ARTICLE | PROMPTLY WRITTEN

The Dailies — Tues, Jan 4th

The muse strikes at 3 am

The sun has set and I feel more alive. I am clad in a crimson crushed velvet top, black skinny jeans, combat boots, and a black ribbon choker with a bloodstone centered on my throat chakra. I glance once more into the black mirror, noting my pale skin, long black hair, and ruby-black lips. I will have to do. Nothing on this face has changed in centuries. I grab my black trench coat, backpack, and helmet and hurry up the stone steps to my crypt’s lid. With a wave of my hand, it opens and I step out into the late evening mist. As soon as she senses my presence, Belle, my pet raven, flies to me and lands upon my shoulder.

Where to tonight, Belle? Yes, the park. Good idea.

Belle flies off to a nearby tree as I don my trench coat. She flies close by, landing from tree branch to light pole, as I make my way to the parking garage across the street from the graveyard. I slip inside the garage and swiftly move up to the fifth level. And there she is, Harley — black and chrome and with an engine that purrs on the first try. I straddle the beautiful machine, toss my backpack over my shoulder and crank her up. She’s a powerful beast between my thighs as I head out of the garage and into the somewhat darkened streets of Blacksworth. Moments later, I pull into the park with Belle not far behind me. A crowd has gathered. Looks like a good night for a muse attack and perhaps a poetry slam.

small stones

there’s a hushed whisper in the still of the night and a lover stirs within my dreams

small stones are bite-sized thoughts or observations that could fit on the surface of a small stone

the bulletin board

With Belle once more perched upon my shoulder, I drop my helmet and backpack on a wooden table and amble over to the large bulletin board. I notice that the January theme holds center attention

To the left of it, Christine Graves’ awesome prompts for the week scroll nicely down the front of the board. It’s a nice touch. Old parchment, not this crappy stuff they claim to be parchment today. I take notice of the prompts, pondering which one I will use tonight, should I decide to slam.

I strike a Ferris Bueller and friends’ pose at the art gallery as I admire Joanne Olivieri’s amazing photo prompt to the right of the month’s themed post. I am momentarily saddened as I remember sewing those costumes on the set and watching from the sidelines as Matthew Broderick kisses Mia Sara on set for a take, and as the director shouts “Cut, that’s a wrap!”, my mind snaps back to the present. Something about that glowing light of Joanne’s photo took me there.

I glance upward to see Marcus’ prompt on exits and endings scroll by in neon purple letters. It’s all well and good if your life could end, I suppose. Hmm, maybe I should write about it and slam it!

writer showcase

With some poetry ideas buzzing in me brain, I head back over to the wooden table where I left my things. A crowd has gathered around the stage. That’s when I hear some ancient rhymes being read, reminding me of my old theater days. I hear someone mention the poet’s name — Stephen Chamberlin

I dig a pen and paper from my backpack and scribble some notes on it. I hand the paper to Belle and she flies over to the bulletin board and attaches it to the board with a sharp twig. It reads…

In honor of our bard upon the stage, I propose this prompt!

Write a poem based on the theme ‘a tragic moment’. You may use any poetic form, but if you want to compete with our bard, Stephen Chamberlin, write a Sonnet — 14 lines in ABAB CDCD EFEF GG rhyme scheme.

the town crier

Hear ye! Hear Ye! Tessa Koller needs 59 claps!

Thank ye bards and patrons of the faire towne of Blacksworth for helping our fine essayists reach their 1k goals! Please get Tessa over the edge! The goal line… not a cliff.

something from the archives

I get a tingling in me head and glance over toward the park’s Clubhouse. And there he is, perched on the roof staring down at me. One of my kind, my sire Darius. I give him a nod and he summons me. I feel the tug of our blood pact, so I fish around inside my backpack and withdraw a poem on ancient parchment. I remove a penknife from my boot and stab it into the parchment on the table — a Shakespearian Sonnet, Mr. Chamberlin…

The pull is stronger. Too strong. I quickly gather my things, walk swiftly to Harley and ride out into the fog. There is still time to hunt tonight.

Lori Carlson writes Poetry, Fiction, Articles, Creative Non-Fiction, and Personal Essays. Most of her topics are centered around Relationships, Spirituality, Life Lessons, Mental Health, Nature, Loss, Death, and the LGBTQ+ community. She is the Owner/Editor of Promptly Written and Not For Bedtime Stories. Check out her personal Medium blog here.