Inspiration 2.0

[blueerica]

OK - I hadn't seen this thread until now - but while just in the shower moments ago I was thinking that this needed to be ressurected!

I FREAKING LOVE YOU, JEN!

I'll have something written shortly.

Damn...

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Love you too! Can't wait to see you posting in this thread

[Motorboat Cruiser]

That was awesome, CP!

I would love to submit. If my brain starts thinking creatively again after the burnout of 3 gigs this weekend, I'll see what I can come up with.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Nobody who can stomach a visit will tell me what started the fire. Not knowing might be the only thing keeping me alive. Swabbed and bandaged, a woman made of wax. Melted and reshaped, I wonder if I’ve been altered on a molecular level.

My freckles. My moles. The scar I had on my shin from when I was ten and fell off my bike. Gone, gone, gone.

The first time I ever sat around a campfire, I was with my father and brother. My mother stayed home. She hates the great outdoors, high altitude, slopes and moguls, and the squirrels hustling around the porch, begging for nuts. My father, brother and I were a tribe of our own. We had matching sleeping bags and never minded eating beans out of a can. We fought bravely against our mortal enemy, the mosquito. Dad told us ghost stories but we still slept a thousand winks because he was there and so nothing could harm us.

Before bed we made Smores and I’d become entranced by the color of flame, its electric blue bottom and the pale yellow of its zenith. The fork of the flame enveloped the marshmallow and the marshmallow bent and sighed into the warmth. It melted and was made into something perfect.

What have I been made into? Stick a wick through me and sell me at the Yankee Doodle Candle Company. Set me on a trolley and roll me into Madame Troussads. Put be back into the fire until I’m melted down completely. Transform me back into the woman that I was. Give me back my nose. Replicate it exactly. Don’t forget the bump on right hand side; I inherited that from my grandfather. He’s dead now and that bump was better than having his photograph.

The nurses keep telling me I'm a very brave girl. I scream sometimes and other times I whimper. I pass out and have bad dreams. I wake up and they tell me again that I'm brave, but they are wrong. My survival was chance and curiosity is the only thing keeping me from swallowing my own tongue. Something started the fire. I doubt it was arson. Maybe I left the iron on again. Maybe my rusty gas stove is the culprit. Perhaps a neighbor left their cigarette burning, and this is the first time I wonder about the other tenants. Are there others here like me?

If so, complete the process already started. Melt us down and shape us into an army of plastic soldiers, a sentry for the gates.

Burn us down to ashes and watch how we'll arise.

[wendybeth]

Emily's Flight



“No, really- I’ll be just fine. Thank you so much for everything”.

Emily gently shut the door and leaned against it, sighing with relief. The long, dreaded day was finally over and she could enjoy a moments’ peace. That is, once she’d deposited whatever it was the neighbor had brought over in the garbage disposal and poured herself a stiff drink. She opened the corner of the Tupperware container and sniffed at the contents- whenever would Mildred realize that no one ate tuna casserole anymore? Did they ever? Still, she meant well; she always did. Poor Milly- she had cried longer and louder at the funeral than anyone, including Emily. She always did. Too bad her husband had left her; instead of the lonely death he’d suffered in that seedy little Vegas motel room, he’d have been feted away with rivers of tears and casserole. Milly had a dramatic streak, no doubt about it. She would probably never forgive him for dying out of her jurisdiction. Now, she haunted the ever increasing funerals of her friends, dispensing her usual platitudes and casseroles and finally making use of that little black dress in her closet.

Emily set the food on the counter and turned toward the pantry. Standing on tiptoes, she felt around the back of the top shelf- there it was! She carefully withdrew the bottle of Scotch from its hiding place and surveyed it’s contents. They looked to be sufficient. Turning, she opened another cupboard and from it she took a small juice glass. Smiling to herself, she wondered what would have bothered Warren more- the fact she was drinking, or that she was using a juice glass in such an inappropriate manner? She remembered a time when he wouldn’t have cared. She never had. No doubt this had been a source of great disappointment to him, but he was beyond caring now. “Poor Warren” she murmured, but it wasn’t the Warren of yesterday that she was thinking of….


“Buy you a drink?” the handsome boy had asked, and she declined. The next night, he’d asked again, and by weeks end he’d grown devastatingly handsome and she had no choice but to say yes. His looks were only outpaced by his intellect, which was curious, searching and insatiable. They read Fitzgerald and Hemingway, and spoke of expatriotism as though it were a virtue. Then, the war began, and before Emily knew it, she was married and her husband was somewhere in the European theater. She endured morning sickness while he cowered in foxholes. She grew a Victory garden and joined in the metal drives while he scrounged for petrol in the Bulge. She gave birth to a stillborn son while he recuperated in a London hospital. He returned home a virtual stranger.

Years passed, and their family grew. Warren became a partner in his law firm, and later a judge. They moved into the same suburban enclave that all their legal friends resided in, and their children played and grew up together. Warren became more conservative with the passing of every decade and when the Sixties hit he was blindsided by the social and political upheaval. He couldn’t understand the anger and the activism, but Emily did. She was a bit frightened by it, but she knew what drove it and had faith that this vibrant new generation would learn to channel that energy into something good. After her youngest went off to college Emily began volunteering at the local library. Warren retired and retreated to his office, where he finally died last Monday morning. Emily found him slumped over the newspaper, facedown in a puddle of coffee with a half-eaten piece of toast still in his hand.

She shook her head, trying to erase the image from her mind’s eye. Poor Warren. He was so angry and so frightened, but now he was beyond all that. Emily finished her drink and set the glass in the sink. Time to get busy. She walked about the house, lighting fragrant candles that had been strategically placed about, then went downstairs to where the water heater and main furnace was located. When she’d finished, she went back into the kitchen and grabbed her purse and small bag that she’d packed earlier in the day. Turning toward the door leading to the garage, she hesitated, then set one of her bags down and strolled over to the stove. Bending down, she gently blew out the pilot light, then slowly turned the knobs until she heard a soft, hissing sound. She straightened up, ran her hand over her hair, and then picked up her bag and headed for the garage. As she backed the car down the driveway Emily heard a small explosion and she smiled, a smile that grew along with the conflagration she watched in her mirror as she drove away into the Arizona night.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Originally Posted by wendybeth

Emily's Flight

“No, really- I’ll be just fine. Thank you so much for everything”.

Write more! More, more, more!!! Wonderfully paced short story, lady.

"Now, she haunted the ever increasing funerals of her friends, dispensing her usual platitudes and casseroles and finally making use of that little black dress in her closet."

Loved all these little details. So, so great!

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Wow, Wendy and Eliza (and CP and NA, of course). Love all of your contributions !

You all are really hard acts to follow. You all write so well.

At the risk of embarrasing myself, here is my meager attempt...

Adam sat at the patio bar, repeatedly rolling the burning cigarette between his fingers, waiting impatiently for his drink to be refilled. As he flicked the forsaken ash, his mind pondered the glass receptacle to which it fell, a simple ashtray that was in desperate need of being emptied, a collector of what once was. It was as if each cigarette of the evening represented one of his prior performances, one that had once burned brightly for a few moments, then quietly faded away into obscurity. And while the ashes piled up endlessly, Adam couldn’t help but reflect, anticipate, and try to reign in the feelings of anxiety that festered within.

In only a few moments, the lights of the patio would dim as he once again took center stage. Those in the audience would be expecting something inspired and exciting, something that moved them. Adam was fully aware, however, that there were always two potential outcomes once his hands touched the keyboard. His fingers would either glide gracefully over a sea of black and white, on a whitewater journey to undiscovered melodic territory, …or… just as likely, they would simply fall into a familiar trap; traveling a well-worn path of mediocrity. He was troubled that he had so little control of which way the performance might go. Mediocrity was always happily waiting in the wings when inspiration failed. And while his fans would more than likely be unable to spot any difference in his playing, it was his own internal integrity that was at stake.

As he stared at this glass ashtray in front of him, he wondered if the freedom to create demanded that these ashes of days gone by be discarded, as if by tossing away what once was, a new collection of fresh ideas would have the room necessary to materialize in their place. And yet, those ashes contained the very building blocks that he would need if he were to succeed this evening. They were his collective experience, his triumphs and his failures. They were what they were, and discarding them would be a futile gesture. Yet, in their present form, they represented a crutch, a safety net. Nothing good, or original for that matter, ever came from playing it safe.

The only hope was in the serenity of letting go, to recognize the ashes for what they once were, and yet, to realize that they would never be the same again, no matter how hard he tried. Rather than cling to the safety of pre-conceptions, the key was in simply allowing himself the permission to move ahead. Only then could a new chapter set forth, rising from these ashes like a phoenix. A bird, given the freedom to explore unknown territories far away from its humble beginnings, yet never losing sight of where it came from.

Tapping his shoulder, the waitress asked, “Can I get you a fresh ashtray?”

“That’s ok”, Adam replied as he stood and took the final swig of his drink.

“This one still has some life in it, I think.”

The waitress looked a bit puzzled but nodded anyway, as if she understood. It didn’t matter. What was important was that Adam understood. He made his way to the stage as the lights began to dim, looking forward to the journey ahead.

[tracilicious]

Seriously, this is why you type things in word first. At the last line of my post I dropped the mouse and the window closed. arrg.

[Motorboat Cruiser]

Originally Posted by tracilicious

Seriously, this is why you type things in word first. At the last line of my post I dropped the mouse and the window closed. arrg.

Oh no! I've had similar experiences and they are so frustrating.

[tracilicious]

In the 5am light Lena couldn’t see the beer bottles and cigarette butts that littered her bedroom floor. She could barely see the face of the beautiful boy who lay on the bed next to where she was sitting. Carlos? Was that his name? She had been drawn to his angst and his beauty and the tattoo on his neck. A few hours ago she had licked his track marks while he f*cked her. In the drunk of night he had told her that he believes in castrating rapists and selective breeding. Now he just looked like a little boy with blue punk gunk in his hair.

Lena stood up slowly and braced herself against the wall while the blood returned to her head. She bent down and groped around for her thong and tank. She slipped them over her bony ass and flat chest. In the half-light before dawn she almost looked beautiful, in that car wreck sort of way. She stumbled out of the room and thudded down the stairs. She was careful not to look at the kitchen as she kicked clothes and pizza boxes out of her way. Grown ups don’t live like this, Lena muttered.

Someone she didn’t know was sleeping on top of her roommate on the couch, so she slid open the glass door slowly and crept into the dark. The rough gravel in the tiny condo yard poked into her soft pink feet. It was the realest thing Lena had felt in a long time. She maneuvered her way over to the old ladder on the side of the condo, climbed up to the roof and sat down.

A lone star shone in the fading dark. She stared at it as reminders of her wretched life crept up her spine and started shouting in her head. She stood up quickly and shook them off. Lena stretched her arms out wide, looked straight into the sky and started to spin. Her feet turned around each other slowly at first. Every other turn or so her toes would curl around the edge of the roof. She regained her balance and spun faster. Lena’s eyes closed as her hair whipped her cheeks. She took deep gulping breaths of the cold fresh air that eddied around her. She felt alive, and for Lena, that was unusual.

As Lena spun she pictured her nearly naked flesh covered in scars. Each scar began to molt away and fly into the dawn. Goodbye emotional instability. Goodbye self-loathing. Goodbye drugs and booze and caffeine and sugar and starving and vomiting and diet pills. Goodbye two guys a night.

Lena stopped. She waited two seconds for the dizziness to subside and the she cracked her eyelids. She was looking straight into the rising sun. It took her a bit to figure out what she was feeling. It was hope.

“Hope.” She said out loud.

“I am the goddamn motherf*cking phoenix reborn.” She said with a small degree of amazement.


“I AM THE PHOENIX REBORN!” Lena’s hoarse voice resounded into the newborn morning.


She grabbed a roof tile and chucked it at her pervert neighbor who was leaning out his window aiming his camera phone at her and catcalling. Lena quickly descended the ladder and went into the house to pack up her ****. She hoped that this time she could leave the ashes behind.