|
Thanks to my practice of writing in my journal each morning, I was able to capture the words of my then six-year-old son when he wandered into my bedroom one Saturday morning and sat down in front of my word processor screen. After staring at his reflection for a few moments, he said, “My teacher says a picture is worth a thousand words. Look. Can you see me in the screen? It would take you a thousand words at least to say what you see in my face.” Images have great power. Here is a writing exercise for you to try: Read the pieces on this page, which were created in WordPlay’s “Every Picture Tells A Story” Class. Spend three minutes riffling through an old magazine, ripping out any image that captures your eye. Don’t think too much! (Our conscious mind often gets in the way of our creativity.) Choose one of your images. Reflect on it for a moment, then write for five minutes. Keep your pen moving, and don’t edit as you write. Let the words flow. Try it! |
|
PICCADILLY BY NIGHT, LONDON
There’s an old saying that if you stand In Piccadilly Circus for long enough you’ll see the whole world pass before you --and indeed I have, living on these streets of Trafalgar Square.
I stand beneath the Piccadilly Circus sign on my corner. It’s 2003 but could just as easily be 1903 except the sounds of the cars are quieter, the voices of the people noisier.
Theatre-goers rustle in their satin and silk, clicky-toed shoes of silver and black, dresses held by a glimmer of thread and bead, usually covered in mink-- mahogany, autumn sable and blue iris fur slink with the swirl of cigarettes. laughter passes through light- driven streets of bright red White, and gold neon streaking signs for rum, gin, vodka and me.
Cindi Morgan |
|
QUEEN OF THE CASTLE
According to the back of this postcard, the castle pictured is 2047m from Soerling. I think. It’s in German, and the words are much longer and more complicated than I remember from 8th grade. But I don’t really care where the castle is, why it is, how big it is. I care that it sits in a bright valley, surrounded by sunlit trees, rocky mountains. I care that the light hits it just so, keeping half of the walls in shadow, the other half reflecting the light back up – early morning in the castle far from any city activities. I can imagine being the princess – or better – the queen, in such a castle. A kind, quirky queen, but still one who gets to make up the rules and have people do what I ask without question. Ice cream for breakfast if I want. Thai food for dinner. Anything I want. I don’t have to cook it.
Margie Divish |
|
“Every Picture Tells A Story ...” |
|
PIGLET
I named him Piglet. A perfect name...one of my favorites. He was light blue, slightly used, and bigger than me. The man in the shop said, “Start looking and you’ll find the right one” as I walked the aisles looking for perfection. Sitting, straddling, and touching as if the feel would tell this was meant to be. The blue one in the corner looked at me and I looked back. His badge on the bar read “Raleigh.” What a name! A prince to ride ...together. My first bicycle was Piglet, but to me he was my world, my friend, my direction, which could change on a whim. He was the fastest of the pack. As we rode out in front, like a beacon for the rest of my buddies to follow, we seemed to lift up, not just for a moment but really up there almost gliding with the gulls from the marsh. We listened to each other, piglet’s chain whispering and begging for more. “Go faster he would finally scream and I would oblige. We were one as we charged up Mrs. Mulchahee’s backyard bank, riding the crest sometimes letting Piglet do the steering with me with my hands on my hips, as if we were be propelled by something other than us. This was our time, flying, leaving pain and fear of a few moments ago in our dust, just Piglet and me.
George Truesdail |
