virtual window to my soul

Writing Prompt: Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

Think of your blog as a mirror: what does it reveal? Consider your blog name, theme choice, design, bio, posts… what does every element tell you about yourself?

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To be honest, I’m not sure what my blog reveals about me. At least not on a deep level. I suppose the most evident and surface aspect of my blog is that I’m a writer. One might gather that I’m drawn to quality images and nature. Some might notice that I am constantly experimenting with ideas. My layout could say that I like to be simple, yet informative. Overall, my blog might show, for some, that I enjoy thinking outside of the status quo and I like to explore whatever comes to my mind.

a colorful world

Writing Prompt: Colorful

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

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My soul is colorful, covered in shades of pink, purple, red, blue, yellow, orange and green, filled with black and white, filled with rainbows carrying sunshine on their back.

My thoughts are colorful, filled with thoughts and ideas that create stories of time machines, green skies and blue grass, rivers of pineapple and apple juice, my body swimming and drinking of its goodness.

My colorful mind sees carnivores become vegetarians and all trees as evergreen. Fruits are never only in season but give birth to their sweetness all year around; their colors change each year, with apples turning pink, orange, blue or orange, inside and out.

In my world recreated, colors would rule and transform us into something always beautiful.

wickedness unbound

Writing Prompt: Wicked Witch

Write about evil: how you understand it (or don’t), what you think it means, or a way it’s manifested, either in the world at large or in your life.

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I don’t understand evil. The desire to be evil eludes me beyond the very basic instinct to defend myself against someone who attempts to harm me. Defense is a very different animal that I don’t view as unfolding in the same way that evil unfolds.

I don’t understand the desire to murder, torture, oppress, control others and control the land. I meditate daily on why I have zero desire for power, brutality and control while many seem to thrive off controlling others, and, always seeming to want to control them to the detriment of their very existence.

From what I’ve observed, evil behavior seems to have a pattern, and, sadly, a face. It would be far too painful to get into what the face looks like, but from my personal experience and historical research, the face seems rarely to change. At this juncture, only a handful of Indigo-like souls have the desire to transform our world into one that will be truly free. My hope has always been that I could live to see this new more peaceful and free world ushered in. But it seems that will not be the case.

A luta continua.

i coneal

Writing Prompt: Conceal

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

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I conceal myself in words unspoken. Words that would reveal the truths that could find me no matter where I hide. I am bent but not broken, veiled in empty spaces and inside lost stories seeking sun and sometimes moon.

We are never hidden from ourselves; we are never concealed from what will ultimately find us.

© zaji, 2016

it’s an imitation

Writing Prompt: Flangiprop!

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

the disconnection

Writing Prompt: The Stat Connection

Go to your Stats page and check your top 3-5 posts. Why do you think they’ve been successful? Find the connection between them, and write about it.

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My top five posts for this year are Fueling Imagination and Possibility, They Picked Me, Fearless in Dusty Blue, Finding the Exit from the Cave and Whispers from the Vibrant Stones.

As far as I can tell, there is no obvious connection between each post. Two of them are Photo Challenge posts where I took the photos myself. Three were written based on a WordPress.com writing prompt. The fifth post was based on Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.

The one possible connection could be the fact that all but one of the posts were based on a prompt that I linked back to the post. Outside of that, each post seems to have its own life and meaning.

fearless in dusty blue

Writing Prompt: Fearless

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

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Sadly, what I’m about to write is not fiction. It is a very real conversation from a few days ago with a young 20 something who made a most unfortunate discovery. Her experience once again shows me that everything has changed, but nothing is different.

Earth. What a strange, familiar, beautiful, ugly, amazing, disgusting, wonderful, heartbreaking planet I live on.

zaji

The day was a dusty blue four days ago. The drive to the supermarket was uneventful. Cars moved through green and yellow lights like bumps in a caterpillar. Some turned into Wendy’s, others into Walmart. Some headed for Office Depot or DollarTree. All of them toward something in their future. We were headed for the fruits and vegetables aisles. We talked and laughed and remembered the lemon yellow morning on a dusty blue canvas.

The girl, she was white. We call her acquaintance, sometimes friend. We’ve known her for only about a year with distance between the times when we speak. She is always all smiles, teeth white, cheeks pink, hair dark and quasi goth. She is medium height. Not fat, not skinny. Black work pants fitted snug. She didn’t belong there though, in those aisles. She had quit her job three months ago to go away to college in Jackson, Mississippi. But she was back now, in the chain supermarket aisle talking to us and working the self checkout line like a champ. She told us why she’d come back. It was against her will, but equally willed by her desire to not be transformed into something ugly.

She almost bubbled as she said, “My grandparents are racist!” We gasped in semi surprise, because in our brown skin this was not news. She said she showed them her friends on her tiny phone screen. Small figures locked inside an electronic device that doesn’t care who you are or what you look like. It just saves you there, suspended in time for as long as the device remains on. She was all smiles when she showed them her friends, her second family. They saw the brown faces and gasped in utter horror. Surprise was not enough for them, they needed something bigger, more theatrical.

They said they loved her. But at the end of our beliefs, what is love? Real love.

She said she never got to meet her father. He died when she was little; at least that is how I recalled the detail about her father. The bigness of her story distorts the details though. Only the feeling remains, the feeling of again. Always it reappears. Again. And again. And then only the words that stab are remembered as though set on fire in front of you.

This was her first time meeting her father’s parents, her paternal grandparents. They welcomed her. They bought her a brand new computer for school. They said they would be happy to have her stay with them while she attended college. She could not afford to stay on campus, so their gift to her was right on time. But the brown people in her phone changed everything. Her grandparents didn’t know that she was a “nigger lover”. They told her that as long as she had nigger friends, she couldn’t stay with them and would no longer be welcomed in their home. She had to leave.

She smiled at us and said she couldn’t believe they were racist. But I could believe, because I live inside my brown skin—everyday. I see the good and bad of people who are not brown. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it’s indifferent. Always it’s human. At times, to me, inhuman. Her smile, though, didn’t hide her pain. I saw deep inside her. She wondered about it all. But did she wonder if it was worth it? I don’t know. She, too, was human. And the wondering would have been human if it ever nudged her.

Her grandparents were human. Too human—whatever that might mean. She ultimately agreed with them and left. Because she would not give up her brown friends to satisfy their pathological condition. She would not compromise. So she fearlessly let go of an important part of her future, her college education, and returned to Laurel, Mississippi.

She returned to checkout lines and standing on her feet all day. She returned to minimum wage and a foggy future thick with uncertainty and long years of ladders leading to nowhere. She was a nigger lover. That is what they said. She did not deserve a comfortable and certain future. She deserved only scorn for knowing us and all the other faces in her phone, faces that stained her life brown and stymied her future.

I left the imposing supermarket feeling sad for her. She really was fearless. She could have erased the still brown bodies in her phone, the smiles she shared with them and enjoy college and a life outside of the aisles. But she didn’t. She let it go, for now, to fearlessly preserve her moral standards, dignity and belief that we are all people. We are all…human.

yawning to the sun

Writing Prompt: Just Another Day

Our days our organized around numerous small actions we repeat over and over. What’s your favorite daily ritual?

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Each morning when I awake I enjoy looking out the window at the sun. The sun reminds not only that I was able to see another day, but that we, as a species, exist on this world due in no small part to the sun.

The sun reminds me that we exist in a magical way we cannot begin to imagine or comprehend. The sun feeds the majority of green life forms on this planet, which thereby produce food for us. It’s an awe inspiring cycle we are still trying to decipher.

The sun is renewal and a reminder that nothing is impossible.

i see friend

Writing Prompt: Friend

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

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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

time machine

Writing Prompt: World’s Best Widget

You’ve been granted magical engineering skills, but you can only use them to build one gadget or machine. What do you build?

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If I had magical engineering skills I’d build a time machine that could take me not only back in time, but into another galaxy on another world where the entities are mature, peaceful souls who don’t thrive off violence. I’d love nothing more than to be a part of such a species that is advanced both technologically and spiritually, spiritual advancement being the top priority above all else. Additionally they would have the ability to live for thousands of years giving them the time to do whatever it is they desire.

To be among such entities who would be a gift. I would explore every corner of the accessible galaxy knowing that nothing would stand in the way. No monetary system, no borders, no violence, enslavement, and greed, fear and oppression, to name a few deterrences. It would be everyone freely living and freely exploring every inch of their world without hindrance.

I would not share the machine with anyone who was not interested in peace, freedom and true oneness. Those who enjoy the current structure of the planet need not ask to follow me. I don’t want anything that enslaves us to each other to follow.

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?

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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.

my comma told me to look before crossing

Writing Prompt: By the Dots

We all have strange relationships with punctuation — do you overuse exclamation marks? Do you avoid semicolons like the plague? What type of punctuation could you never live without? Tell us all about your punctuation quirks!
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It might seem strange, but I have no hard and fast feelings about punctuation. There are days when I want to write short, staccato sentences and other days when punctuation seems to get in the way of my stream of thoughts. Some days I’ll exclaim my sentences to death. Other days I am able to find just the right sequence of words that does the job of an exclamation mark. Punctuation doesn’t dictate my communication, but at times, there is nothing like a properly placed…pause.

The trick is to know when to use certain punctuation and at what frequency. Which punctuation works to express a certain mood and which is a distraction away from an idea that can live without a host of commas.

I try to listen to the music of a sentence. I let it play as I read it through. Every word I see as a note. If any of the notes sound a bit off, I first check for word usage, then check my punctuation to see if it is causing my sentence to go flat.

the fight in us

Writing Prompt: Fight

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

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I don’t understand the fight that humans have in them. We fight to stay alive, yet many do things that seem like a fight to die. Everything seems to be a fight toward an inevitable end that will lead nowhere.

Then there is the so called fight for love. It is an oxymoron. Love shouldn’t require a fight. Yet many find themselves fighting for an idea that by its very nature should be done in a space of peace and tranquility.

All around us, there is a fight going on. Everything is a fight. I’m tired of the fight. It is draining.

upon the shelf

Writing Prompt: Shelf

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

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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.

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eny…

…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.

envy…

…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.

envy…

…only hurts you.

© zaji, 2016

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