Vanessa Shields's Blog, page 14
January 20, 2022
Prompt 20: Fog by Carl Sandburg (Poem)
Book: Chicago Poems (1916)
Author: Carl Sandburg
Poem: Fog
Genre: Poetry
Prompt from Chloe Bristol
Fog
By Carl Sandburg
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
Fear
The Fear comes
at me like Henan’s
heavy luck bell1
(emptied of
luck)
Its robust waist
pendulum me panicked it’s
sound bow dimpled
lip around the clapper
& CLANG! Too loud!
(I cover my ears with my
cold-sweat palms –)
yes I am afraid
and when the ground
settles her vibrations the ghosts
come trapeze-ing on the bell’s crown
whistling to keep fear a tongue-tie
away from my hollowing body
Fear moves on, huffing
looks back at me – bell-bottom
jeans torn at the hem
high on haunches
1Bell of Good Luck, Henan China, weight 240,000 pounds
Discover artist Chloe Bristol!
Chloe illustrated the cover of Charis Cotter’s newest middle-grade masterpiece, The Dollhouse.
Thank you for today’s writing prompt, Chloe!
January 19, 2022
Prompt 19 – The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde & Yin Writing Link & StoryTime Solidarity
Book: The Picture of Dorian Gray
Author: Oscar Wilde
Genre: Philosophical Moral Fantasy
Prompt from Zoe C.
“The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.”
Date: 2022 AW (After Writers)
So we started writing books about shame. And we started writing books about immorality. And we started writing books about what it takes to ‘show the world [insert motivational verbiage]’. We even wrote books about burning books and books with no paper and no books at all, ever, including their legacies which were on-purpose forgotten. The books about forgetting the past, being the present, planning for the future – well, we wrote millions of these too.
Writers of books eventually became immoral no matter what subjects, no matter what genre they wrapped these subjects in, no matter who read them or how, no matter if they were paper, screens, paint, blood…the Writers were all ‘removed’. Some were removed without violence, but most were not. The Nature of a Writer is defiant, so many of them were not keen on being whisked away to a sound-proof cement building to face the smoking end of a gun.
But how, you wonder, is this…these words you’re reading in this moment…how is this possible if all the Writers are dead?
All the Writers are not dead. It is that simple. Do you think we weren’t ‘immoral’ enough to devise a plan to keep our Kind alive? Thriving? Sure, it took years, too many deaths, extreme grieving and a disgusting amount of patience to get here. To now. To This Book you’re reading.
My word, wasn’t it worth the wait? I know you’re trembling in your silky skin. You’re burning with the anticipation of what deep evil, what sinister lies, what unabashed immorality will fill your squishy little think-noodle and make it feel ALIVE AGAIN.
You see, shame is an astounding aphrodisiac for rotten choices. And by that I mean, shame allows you to shrink and take a beating, but eventually it creates in you a monster of worse proportion than a measly Writer could ever be. The Writers knew what would happen. That’s why we created our own special lines of communication, right under your snot-dripping little noses. We wrote what would happen when the world, when Humans Who Are Not Writers, did what they do best: shame, categorize, label, compete and erase – all of these actions quite fully ‘Immoral’, yet shrouded under the tricky veil of ‘disassociation’, resulted in that slick snake named ‘I Am Not Responsible’.
(Oof. That got…dark. *transparent admission: I haven’t yet read Dorian Gray…* I’m not really sure what ‘philosophical moral fantasy’ is…but once the timer started and my fingers hit the keyboard…well, the words tapped out. The narrator of the above piece of writing is not me. Er…but…would it be, if Writers were…Sheehs. Thanks Oscar. Thanks Zoe! What a conversation piece we’ve begun!
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January 18, 2022
Prompt 18 – The Ickabog by J.K.Rowling
Book: The Ickabog
Author: J.K. Rowling
Genre: Fairytale/Fantasy
Page 18
Prompt book chosen by my daughter Miller.
“Mrs. Beamish, the pastry chef, belonged to the second group.”
Now, young readers, what do we know about pastry chefs who bake for kings and queens and in-betweens? We know that they have extraordinary nostrils for smelling the colour golden. We know that they have extraordinary fingers to feel the life of dough. We know that they have extraordinary spines to twist and turn and knead and reach and lift and place. We know that they have extraordinary ribs that are built like a hearth to house their heart that beats and stirs and whips and scrapes and plumps and puffs.
We know that pastry chefs who bake for kings and queens and in-betweens are the keepers of their joy, for it is irrevocably a fact (F-A-C-T) that baked goods are the language of the soul and the stomach. That makes pastry chefs fluent in Soul and Stomach – dialects of love that are very, very, very, (extremely!) very important to kings and queens and in-betweens.
Mrs. Beamish was Head Pastry Chef for King Ronnie Rumplesfeld, his wife, Queen Hetty Hip (she kept her maiden name on account of she’s a #feminist), and the middle-sized town of Yoots (established by a small group of youths with minor speech impediments), aka the in-betweens. What was the role of Head Chef, you wonder? Indeed, it was in the Head of Mrs. Beamish, a Birch-tree of a woman with a torso like a thirsty trunk and arms like curious branches, that resided all the recipes that guaranteed the King, the Queen and in-betweens their Soul and Stomach joy. Without her Head, there would be no baked anything – goods or bads. (And, trust me, fine readers, you don’t want to come mouth to mouth with a Baked Bad.)
January 17, 2022
Prompt 17 – The Woman of Wyrrd by Lynn V. Andrews & Yin Link
Book: The Woman of Wyrrd – The Arousal of the Inner Fire
Author: Lynn V. Andrews
Genre: Non-fiction, spirituality
Page 17, line 17
Prompt chosen by me.
“It felt heavy and oddly warm, as if it had just been worn.”
The first word that came to my mind when I read this sentence was: Soul. (I capitalize the word because it deserves to be capitalized.) How often do you think of your Soul? Where does it live in your body? Does it move around? Does it grow and shrink with each shifting season? Do you believe that it is one Soul and one Soul alone – the one in your body or is a Soul a thing of many accumulated into the one in you? Can a Soul move from body to body in real-time? Do you use the word Soulmate? Do you have a Soulmate? Has your Soul ever felt ‘oddly warm, as if it had just been worn’?
I have a recurring scene that plays in my head like a movie short. I don’t know if it’s remnants of another Soul mingling in mine that likes to play with my memories and show up now and again…or if it’s a great idea for an actual film…or maybe it’s both. But here’s the scene:
INT. OPERATING ROOM – TEACHING HOSPITAL – EVENING
A team of three SURGEONS and a huddle of SIX NURSES gather around a naked male body on the operating table. There is little movement, but for the masks of those in the room pulsing with breath.
A large white round light hangs above them like a serious sun. Machines hum and beep in a steady rhythm.
Above, a packed observation room watches the surgery below. DOCTORS, NURSES, RESIDENTS, even a few ADMINISTRATORS hold their breath.
Of the three surgeons, a FEMALE, puts her gloved hands over the naked torso of the male body.
DR. WALLACE
Scalpel.
The male surgeon to her left, hands her a scalpel. Dr. Wallace’s hand is shaking as she takes the tool.
She moves her eyes up the body of the man in front of her. His face is serene. She can see his heartbeat under his skin like a finger is poking from within him.
DR. WALLACE
I will cut an incision. Watch closely.
These things move quickly and are
prone to hiding.
Everyone in the OR and the observatory sucks in a breath.
Dr. Wallace makes a slow cut down the centre of the man’s body. She hands the scalpel to a nurse whose hand is waiting.
Dr. Wallace relaxes her shoulders, and puts her hands on the incision which is beginning to bleed.
The two other surgeons add their gloved hands to the incision line.
DR. WALLACE
On three.
One. Two. Three.
Six hands slowly open the incision. A flash of light whips across the plump red insides, tucks behind a rib.
A collective gasp.
Dr. Wallace smiles under her mask.
DR. WALLACE
That, my curious friends, is
a Soul.
Collective clapping happens in the observatory, but can’t be heard in the OR. Instead, a machine begins to beep loudly.
YIN LINK FOR THIS WEEK’S YIN WRITING TUES/THURS
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January 16, 2022
Prompt 16 – Batman The Dark Knight Returns by Frank Miller
Book: Batman The Dark Knight Returns
Author: Frank Miller
Genre: comic book/noir
Prompt chosen by my son, Jett (mega Frank Miller fan).
“Here’s Dave with some good news, Dave?”
“Thanks, Bob. I’m here on the scene outside of Windsor’s own Rose Palace, where the Rose Queen is scheduled to make her first appearance since her inauguration two nights ago. As we all know, and were shown live from WKBD ‘News This Minute’ live-action team, the Rose Queen’s gown caught on a loose nail in the 100-year-old staircase (no insurance claims have been made, so far), and down.she.fell, before her veil was lifted and the startled yet excited crowd had a chance to see her face. This is a first for Windsor’s Rose Queen – as per Rose Queen guidelines, those in the running are not allowed to give their identities until the post-inauguration reveal.”
“We do know the names of the top three women to take on Windsor’s most important superhero role, isn’t that correct Bob?”
“Yes, Dave, we did. They are Greta ‘Green’ Brewster, Hero of Green Growth: Money Gardens Galore; Hilda ‘Halo’ Humphries, Hero of Angelic Wings on Humans; and the dark horse of the triplets, Drezzy ‘Dreamland’ Drummond, Hero of Dark Dusts. Now, Bob, each incredible woman brings to the table her own unique superpowers, but none of them are without their…shall we say…friction, Dave?”
“Mmm, we shall say friction. It’s the truth, as always here on WKBD ‘News This Minute’, superhero abilities have definitely shifted over time. It’s been decades since the Marvel and DC superheroes have flown, sped, and fired up our lives. Since the Great Superhero Demise, regular folks like you and I have had to search within to recognize and cultivate our own superhero strengths.”
“That’s correct, Bob. Most of us find it a feat to get up and go to work, but these three ordinary women, found the extra-ordinary within themselves and honed their unique skills that
January 15, 2022
Prompt 15 – Les Misérables by Victor Hugo & February Poetry Circle Info
Book: Les Misérables
Author: Victor Hugo
Genre: Fiction
Prompt from the Hubby
“He never went out without a book under his arm, and he often came back with two.”
One book caused it.
It wasn’t the ability to read, which was devastatingly extraordinary, and vital to his existence. In fact, when he was seven, dirty-faced and begging on the streets, not a letter to his mind attached to a sound that could make words, a stranger took pity on him and instead of giving him bread or water, she gave him letters with sounds. She gave him words. For two seasons, she’d show up before the sun, offer her gloved hand, walk him to a small hidden alcove that smelled like things he didn’t understand but saw and heard as the moon took the sky, and she taught him how to read. She never talked about herself. Never told him her name. She never asked him his name, where his mother was, or why he was homeless. She gave him letters with sounds. She gave him words.
To both of their surprise and joy, he was quick to understand and within months, he could read the small board books with pictures, then books with more words than pictures, then the thing he’d seen men carrying like purses: the newspaper. The newspaper was a portal to his world, and the world beyond which up to that point, the little boy never knew existed. All he’d known was cobblestone and cold, hunger pains and homelessness.
That first season was brutal, for the cold was a monster who stole their fingertips and hardened their throats. But her kindness kept them warm. And the letters, which he began to see like stars shining, showed up all around him. Everywhere letters. Everywhere words. She challenged him to bring her letters and sounds and words. And when the icicles began to drip into puddles in the alleys, he was offering her parts of his world: market, butcher, bakery, hospital. Each day was expanded by the letters and sounds.
In the summer, when he could wash in the busted fire hydrant in the market square, water bursting like laughter he’d not yet known, he felt his first zing of pride. He washed his clothing and his face, his hands and his hair. He followed the flower seller and collected fallen petals that he pressed to his neck and wrists because he loved the scents they offered. He felt like he could learn better when he wasn’t shivering and starving, and the hot summer sun gave him this. Somehow, his hunger got lazy under a blue sky, the heat sizzling his skin. And people were more generous in the summer. When he was clean, though the people knew he was homeless, they gave him more. One man stopped and stared at him hard. Then he reached into his suit vest and pulled out a pencil. The little boy didn’t know what it was, though he’d seen many hold one. He smiled curiously upon receiving the gift.
When he showed it to his teacher the next morning, she’d held it in her hands for a long time, rolling it between her palms.
“You’re ready then, to learn to write,” she’d said finally, handing him back his pencil. And she left abruptly without a lesson. But the next morning, she brought with her a pad of paper and her own pencil.
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January 14, 2022
Prompt 14 – Curious George Storybook Collection
Book: Curious George Storybook Collection
Author: Margret and H.A. Rey
Genre: kids picture book
Page: 14
*There weren’t 14 lines on the page! So, my son Jett, who chose the book, also chose the line.
“Lucky for you we have a delivery service!”
Lucky lucky! How lucky am I?
If I need something, there’s a delivery guy
Who’ll hop on a bike or scoot in car
He’ll come from near, he’ll come from far
Or maybe it’s a gal who’ll deliver the things
The books, the meatballs, the diamond rings
This delivery service is utterly fast
Faster than others I’ve used in the past
Their boxes are built to withstand the weather
For things that are heavy or light as a feather
It surely doesn’t matter what’s inside
It arrives in one piece, delivered with pride
And guess what else arrives at my door?
Why a gargantuan smile, each time, for sure!
This is why there’s a stash that I keep
Of ten dollar bills gathered in a heap
So when the delivery human arrives
I give them a tenner and some giddy high fives!
Lucky lucky! How lucky are we?
We live in a time with delivery!
Delivery Services began in the [insert historical date]. For [centuries?], delivery services has built a necessary experience of not only convenience and pleasure, but availability of things that…
Oh, blah, blah, blah. My brain is heated up Chinese food…sizzling. How many more minutes left?! I’m tired…so tired…five, four, three, two, one…
*note to self…don’t let this writing prompt be the last thing you write! oof. ack. yikes. zzzzzzzzzz
January 13, 2022
Prompt 13 – The Creative Habit: Learn it and Use it for Life, A Practical Guide
Book: The Creative Habit: Learn it and use it for Life, A Practical Guide
Author: Twyla Tharp
Genre: Non-fiction – creativity
Page: 133
Prompt chosen by me for the Yin Writing session this morning.
“Creativity is an act of defiance…You’re challenging the status quo. You’re questioning accepted truths and principles. You’re asking three universal questions that mock conventional wisdom: Why do I have to obey the rules? Why can’t I be different? Why can’t I do it my way?”
When I wake up at 5:15am to write, creativity feels like an assault on my body. I sweat. My heart beats in startled spurts. My stomach begins to growl like a playful puppy. I don’t feel playful or hungry though. I feel bruised and hungover from a night of spinning in my bed, from a night of rapid dreams that won’t let my brain rest.
I definitely don’t feel defiant.
Unless I am defying sleep. Defying a need for more sleep.
The thing is…how creativity ‘acts’, well, it changes. I remember being fuelled by the deep blue bear of anger, by the fury of red jealousy, by the haggard orange of frustration…by the supple light rose of flow and the delicate yellow of purpose.
But defiance takes an energy my body can handle less and less.
Could this be a side-effect of pandemic living? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get angry when I watch the news, I get frustrated when I read stats, I get jealous when I get a rejection letter. But I don’t write it. I don’t write about these daily emotions, at least not outwardly. And I used to. I used to blog and poetry about the things that pissed me off, that felt unfair to ‘my way’ of believing, that felt incongruous to my rules…
I know I’m different. I’ve known this since I was a toddler. But even this…difference…this inside-ness of awareness of difference..it’s shifting. It’s revealing a foundation of radical intuition. It’s extending into prayer and a deep spiritual need to trust myself, no matter what I’m feeling.
So what does that say about my creativity? Does it change over time? It does, I’m writing proof of it.
How and why do the questions, the universal questions, shift over time? And how much does the body, the vessel capable of creative fury, affect these truths and principles?
My questions now play in fields of peace and calm. I’m chasing flittering butterflies because it’s fun and pleasurable. I’m smelling the air like a wolf, howling at the moon…and I can hear her answering. What the heck is that? Communications shift with seasons, that’s what’s happening.
Does defiance need a break? A nap? A hiatus to recharge? Or is being a creative the act itself? Is waking up at a gross hour to write – just that act – defiance to the day in its action to include my passion no matter what?
January 12, 2022
Prompt 12 – All The Bright Places & Yin Writing Link
Book: All the Bright Places
Author: Jennifer Niven
Genre: YA
Page 12, line 12
Prompt book chosen by my daughter, Miller.
(For the record, replacing a chalk board is more expensive than you might think.)
(But I wasn’t going to tell Bernice that.) (And neither was Viv.) (It had to be our secret.) (You should know that none of us were good at keeping secrets.)
“We can’t just leave it like this,” Bernice said, putting her hand on her full hip. “It literally has the word ‘A SUICIDE IS COMING’ carved into it.”
I bit my lower lip till it bled. (It’s a thing I do. You know, to remind me I’m alive; that things inside me, like blood, flow even though my outsides feel like cement blocks. Mostly immoveable.)
“Mr. L’s gonna call a mental health day for the entire school,” Viv said, rolling her eyes. “Doesn’t he know that a mental health issue cannot be solved by a day of pyjama wearing and reading paper books.
She was right. (But I liked wearing my pjs to school, and I really, really liked reading paper books.) I shrugged my shoulders.
“Look, we should just tell Mr. Brogen that the chalkboard was like this when we came in to clean it,” Bernice said. “It’s not a lie. And, we don’t know who did it, so we can tell him that too. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
(The Big Deal, Bernice, is that someone in our school is contemplating suicide. That is a Big Deal. Someone is reaching out for help, Bernice.) (I didn’t say.)
“You’re right about telling Mr Brogen. And you’re right that Mr. L will likely call a mental health day. But you’re wrong about it not being a big deal,” I finally said.
Viv looked at the clock above the chalkboard. “Shit, we better go now before the bell rings.”
I tilted my head to the side. There was something familiar about the way the letters were carved. (I wasn’t sure what, but there was something. I didn’t mention it.)
“We can’t leave it like this,” I said. “I mean, it’ll cause…you know, a ruckus.”
“A ruckus?” Bernice blew a laugh out her nose. “Nice word, nerd.”
(It was a nice word. I am a nerd. Hashtag proud.)
Viv walked to the back of the classroom, and started rummaging through a stack of bins. “We’re in the drama room, peeps, there’s gotta be a costume or blanket or something we can throw over the board to cover it.”
“Smart, very smart,” Bernice said, walking to the back of the class to help look through the bins.
I looked at the chalkboard. “It’s on wheels.”
“What’s on wheels?” Viv said, her face in a bin.
“The chalkboard. It’s on wheels. We can just turn it around,” I said, staring at the wheels. “This thing is ancient.” I started to turn the board around. “It’s a quick band-aid, but with whatever you find to cover it, I think we’ll be good for today’s class.”
(Turning the words away was not solving anything but enough to postpone a ruckus which would most-likely be followed by a wave of
Link for Tomorrow’s Yin
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Topic: JANUARY YIN WRITING TUESDAYS & THURSDAYS
Time: 6am
Join Zoom Meeting
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January 11, 2022
Prompt 11 – The Mysterious Benedict Society & The Perilous Journey
Book: The Mysterious Benedict Society and the Perilous Journey
Author: Trenton Lee Stewart, Illustrations by Diana Sudyka
Page 11, line 11
Genre: Middle-grade
“She urged Reynie to stroke the bird’s feathers (Reynie nervously obliged) and then sent her off again.”
“See, feathers are fiercely fabulous,” Trinny said as they watched her pet parrot scoot across the resting bar in her open cage.
Reynie looked at his palm, furrowed his brows, pulled out his hand sanitizer and squirted a generous amount onto his palm. When the sanitizer came out, it made a farting sound. Trinny giggled. Of course she did. Reynie tucked the sanitizer into his fanny pack then furiously rubbed his hands together.
“You always do that?” Trinny asked.
“I’m a hyper-hygienist,” Reynie said. “Self-diagnosed.” He pulled his shoulders back, zipped up his fanny pack and clapped his (clean) hands together. “Right. So, shall we get a move on then?”
Trinny rolled her eyes. “It’s not time yet. I want to stay here and talk with Reeba,” she nodded toward her parrot.
Reynie looked at the very old, but very expensive watch on his wrist, tapped it twice.
“Nope, we need to go now. The bus will arrive at the stop at precisely 4:37pm,” he looked around the bright kitchen. “Got any snacks? It’s possible we’ll be traveling through the dinner hour. I need to keep hydrated and nourished if I’m to continue my work with efficiency and ease.”
Trinny walked to the counter, opened a cupboard door above the sink. “Ta-da! The snack shack. Take your pick. Grab doubles so I can eat too. I’m sure I’ll get hungry at some point.”
Reynie walked to the cupboard and began pulling snacks out and lining them up on the counter.
“What do you mean, you’ll get hungry at some point? Don’t you eat three square meals a day?”
Trinny smiled as she pulled herself to sit up on the counter. “I eat circle meals, if you please. And I eat them when I’m hungry. When my body wants food, it tells me, then I eat.”
Reynie turned and grabbed his back pack that was on the back of a chair around the kitchen table. He put it on the counter beside the snacks, counted the snacks twice, then started putting them in the bag.
“What is a circle meal? Is that, like, a pizza?” he asked.
Trinny tilted her head. “For real?”
Reynie looked at Trinny, there was a sparkle in her eye that he felt was trying to escape and jump onto him. He didn’t want her sparkle. Too many germs.
“Pizza is round, is it not?”
“It’s a joke, Rey,” Trinny said. She reached over and grabbed a granola bar before he put it into his pack.
“No!” he yelled, trying to take the bar from her. “It needs to be even. Two of each.”
“Get another one,” she said, already unwrapping the snack.
Reynie took another bar from the cupboard, tapped it twice, and put it in the bag.
“So, is your body telling you it’s hungry now? What is it saying? Is it your stomach that can communicate?” Reynie put his backpack on and looked curiously at Trinny.
She chewed. Swallowed. “You’re a weirdo,” she said. “That’s why I love ya. And yes, my stomach gave me a little rolling salute, and that’s how it knows it needs some food.”
She shoved the rest of the bar into her mouth, hopped off the counter and let out a sigh.
*I chose this book…walked up to the bookshelf…in the dark…ran my fingers over spines…and the MBS jumped out!
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