i am misplaced

Writing Prompt: Misplaced

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


The cosmic hand misplaced me, Zhala, and dropped me here. I traveled in its pocket for the better part of centuries before it realized that it had lost me, somewhere on the far side beyond several galaxies. It is filled with angst because it knows I don’t belong here, but it has yet to find me, having forgotten to make the psychic connection before embarking on its journey. Now, it cannot hear me when I call and I cannot hear it. But I feel it searching for me, desperate to find me and take me home to where I belong.

I was born with this knowing, just as one is born knowing their sex. This place where I was dropped is strange to me. I have no connection to the ways of this world called Earth. Everything feels alien, stranger than strange.

But I wait for the cosmic hand, hoping it will remember when last it saw me and possibly figure out where it misplaced me. I am waiting. I long for my home, far away from this place.

© zaji, 2016

faraway home

Writing Prompt: Faraway

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


My home is faraway in unfamiliar land.
It is beyond moon and stars.
It is beyond our ideas of galaxies.

I am forgotten there.

My home is faraway in familiar land.
It is beyond oceans and skies.
It is beyond questions asked.

I am forgotten there.

uncaged voice

Writing Prompt: Voice

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


i am trembling voice. i am fear finding footing and tongue. i am freedom picking the lock to my cage with skeleton key words that find their way through tumblers and springs. the door will open and i will be set upon the oppressed world, unlocking the black and gold bars of those who couldn’t see their cage. tongue lashing, words whipping, voice shaking hills upon hills of status quo. i will swing cages wide and far and let my voice spill into the streets, words littering roads, blocking hate and ego from passage. i am voice flying without wings into future worlds; fast, furious, naked for all to see. i am trembling…no longer from fear. but because my voice needs to heal; it must heal or i’ll die. it must reach ears that want peace and freedom, so they will know how uncaged voice can change the trajectory of existence. how uncaged voice can change everything that i am. how uncaged voice can set fire to the silence.

gathering of energy

Writing Prompt: Contrast

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


Life is a play of contrasts where colors watch us closely, yet find us belaboring only black and white. Too much time is spent focused on lyrics posing as rainbow-ed ideas. Black and white are not colors, but states of being. They do not adorn and arch the sky after the rain and clouds shift from view.

Our minds are heavy with the absence of light (white), and heavy with the presence of every color in existence condensed into a single energy source that holds the power of the rainbow (black). Everything lives in the carbon, even as the carbon lives in everything.

The absence pushes everything away; the collector gathers everything to it. It is the greatest of ironies—one we cannot seem to comprehend. So we remain confined to strange and limiting contrasts that bind us to erroneous ideologies and notions that burn through us, scorching skin and soul.

the wanting

the gale lifts me up to the white clouds.
tufts separate then fold around me.
i fly toward Proxima Centauri, Alpha Centauri’s star.
my wings gather stardust along the way.

i fly through still unbroken blackness.
and learn to breathe with cosmic lungs.
light is my destination or my path.
it all leads back to a million forgotten selves.

i seek the other side of galaxies.
near the farthest ends of tomorrow’s needs.
something waits there for me.
it is wanting what i have not learned to give.

it is wanting my many yesterdays.

© zaji, 2016


freedom bound


Black unpolished marble doors too heavy to swing open.
Locked inside dark moments that seek escape from Earthly prisons.
We are not free.

Black slick walls, wet from raging rivers seeping in.
They enter me, finding the lonely dark spaces.
Slipping through rocks and secrets.
I am not free.

Black words write themselves on onyx paper.
Words hiding between unruled lines.
Words killing authentic creation.
They are not free.

© zaji, 2016

to tell you a story


I want to tell you a story.

But the words are dangerous and may draw blood.
They come sharp, and sometimes come in hollow points.
They are piercing.
Always seeking darkness.

To tell you the story opens wounds.

Because the words no longer cauterize.
They tear flesh and sometimes bone.
They cannibalize the heart.
Always seeking sacrifice.

I want to tell you my story.

But it’s difficult to bleed you.
Difficult to watch your essence drain.
Each breath you take leaving you.
As I spit truth upon the altar.

© zaji, 2016

it’s an imitation

Writing Prompt: Flangiprop!

Invent a definition for the word “flangiprop,” then use the word in a post.


Some things were too insane to be real, thought the bride. When a woman plans to get married, she doesn’t have time to think about anything but the wedding and the many details that could unravel if she isn’t careful. So when her groom walked in and said he finally picked up the rings, the last thing she expected to see were two flangiprops in front of her that she paid over $10,000 for.

“What is this?” she asked her husband to be.

“The diamond rings,” he answered matter of factly.

“Are you blind? Can’t you see they’ve slipped us a Mickey?”

“A what?”

“Oh good grief! These are flangiprops fool! Why am I marrying you again?”

“Are you serious? I didn’t notice!”

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t have brought them home to me as though nothing was wrong.”

The bride grabbed her coat, car keys and flew out the door before her husband had a chance to take his coat off the hanger.

“If they think they are going to get away with this, they’ve got another thing coming. Imagine, they are trying to switch out these flangiprops for our real rings. Not gonna happen. Not on my watch,” she said as she sped down the road toward the jewelry store.

Flangiprop (noun): Fake ring; this could include fake diamond, gold, silver or platinum.

no help for the helpless

Writing Prompt: Help

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


Giant black garbage bags sat to the left and right of her. They were sentries protecting her from the nothingness she fell further into each day. Tan holed socks over crusted unwashed feet kept out some of the chill. She untied the bag to her left. She rummaged inside looking for another sock, but nothing changed since yesterday. She knew this deep down, but like a child on Christmas Day she hoped that she possessed Santa’s special red velvet gift bag that produced whatever one asked for from thin air. There were never any new socks to be found and Zoe certainly didn’t have Santa’s bag. All she had inside were the vestiges of a life once lived. To lose or have anything stolen from her bags would doom her to permanent homelessness and a past that would be erased as though it never existed. So she kept them close and tied her knots tight so no one could see what was left of her life after the fire.

Zoe needed help and asked for it many times. But the system kept her in an endless loop of wants and needs that could never be fulfilled. She pleaded for help, often pleading with only the air and wind, and sometimes a God who seemed to have forgotten he’d made her. She was an only child and her parents who had died were only children. All her grandparents were dead. She was alone, forced to face monthly periods and a growling stomach on the streets of Manhattan, or as a mole underground where light and air were only for those with money. Most times, it was food or maxi pads. Food always won because blood could not be eaten nor bartered for socks. Instead it stained her life each full moon and reminded her that help would never come; but the full moon would never end.

There was no help for her. Only endless days of coins hitting tin cups, an empty knotted stomach each week and crimson blood on the sad full moon.

my footsteps

Writing Prompt: Footsteps

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


I walk through the rain pelted land,
my footsteps following me as I go.

Seeds fallen from towering trees settle on the dirt.
My footsteps squeeze them into the soft soil.

I look back to see where I once was.
Steps from the past leave stories.

The stories are shaped by me.
I am shaped by them.

They walk on, behind me,
my footsteps.

I am left standing inside myself,
hoping for a future not promised.

© zaji, 2016

on the edge

Writing Prompt: Edge

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


At the edge of sun soaked cliffs, I find you,
soul worn, standing in patent leather shoes.
Snow melts under the weight of orange rays.
There is a tomorrow waiting here for me.
But it does not remember you.

Home grown ideologies double as wool coats,
warming my heart and mind as I wait for the moor.
You become shadows upon leaves.
In the end, when clouds hit the moon,
you will be gone, disappeared from this place
where Earth and sky meet.

You will then exist on the edge of yesterday’s dreams.

© zaji, 2016

words are never enough


It is never enough,
this house of words and glass.
Sentences splash across walls in bright island colors.
Palm trees whisper stories of the ocean’s song.
Still, it is never enough.
Words find each other in the quiet spaces.
They join hands and become sentences
that run naked under sunlight and moonlight.
No, it is not enough.
Words are remembering self,
in days gone and moments frozen in ink.
In the end, it is never enough.

© zaji, 2016

i see friend

Writing Prompt: Friend

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


i see friend.
she stand there.
years blooming on her face.
smile rising inside me.
she speak decades back.
she conjure long gone words.
she remember laughs.
she remember cries.
she remember moving earth and sea,
because she gonna come see me.
she gonna let me run tears.
she not gonna talk,
cause i need to cry quiet, no words.

i see friend.
standing in rain.
i open door and she step in.
we spread across bed,
and let words flow.
we talk life.
we talk love.
we talk dreams.
we reach into the remembering.
we scare away forgetting.

i see friend.
she coming back for me,
from the grave.
she riding resurrection’s back to see me.
she coming back,
cause i need her now,
in this empty room,
in this space that friend once filled.

© zaji, 2016

my magic

Writing Prompt: Do You Believe in Magic?

You have been transformed into a mystical being who has the ability to do magic. Describe your new abilities in detail. How will you use your new skills?


My magic has wings and can fly into infinity. I am covered in the aura of possibility. When anyone looks at me, they are able to engage with the cosmic forces and gather new ways of seeing and understanding the world. They are moved to change all the things that plague humanity. My magic is strong and everlasting. It allows those who see me, to see themselves more clearly. My magic turns on the magic inside others.

There would be nothing for me to do. My magic, like a single cell, multiplies on its own, spreading to everyone and everything, creating all that can heal humanity.

upon the shelf

Writing Prompt: Shelf

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.


Little eight year old girls make soccer balls in Pakistan; fingers roughened by sturdy leather, needles and thick thread. Bottoms hover just above dirt paved streets as they squat to work under the noon’s blazing sun hanging from a low sky. Bodies covered head to toe to respect the social order. No one cares that she is hot and only eight. Grown men still have hungry eyes, the soccer balls must be done in time for worldwide entertainment, and $3 per day is needed to buy a morsel to eat. Some days, it might only be $1. It’s better than nothing. Better than starvation and maybe death.

I place my heart on a shelf to relieve the pain of what I see. I won’t let it beat inside my chest because it might destroy me. Or I may tear it out and thrust it like a cannon ball upon those responsible for innocence lost.

Instead, I leave it there, upon the shelf, gathering dust and tears. The tears were meant for me. But the dust belongs to the shelf and the shadows.

My heart waits for me there, on the highest shelf, out of reach. I leave it there, so the pain cannot reach me where I need to hide.

© zaji, 2016

envy not

Writing Prompt: Envy

Write a new post in response to today’s one-word prompt.



…is a waste of time.

the time spent looking at someone else and what they have could be spent living one’s own life and creating one’s own destiny.


…sucks the energy from your soul.

wish for your own dreams, not the dreams of others. envy not their life, because it may not be what you imagine it to be.


…only hurts you.

© zaji, 2016



i’ve landed here,
left stranded inside my body.
form and void birthed me into sentience.

i want to forget my belonging.
i want to escape the prison of my skin.

but i’ve been given life,
locked inside solitary confinement,
chained to this single soul.

i am walled in by flesh and bones.
trapped by heart and lungs;
my wardens.

the day comes for me.
it comes saddled atop the moon.
wrinkles mark my waning time.

i will soon be set free,
from the prison of my skin.

© zaji, 2016

inventing a culture

This is another piece I was working on that I think could become something. It’s unedited. I think it might make a good short story.


“What are you in for?”
        “You don’t wanna know,” answered Larry to the strange man in the cell across from him.
        Larry’s head was bent low. He looked dejected and filled with a heaviness that was familiar to all his cellmates. They all knew the look. They too had gone through the sad realization that it was not every invention that would be met with the sound of roaring applause from their peers. They’d screwed up and they were doing time for their infraction.
        “Come on man, tell us!” cried another cellmate two cells over. His mirror was dusty and dark. Larry wondered how he could see down the hall with it. His hands were equally as dusty and dingy, dried out like a prune rolled in dirt.
        “What’s you’re name, guy?” asked Larry.
        “Francois Ignatious.”
        “You’re the Ignatious, who invented the biodegradable car?”
        “I would be him.”
        “It is such an honor to meet you. You are lauded as one of the greats in the culture. It was so sad to learn of your demise. How could you know that your tires would not degrade? It was a minor error on your part, not deserving of this hell hole.”
        “Thank you good man. And what is your name?”
        “Larry. Larry Livingstone.”
        “Mr. Livingstone, pleased to make your acquaintance. Not to worry. I only have six months left on my time. I’ll be out and about in no time. I will hence be more discerning in how I unfold my theories to ensure I do not blunder in such a way again.”
        “It was a mere slip dear sir,” Larry responded.
        “Yes, but a slip that cost me two years in prison. Why are you here?”
        “I invented an item that assists the populace with cleaning their teeth. I call it, a teeth-scrubber.”
        “What happened?”
        “Well, the first few on the market degraded as they should have. But there was some slight mistake with the chemical structure and a few would not degrade. What made it worse, was that it was happening primarily with the children’s teeth-scrubbers. So I’m sure you can imagine the outrage that came from the parents.”
        “Oh my,” said Francois.
        “Yes. It escalated to a flood of letters to my institution. Children were said to wake up screaming in terror because the items would not degrade. They would see the items, now invincible against nature, chasing them endlessly. It was a nightmare for everyone involved. But the children. I didn’t mean the children any harm. They are so innocent. To think they were forced to imagine a world where things did not degrade and would live on forever upon the earth to haunt them for all eternity.”
        Larry began to cry. A few of the men shed tears with him, remembering their own misadventures. There was a hush that came over them. Larry looked at his teeth-scrubber in near disgust.