and the path propels me

on this under-trodden grain
I trample through my sleeping mind —
ah, vexing mind,
of the kind, that keeps my eyes
agape at night.
on this pressed and pondered trail
I step across worms of doubt,
worms that sprout
between my toes and keep my feet
confused and cold.

but walking is its own therapy,
and the path
propels me.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

Music Remembers

Baseem split the cherry between his fingers. Red juice stained the grooves of his thumb and dripped off the end of his fingernail. He rubbed the pads of his fingers together, mashing the berry into a raw, bloody pulp. When he was finished, he flicked the mangled remains off the side of the deck and held his hand up for me to see.

Ya amar, do you hear it?” he asked.

My flute felt cold between my fingers, and I lowered it to my lap. “Hear? Don’t you mean see?

“No, hear. I have wondered if you can hear it too, the way I can. If when you press your lips to your reed and blow you can hear the colors, or at least imagine them before they erupt like spitting embers from your instrument.” He rotated his wrist in front of his face, studying the red seeping down his palm. “When you played the friscalleto, I heard this precise shade. Cherry red. Like the wine we acquired from Donnalucata. Like the poppies that covered the hills beyond the beach. Like the fire that —”

I turned my head away, and I hated myself for the bitterness that glassed my eyes. “I hear no colors, signore. I am afraid that the visual arts are not my area of expertise.”

“Ah, but music is the highest of all visual arts,” Baseem said, his eyes smiling. “You know better than anyone, Ludovica, that music remembers. Music is memory. And what is memory if not visual?” He crossed the deck towards me, taking heavy, deliberate steps with the heels of his boots. “There is an aching in your compositions. A red. A remembrance. You must hear it.”

Mama’s ribbon. Papà’s steamed crab. Cosima’s rosary beads. Orazio’s blood.

I flooded my face of expression.

An excerpt from a work-in-progress.

Music Mondays: Part XIX

Admittedly, the following two playlists accompany a very specific genre for writing. However, medieval and early European music can fuel more than your mere historical epic — it can serve as a calming motor throughout your day, from its mathematically exquisite stanzas to its lulling Gregorian chant and lute-work.

Take more than just a step back in time with these mixes. Submerge yourself in the Dark Ages, for all its grit, orthodoxy, and simplicity.

Happy writing!:)

Writing Kindling #10

Writer’s block may seem like a terminal illness, but sometimes the smallest of sparks can “kindle” your craft. Today I bring you a list of ten 1-2 sentence writing prompts that will help build up your white blood cells and give writer’s block a good kick in the pants. Copy them, tweak them, consider them, leave them. It’s up to you!

  1. The doctor kept the room uncomfortably warm.
  2. They took to each other like wick and flame.
  3. She dunked the silk dress in oil.
  4. He shrugged, unconcerned, and plopped the dead rabbit at her feet.
  5. She only now seemed to realize the blood down the front of her shirt.
  6. His eyeteeth glisten when he smiles.
  7. “You straddle conclusions like a horse,” she accused.
  8. All he cared about was the flame in his gut that licked against his insides, telling him to burn, to burn until there was no fury left.
  9. His voice went for the jugular.
  10. The stones of the floor looked to be swelling, changing, climbing towards her face as she turned down the hall.

I’d love to hear what you come up with. Feel free to share your writing in the comments!

Happy writing!:)