5 Replies to “4.23.2013 Journal Prompt”

  1. I treasure your daily prompts…thanks. But just one thing….next year will you please not schedule your Mineral Point workshop the same weekend as the Printers Row Lit Fest? See you in MP, Mary Ann Presman

    On Tue, Apr 23, 2013 at 8:17 AM, Patricia Ann McNair wrote:

    > ** > Patricia Ann McNair posted: “April 23, 2013: They said it was in her > head.”

    1. Hi, Mary Ann! I know, bad timing on my part. I am also doing a Fiction Workshop in August in MP. And you can take Journal and Sketchbook for just one day and hit Printers Row the other! Hope you are well. Back in the Middle West? Will be doing a brief workshop in Winnetka this Thursday: OCWW

  2. Somewhere deep in the night she is awakened, perhaps by the heavy stillness. Too quiet, she thinks. Where is the sound of the ticking clock in the hallway? The hum of the refrigerator? The dog’s soft puppy snores? Why is there no weight at the foot of her bed, no sense of the lump of a golden retriever curled there?

    Overhead, in the attic, a sound–footsteps, slow and deliberate.

    It is the spirit woman, she thinks, the old one who had lived in this house and walks at midnight, restless, searching for her lost lover. They tell me she is in my head, but I can hear her, she is real and I am afraid.

    She wraps the blanket around her, buries her face in the pillow.

    I hate being alone, hate it when he leaves, despise his bullshit business trips. The black resentment grows inside her, cracking the surface of sleep, roots against concrete, breaking through, pushing into unintended places.

    She remembers the pockets of his jacket, silken lining against her fingertips, the feel of loose change and folded paper: the letter he has forgotten there.

    Or, she thinks, perhaps he has not forgotten and it is deliberate, a carefully placed deliverance from past promises left there by an enemy, evidence for her to discover and nourish into an ending.

    This too, they will tell her, is nonsense, all made in her imagination: there is no woman walking, no betrayal, nothing to fear. Only a nightmare, a bad dream that will disappear in the morning light.

    What cannot be explained, when she sits up and switches on the bedside lamp, is the single strand of long grey hair which lies curled beside her on her pillow.

  3. And where else would it be? she wondered. She existed primarily in the recesses of her brain, those wily coils that held incalculable bits of information and impressions, dreams and imaginings. Her mind was a place of unknowing as well, the voluminous terrain where she wandered weakened from urbane living with its excesses and frivolities. She became nearly impotent, from time to time. But lately: the humming, the long and melodious uncoiling of sounds that drove themselves into her cells and overcame her thinking. She knew what it was: a directive. An introduction of something new. And there was so little time to make sense of this or any other thing that hounded her–what was a year or ten? Nothing at all. When she complained of it after poor sleep for a week, they told her: it is in your head! Yes, yes! she agreed, irritated. And that is where it will stay unless I manage to liberate it, remove it or let it leak away. My choice, she sighed. They thought she might finally be mad. But, then, they did not compose music and had not one clue about the waves of wonder that welled up in her when new soundings arrived.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s