “Yes, it is blood, Lucy, but, sadly to say, not nearly enough to bleed me dry.”
“Both of you, shut up,” Marcus commanded, looking at his two… companions. It would be too much to call them anything else. Yet.
“Come here,” he ordered John. He quickly checked the man over, determined there were no other wounds, and field dressed the cut in his leg.
“How the hell did you do that?” he asked.
“Hum….” Think quicker. “I fell on a thistle.”
Lucy snorted laughter.
Marcus glared. “Okay, can we get back on track or do we need to listen to the ‘John and Lucy Show?'”
He signaled for Lucy to go right, John left, to either side of the building before them. He hunkered down where he was, tracking the two as they moved. Awkwardly. Clumsily.
Time to come to Jesus.
Aiming carefully, he shot both in the chest.
Lucy sat up a moment later, fingering the hole in her jacket. With a curse, John did the same.
“What the…” he scowled. No way were they supposed to get shot, but thank god for body armor.
“Amen,” Marcus said and walked away.
Photo prompt provided by Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode.
Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.
3. Please credit photo to photographer.
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.
She stood tall and straight before the piano, Archibald playing and their daughter, Maureen, turning the pages. She couldn’t count all the times they’d been like this, one happy family, surrounded by things they loved.
Most of all, she loved the picture of the Blue Woman. In her foolish times, she sometimes pretended she was the Blue Woman. Wondered about her life, her home. Her hopes and dreams. Wondered if, somehow, they mirrored her own.
She’d had dreams before marriage. Visions of singing opera on the stage to applauding crowds, flowers falling at her feet. But her father brooked no such nonsense, nor did her husband. She loved Archibald, but something inside her was being crushed by the very reality of her existence.
Something, she could not ignore.
It was late at night when she left, crying for the loss of her daughter, her husband, her family, but something pushed her on. Refused to let her go back.
Stepping into the horse-drawn carriage, hooves clattering stone, she sank back, peering out the curtain as she left her home forever.