1.14.2014 Journal Prompt

Image from A Thousand Clowns
Image from A Thousand Clowns

January 14, 2014: A sort of serenade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

→Wow! This is my 1,000th post! Over the past few years, I have posted more than 700 daily writing prompts, as well as interviews, brief essays, and bits and pieces of literary-ness. Thank you for reading, for following, and for commenting. Write on. -PMc←

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4 thoughts on “1.14.2014 Journal Prompt

  1. Lindsay

    Wow! A thousand splendid prompts! I honestly don’t know how you have kept this going, but I am so glad and so grateful that you did and that you still do. I love these. Thanks… and here’s to the next thousand. Well done, Patty.

  2. Lindsay

    It’s a beautiful noise – and that was Neil Diamond and he found his inspiration in a parade that was marching past his window, and that was all it took. And Mozart, I heard, found melodies in birdsong, and the Beatles took pictures from newspapers. It’s all around and it’s not just love.

    Toby Junt plays the guitar. He sits on the steps outside the town hall and he plays for the passers by, girls and boys. And his songs stop people in their tracks and it’s a sort of magic, for everyone there thinks Toby sings just for them. He just seems to know. Like he can read their inner thoughts and what is written in their hearts. And if you ask him, he’ll tell you it’s in the air. The songs just come to him – like birdsong, or a passing parade, or holes in Blackburn, Lancashire.

    And I believe him when he says that. How else could he always know just the right song to play? And I stopped the first time and he winked and smiled and I felt something I had not felt in a long time. It was like I was back there, with my first and best, and I felt light and young, and I laughed and dropped some coins into Toby Junt’s paper cup. And every day after that, a different song, and always it was the right song and a different memory in my head, and Toby’s cup was full to overflowing.

    Some days the police came, slow and serious, or striding with purpose, and every time Toby’s playing touched their hearts the same as he touched ours and small silver was pulled from their dark wool pockets and lightly tossed into Toby’s upturned hat. And Toby nodded thanks and did not break off with his playing.

    It was a serenade of sorts. And I think I loved him then, just for as long as he was playing. I think maybe we all loved him. And we walked through the rest of our day with a lighter step, almost dancing, and singing the songs he gifted to us each morning. And it was a beautiful noise.

    Then one morning, we found him not there on the town hall steps. It made a difference. People stopped as though they had taken a wrong turn, and they looked over their shoulders as if they had lost something, or down at their wristwatches thinking they must be early or late, and they did not trust the time that they found there, and they stumbled off with their shoulders hunched and their hands balled to fists in their coat pockets and their faces grey.

    And I stopped, too, and I stared at the place he had been only the day before, as if by staring I could see him still sitting there; and I cocked my head, straining to hear music, straining to hear Toby Junt playing his guitar and singing my song. A whole month of stopping and finding him gone and it’s like love when it is lost and my heart feels heavy or broken.

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