Comments on: Promoting Passion Week 81: Storytelling Collaboration, Week 1

By: Elisabeth on Earth

Elisabeth on Earth — Mon, 10 Aug 2015 19:25:47 +0000

Better late than never. 🙂 This is something I wrote for a gallery show display. My print, “The Writer”, is on the wall, then my grandmother’s typewriter (used in the picture) is sitting on a small table. The piece of paper in the machine says, in an old-time typewriter font:

“She had strayed from the beaten path, wandering in the dark woods –
a scene that mirrored her own uncertainty. Around the bend, an old typewriter seemed to hover above a boulder. It beckoned the girl to share her heart. She approached cautiously. Tucking under her long white dress, she sat in the moonlight, allowing the tap-tap of a few keys to echo into the night…

Nothing happened. She tapped a few more, and a few more, gradually disappearing into a space all her own, a space she didn’t know
existed. The girl’s words became less guarded as her passion
augmented, and this honesty, this vulnerability, refreshed the soul.

A small puff emanated from the machine and grew larger, manifesting the detoxifying effect of her truth. She smiled as she watched the smoke danced higher and higher, carrying her story to the Universe.”

By: Promoting Passion Week 82: Collaboration Week 2 » Promoting Passion

Promoting Passion Week 82: Collaboration Week 2 » Promoting Passion — Mon, 10 Aug 2015 14:18:25 +0000

[…] Read all the stories here! […]

By: Mariuca

Mariuca — Mon, 10 Aug 2015 10:52:50 +0000

-With marshmallows and cream please!
-Sure, right away!
-Do you also have some cinnamon?
-Of course, coming right up! Are you sure you want this half of my heart? It’s been stepped on, broken and glued back together. It’s not really that tasty and it’s not worth it. On the other hand, I’ve built towers around the other half. Sure, it has some spider webs, but all the really precious things have.
-Wow, you do know how to sell your products! I’ll tell you what…give me all of it and I’ll make sure you won’t be able to tell them apart when I’m finished!

By: Argie Yañez

Argie Yañez — Sun, 09 Aug 2015 23:21:23 +0000

The idea of the story is about TIME, which life is a matter of fact in line with time and everything works with time. The idea of being with so many things to want at the right time with the same person. I may not know how to express it in words but I would love to connect the idea of clock and every TICK TOCK of it that’s in my head.

My life is in really deep in expression of counting the numbers yet forgetting the other side of possibilities that could happen in life. I just want to show my inner being of being me as a machine made like a clock which counts the years of birthdays to celebrate and every second that counts together here is cherishing every moments and memories in life. TICK TOCK TICK TOCK TICK TOCK!

By: brookeshaden

brookeshaden — Sun, 09 Aug 2015 20:39:26 +0000

In reply to Amani. Absolutely! :D

By: Ponts'o Mpholle

Ponts'o Mpholle — Sun, 09 Aug 2015 20:35:00 +0000

Her fingers hovered, too closely, above the crackling flames. Slowly, sensually, the boney thumb traversed the index finger in a half-hearted attempt to soothe the sting of the burn as the fiery tongues licked her skin. A frenzy of amok neurones and failed reflexes had erupted. She did not flinch. Instead she watched herself sizzle red, the pain registering everywhere within her body, sending a tingle down her spine, prickling her scalp. Nothing escaped her mouth; no squeal, no expletive – nothing. She relinquished herself to the fire, if only to suppress the raging one inside her, yet to incinerate the sacred relic in all its deceptive glory. Only she knew of the great power she possessed which had latched onto her unbidden until it morphed into her flesh and rendered itself art for the eyes of the gifted. They did not know the damage she could cause. With a child-like abandon she began to giggle hysterically, allowing the flames engulfing her hand to creep towards her wrist like a vine. After wading through rivers which meandered gracefully between her lashes, she rose from the chair and ambled to the bathroom. She would need ointment for the burns . . .

By: Erica Rodriguez

Erica Rodriguez — Sun, 09 Aug 2015 20:11:17 +0000

She sat in a room full of noise yet her mind was completely silent. She refused to allow the confusion of the world to seep into the cracks of her human heart. Instead, she hoped for the light of truth to pour out and bring the sweet peace that surpasses all understanding, a hope that lifts the soul, and a love that springs forth as a result and deafens the noise.

By: Angela Willis

Angela Willis — Sat, 08 Aug 2015 01:21:31 +0000

This is a super fun challenge that inspired me*, Brooke! Good luck to everyone. I hope you enjoy mine.
—

It broke her. Physically and emotionally, she was no longer the same. In her arms she was left holding something more precious to her, more beautiful, than she could ever imagined creating, life itself. Even still, seeing her reflection in the bedroom mirror, she somehow could not fully accept what she saw; her perfection had been marred.

Gently tiptoeing out of the room she walked into her tiny kitchen to make a cup of tea, still trying to understand what had happened to her. As she reached for one of the tea cups that she adored, her hand slipped and the cup and saucer crashed to the floor, breaking into pieces.

The next morning she lovingly wrapped the broken pieces in a cloth and carried them to a shop for repair. As she watched, the master craftsman fitted the pieces back together, joining them with lacquered gold. Before her very eyes, the broken tea cup was transformed, into not only something stronger but something more beautiful than it had been before.

Every day, after that, when she saw the tea cup with its lovely golden crack, she no longer saw the imperfections but saw its beauty.
__

* I work an educator, with postnatal women that have a condition called diastasis recti (a split of the ab muscles, from having large or multiple babies). Most see their injury as making them ugly, or hate the way they look.
I believe repair requires transformation, that the pristine is less beautiful than the broken, and the shape of us is impossible to see until it is fractured, till a wound like a crack runs its length. That’s how the light gets in.

“The world breaks everyone, then some become strong at the broken places.” ~Ernest Hemingway

By: Vernon English

Vernon English — Fri, 07 Aug 2015 18:44:29 +0000

In reply to Vernon English.

“There was balance,” Brown Oak screamed, leaning over into the sunlight. “Everyone agreed, yet there was the definition of love that caused a rift. It birthed the Gods of Destruction to act where love was housed, it was left homeless, replaced with violence.

Many Gods and Goddesses saw this as the Great time of contraction.” All of the youngins fell silent. One Goddess in particular went out her way to protect what she loved most, so she called upon the help of an old friend, a giant turtle. That’s how this here land was almost flooded.”

“Amazing,” the young girl whispered, Brown Oak smiled from ear to ear, “This y’all, is one of her ancestors…..”

By: Vernon English

Vernon English — Thu, 06 Aug 2015 19:16:38 +0000

In reply to Vernon English.

Crayfish Story Tryst Pt 4

“The lands were mysterious, the same as they were now. I’m serious youngins. In the forest there was this woman.” Brown Oak halted his speech, leaned over to the new girl who was to assist. “See this where you come in, you know what to say.” It took her a split second to remember what the old man spoke before in his speech that day.

The young girl blurted out when the answer to her question arose, “Goddesses!” so loud it left a few of the youngins in front startled. “I knew you would get it, yes, there were plenty on the Earth, still is, but back then it was all love, even though there was fear.” “But wait,” The young girl interrupted. “There were Gods then?” “Exactly,” said Brown Oak, that is where the miscommunication of this story gets started.