Skip to main content

In My Head

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #243.


The writer in my head is never honest.
He sits back, pokes a memory...sighs.
Reassures me it's completely meaningless.
He grabs a sheaf of ideas, fans them out:
Detritus. High school? Offices before social media?
One by one, he feeds them into the fire.
Briefly, he stares into the flames,
Shakes his head, tilts back, stares at the ceiling.
He's stuck in a ready room. 
In a skull.
He could make fifteen different novels
At least one deathless sword-and-sorcery series
Out of this--he'd be the wizard.
The fire crumples the paper, petals it.
A vase of charcoal, fiery blooms.
Boring. Burn the worst, the best.
He's a liar, a fabulist, a critic,
with a sorcerous talent for disparagement. 

Greetings and salutations!  Thanks for the kind wishes toward Merlin, who has been doing well this week, alternating between super bouncy (is there food potentially available? new people around?) and his natural pillow state (see below).


-- Chrissa


Comments

  1. ✿January 21, 2023 at 7:59 AM

    I especially love the opening:

    "The writer in my head is never honest.
    He sits back, pokes a memory...sighs."

    And this:

    "The fire crumples the paper, petals it."

    "a fabulist" ... that too :)

    ReplyDelete
  2. rallentandaJanuary 21, 2023 at 8:07 AM

    Hmmm.....there are a lot of interesting ideas going around in your head:) Quite complicated ones. Pats and tickles for Merlin.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Carrie Van HornJanuary 21, 2023 at 12:38 PM

    This speaks to and for every poet's mind and muse Chrissa! I love this so much and the feeling it swiftly tosses at us! Brilliant writing my friend! I am glad Merlin is feeling better. He is so adorable!

    ReplyDelete
  4. JimJanuary 21, 2023 at 4:27 PM

    A bummer for a Muse. But you write sooo many nice things, it has to be fiction, can't' you.
    ..

    ReplyDelete
  5. Gillena CoxJanuary 21, 2023 at 10:42 PM

    All the possibilities in the head of this creative writer.

    Merlin looks happy 😊

    Much❤love

    ReplyDelete
  6. Keith's RamblingsJanuary 22, 2023 at 8:13 AM

    This makes my layed back muse sound very lazy!

    ReplyDelete
  7. qbitJanuary 22, 2023 at 2:08 PM

    "He's a liar, a fabulist, a critic" - isn't that the truth!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Susie ClevengerJanuary 25, 2023 at 12:07 PM

    Oh this speaks to me of how much I argue with the writer in my head, often not trusting she's given me anything worth a pen or keyboard.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

To Blue Fields Far Below

 Sharing with The Sunday Muse #228 , The Fashionable Twenties.  A sycamore fairy sits crosslegged in the road Dragons swim toward smooth hills above the storms Vines embrace the telephone poles  Someone washed the blue skies and she knows  It's time to dare the salty foam It's time to wade through the eternal fields' folds And gather golden apples for home.  Hoping this finds you with space to daydream and a good book in which to wander. Working on turning last week's prompt into a longer piece, as I found myself intrigued by the idea of tea in the garden as combat. Social situations are not my forte. As it's still Spider September, there will be a chihuahua-sized jumping spider that is none too happy about anything but hunting squirrels (that's for you, Mom).  -- Chrissa
6 comments
Read more

Once Upon a Future Past

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #204 . It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening ran behind me dragons, demons, and the sleeping world; afraid to turn, to wake me. Power needs its horror stories, its ghosts. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening followed close; a fantasy of goodness, where the gold is always covering bones. Power needs its fairy tales, its witches. It's too far in the afternoon, I thought but evening treads my hem, like an army from the dragon's teeth and all the lies therein. -- Chrissa
14 comments
Read more

Flagrant

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #217. Come be part of the conflagration. :)  Oh, they called the mob to celebrate But only the fire heard They called the mass to congregate But only the dry grass bowed A conflagration Called to prayer Hungry for light Hungry for air Oh, they called the mob celebrate Wearing flames in their hair They called the mass to congregate Faceless in the burning air.  Greetings and salutations. I'm not sure what to say--we're not celebrating the 4th this year (not that I'm prepared to cede one holiday to the authoritarian idiots in charge of our state, but our grass is still dry from the heat and we have a dog terrified of fireworks...so we're celebrating by bunkering down and watching Howling 2  at the gleefully deranged suggestion of my sibling) and otherwise I've turned our dead corn plants into the basis for this year's Camp NaNo project...it's turning into a weird year, the kind of year where I'm reading more horror than norma...
7 comments
Read more