I’ve been thinking about joining a creative writing group for a while, and finally made the plunge on Wednesday. I made excuses for avoiding it before, ranging from time to money. Money wasn’t an issue because this group is free. I have Wednesdays off work at the moment, so I decided it was time. It was great interacting with other writers, some of whom are published. The class has motivated me to try to expand Memory Slave into a novella or novel.
One of my favourite parts of the lesson was a writing prompt at the beginning. A teacher handed out tarot cards and instructed us to write for ten minutes, using the image as our inspiration. I used to do something similar with my wmoviegrapevine posts: I would search for images using vague descriptors like “darkness” or “depression,” and then write about whatever the image brought to mind. Unlike my wmoviegrapevine posts, this writing prompt was meant to be stream of consciousness: No hesitation, no scratching out or deleting. It was a challenge and I know I broke the rules a few times. However, I persevered and wrote about half a page based on an image of a wilting rose. The result is below. I will likely share the piece I do for each class from this point on.
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It was linked to me now, and it took me too long to realize. I spent most of my time away from it, seeking affection and love from the outside world. There were days when I came home feeling like I found the one. On those days, the rose’s petals stared up at me, blemish-free, blood-red, the stem standing in defiance.
Then there were the other days. Ones where a call or text wasn’t returned. Where “something came up.” The veneer of confidence broke. My insecurities rushed to fill the void and I would come home to a wilted rose. Blackened petals, red ones decorating the ground like autumn leaves. The stem would hang on its pedestal, twisting like a broken limb.
Then came the distractions. The mindless scrolling, the frantic flick of the remote. The rose would remain on the verge of death until I was blessed with the attention I craved. A call, a smile, a kiss. The rose would change in front of my eyes, with its petals rising from the ground to return to their home. Their colour would be replenished. The stem would snap back into place and I would feel whole again, if only for a few minutes at a time.
I don’t know where it came from, only that it hung where only I can see; a spectre, a puppeteer guiding my actions. If I cut the strings, I can find freedom in death.