Weekly Writing Prompt No. 45
On this day in history ... No. 1
Hello all and welcome to another year of fun (I hope) weekly writing prompts. Your mission, should you wish to accept it, is to set aside your preferred styles and genres, to open to the divine intelligence that is there in all of us, and welcome in the flash of genius that masquerades as the still small voice within. These prompts can be used by anyone who feels creative not just writers.
When I write my morning journal entry I start with whatever is in my head at the moment the pen hits the paper, I’d like to suggest this is what you try. Don’t analyse, don’t self-edit, don’t anticipate, and then give yourself a pat on the back for having a go. There is no need to share your work, although I love it when people do, and you may surprise yourself with the positive feedback you receive.
Above all, have fun, after all, you never know where the kernel of your idea today may take you in the future!
On January 5th 1959, Buddy Holly released his last record "It Doesn't Matter"; he died in a plane crash less than a month later. It was written a year earlier by Paul Anka and eventually reached No. 13 on the Billboard Hit 100 charts as a posthumous hit for Buddy. Here in the UK, the song got to the dizzy heights of No. 1 on the 24th of April in the same year.
The Prompt
Today, I’ve created a circular prompt from the first two lines of the chorus. To me, these are the backbone of the song, pointing towards the pain of breakup and the hopefulness for a future relationship.
Your task is to turn the prompt into something different but with similar themes. You can use poetry, prose, fiction, or non-fiction. You might choose to make it bigger than one human, perhaps the breakup of nations, worlds or species.
My effort will be added to the comments later.
The Weekly Newsletter
Something to listen to ..
With love, light, and laughter
Linda
x
(Image by Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay)
Ok...this is where my response led me (somewhat unexpectedly if I'm honest). Hoping the line breaks work - this system does skew formatting - but my aim was to start each new paragraph with the next word in the circle.
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“Well,” he said. “There it is. Are we going to make a wish, or not?” They both stood and looked at the muddy puddle. It wasn’t what they’d hope for in terms of a holy well, or a magic spring, or whatever it was the various guide books had said.
“You go first.” Of course, he’d want to know what she wished for before he’d dream of committing himself. She hesitated. Truth was that half-way there her romantic idyll had shredded itself on the thorns of blossomless trees and sunk into the mire of heavy-booted treads on the sodden path, but something else had taken hold, something deeper, something…else. She was trying to grasp what it was, whether it was coming into her, or emerging from her.
“Go on!” There it was. His impatience. His lack of understanding that, of all things, you couldn’t rush a wish. It was dangerous. Wishes came with curses attached. Everything had a price. It was wise to take your time. Knowledge she didn’t know she had.
“Your wish is my…” “No, stop!” It had been the merest whisper of an echo, but she knew enough to halt the idea. “I will not command you,” she said. Then she waited. She ignored her partner, friend, lover, whatever he was to her now, she wasn’t sure. She let him stomp around trying to keep warm. She sat on the wet earth and looked into the puddle. “Earth Water,” she said eventually. Then her whole being lit up.
“Way to go!” she thought.
And she leapt up smiling, suddenly sure of her ground.
“I’ll deepen my Wood into your Earth,” she said. She looked calmly down at her feet. The man stopped somewhere behind her, somewhere between curious and concerned that his partner, friend, lover, whatever they were to each other now, might finally have lost it. But it did seem that she’d conjured a whip of a branch from somewhere and was holding it ready, as if to plant it.
“Go on…” It was the softest of gloops, the merest hint of ripples, not a sound but an idea. She smiled. He watched.
“Mine,” she said. She pushed the stem into the centre of watery ground, but held on to it, both her hands wrapped around the slender stem. “The Wood remains mine,” she said. “The Tree will draw air down into you and send you birdsong. It will spread its roots beyond you into firmer ground and link to all its kind and all other rooted, deep-dwelling kind. It will spread its branches above you and shelter you, and hold water to release back into you slowly in the drying times. And you can retain your Earth and the Wood will remain mine. And the Water we will share.”
Now the spring changed. The puddle cleared. The hollow deepened. Even the air, humid and tense until then, felt lighter, as though the sky itself had released a held breath. A breeze brushed their bare-skinned arms. A soft light found its way to their faces.
And one edge of the hollow gave way, and allowed the waters to run clear away, a new stream, sparkling like crystal.
“Forever, is a long time..” came the uncertain whisper on the wind. And she who knew about wishes and commands and curses agreed. Forever is never a word to be used in changing world.
“Till we can bear it no longer,” she whispered. “Till the fire or the metal comes and between us we can no longer withstand.”
The promise was made. And she let go of the branch. It rooted and rose up. Even as they stood and watched. The man and the woman who had searched for the spring, for the holy well, and had lost so much of themselves and each other in the looking. Then they sat for a long time, in the growing shade of branches, watching brightening light through new leaves.
“End,” he said, eventually. Then looked at her. “You spoke as if you knew that this could not last. From the very beginning, you spoke and acted as if you knew it would end. You and me. The journey. Even this…” He looked at the changing land around him. The mire pulling itself together, forming islands, and sending up new growth, shrubs and trees and attracting birds and bees and forming rivers and swimming things. “Even this…you seem to be saying will end.” His sorrow was tangible.
“Of course it will,” she sighed, for she too would be sad to see this latest incarnation vanish.
“Time, however…” She paused and looked in all the directions, and out beyond the planet, and deep into his eyes. “Time, however, will go on. And who knows what will come after. We protect our beautiful sanctuary while we can, and then we will eventually be forced to let it go, when the holding becomes too much to bear. But time will go on…and who knows? For all we know, what comes after may be even more beautiful.”
~ / ~
Oh dear...I'm old enough to remember Juke Boxes. Better days, I think! Love the upbeat nature of that song. I'm a rocker at hear...everything from rock-a-billy onwards will make me smile. Is it just me, or were they more innocent times? When did we lose that?