written 09/23/2016

If writers are collectors of words, would this make them adept in magic? With powerfully descriptive incantations a writer could, theoretically create their own worlds in which to dictate.

Is it not emotions behind spoken words that slice like daggers or cushion tragedies with downy pillows? Abused words could be considered illegal or forbidden.

Imagine this, a small child’s imaginary friends coming to life; broccoli tasting like cake. Children would hold the most power through belief in their own words.

Would word counts breach into infinity? Librarians would be the grand-witches and wizards of the craft.

Word crafting; reinvention of words. Might inflection and pronunciation also influence the spell? Would speaking aloud your nightmares bring them to your door? Calling softly to a loved one might summon them to your side?

Words only hold as much power as they are applied. Would self-destructive words leech into their owners like a cancer, slowly decaying them from the inside?

Freedom of speech, would it be restricted? Would their be a world limit that one might use daily?

One could feed a starving family by sitting before the table and describing a banquet in colorful, sensory detail to appear.

Are words not already a source of magic? Are books not a dimension in which we visit? Would words then have a consciousness and desires to be spoken, acknowledged?

Imagine it, the curvy “t” at the end of “cat”, held high while the “C” purrs and the “a” shutters its eyes contentedly; a whole city built out of towering words like “building” and “tower.”

Would the magic bind the very word to the user as a slave or willing companion?

Food for thought tastes like popcorn.

Would civilization then be built upon the dreamers? The poets and lyricists? The actors and singers if words held magic? If parrots can speak words, would that count, or would the magic strictly work for humans? A question in a question queried by the question itself. No need for top hats, wants or brooms; utter a thought, make it happen. Would the thought breed more thoughts? And would “magic” be the most powerful word of all?



written 09/02/2016

Write something, anything. Pierian or not, hold onto the pen; dare it drop. Stuck in vorfreude leaves me self-annoyed. Jamais vu, I’m no stranger to prompts; snapping the leash for a creative romp. The pen hasn’t smudged once. Flapdoodle, snickerdoodle, pillowed noodles on poodles. Good gracious, inscrutable. Rageous! I’ve taken two weeks, and my brains gone to mush. Slush; my schedule crushed-breaking the rules, no denying, there’s a rush. Resolution O’ clock. Be the story a drop, have yet to stitch together the final layer of plot. Dreamers of dreams, screamers of screams; selectively quiet muse, you leave me to bruise. If walls have ears and floors have eyes, does the ceiling taste for flies? Does matter trump mind? Writing anything to fill the slot, pathetic no? When the body is ready, but the mind’s gone to sot. Soil, recoil, my brains leaking oil; grasping at cobwebs of thought. There’s a horror chase in here and I’m the tropic heroine who falls over her own feet. There’s a shadow simmering at my back, breathing down my neck for fresh meat. There, the page is filled, after gaping like a cod with dry feet.