Category: Prose

Posted in Poetry, Prose

Eclipse

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

There was a time when your light shone bright and brilliant.  You were the warmth of my days.  Then, darkness overcame you, swallowing your soul.  I could still see flashes of you, moments of you, when your brilliance would shine like jewels.  I feared that the darkness had an eternal hold on you.  Then, at last, the darkness released its hold on you.  I was once again bathed in your stunning light.  I am eternally blessed to live under your luminous beauty.  

Copyright (C) 2024 Penny Wilson, All Rights Reserved

*I was describing my experience of seeing the eclipse yesterday to my friend over at Minnesota Prairie Roots and she challenged me to write about it.  Thank you, Audrey.  ❤  Above is the result of that challenge.  I hope you enjoyed my efforts.

Posted in Life, Prose, Writing

What is a Writer?

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

I’ve seen several people’s description of a “Writer”.  Looking at Dictionary.com, it says that it is “a person engaged in writing books, articles, stories”, etc.

It also says it is a “person who commits his or her thoughts to writing”.

When I looked up the word “Author”, I found “a person who writes a novel, poem, essay, etc.”

None of these descriptions are very flowery or complimentary.  The closest thing to something really nice that I found was under the definition of “Author”, it also says “the maker of anything; creator; originator”.

Now THAT I like.  When I’m writing, I am lost in this other world of my own creation.  So “Creator” and “Originator” seem quite appropriate.

BUT I have NEVER seen a description of a Writer so beautifully and eloquently done as it was done by Morgan over at Booknvolume. https://booknvolume.com/

This is what she had to say:

“To Write; To Paint with Words as an Artist Bedecks his canvas with hues and shades and layers of pigmentation; To Sing a Melody upon which the gaze may Linger and over which the Heart may Muse again and again: To Create visual Splendour with grammar and language that is, perhaps, fundamentally underutilized or neglected ( and to use Capitalization in the most maddening, although previously explained, manner), to me, is the most Beguiling form of Intoxication in which I could ever take Pleasure and, for you, Dear Intrepid Reader, to Undertake the Journey; to Brave the Frontier of Superfluous Verbosity and reach the shore with a Smile (though, perchance, to some extent exhausted), is, Hopefully, far more Rewarding an Endeavor than many.”

Just amazing!

This woman is a multi-faceted talent!  Please be sure to read the entire post and browse her blog.  Her writing is beautiful, alluring, often sensual and always a delightful surprise!

Thank you Morgan (see the entire post HERE) for your eloquence and beauty.  You are an inspiration to readers and romantics everywhere!

*Morgan’s original post was done in 2017.  I have yet to find anything as eloquently descriptive about writing as this.  I hope you enjoyed.

Posted in Prose, Uncategorized

Bridge #WDYS

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

Image credit: Darksouls 1 @ Pixabay

The bridge between my world and yours is spanned by a dark bridge, foreboding and forbidden.  The Book of Sorrows, my only companion as I navigate my way through this dark forest.  The moonlight is not enough to light my path.  The ravens caw and scream their dark and hungry cries, as they eye me warily.   The mists encircle me, holding me back.  Perhaps, one day, I will join you again, my love.  But not on this night.  Not this night. 

Copyright (C) 2024 Penny Wilson

What do you see # 227- Feb 26, 2024

Posted in Prose

Modern Day Knight

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

Image

One day in the dark of the forest, down at the bottom of that deep, dark well, he came to me.

His arms, strong, but tender, raised me from the depths of that well.

The blue of his eyes shone through the night as if the light were coming from within.

I discovered this man was a mere mortal of flesh and blood.  The light I saw in his eyes was that of an honorable man.  The honor this man carried with pride, was that of rare and unimaginable beauty.

I knew he was a man, with weaknesses as men have.  But I saw what was inside.  He was a Nobleman of Old.  He saw the demons and beasts that few of us see.  He would give his life to slay them.

He thought his life was better served on the battlefield.

This man had no sword or armor, as we would normally see with a Knight.   He relied on his instincts and his brethren in the heat of battle.

My hand touched his, one last time, as he turned his shining eyes away.  I knew he couldn’t stay.  He had paused on his quest just long enough to give me a glimpse of himself.  There were battles to be fought and dragons to slay.

Beautiful artwork by Murphy Elliott

*I originally penned this in 2014.  I came across it recently and decided that it deserved a 2nd outing.  I hope you enjoyed it.  

Copyright (C) 2014 Penny Wilson All Rights Reserved

Posted in Prose

Box of Memories

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

Sorting through that bookshelf, all I intended to do was to gather a few books to donate when I saw it.  The Box of Memories.  The box was something that I had found in an antique store.  The box had been carefully hand made and at one time was someone’s treasure.  It was battered and aged, but had it’s own beauty and I had to have it.

I pulled the box down and wiped the dust off the top. After opening the lid, I lifted an old photo out of the box and looked at it.  It was curled and yellow with age.  I couldn’t remember the last time that I looked through The Box of Memories.  Years.  The picture of my oldest brother, taken just after High School.  He was ready to take on the world.  A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth.  He looked out past the camera lens at something in the distance.  What was it that made him smile?

Another picture.  This one of Grandpa, looking like none of us had ever seen him.  Young, strong, red headed and a handle-bar mustache, carefully waxed and  curled up at the ends!  I giggled a little at this.

I dug down toward the bottom of the box.  There’s one I need to see.  I know it’s in here someplace.  I flip through the curled photos as I dig, memories flash by.  I click them off in my mind like a grocery list.  Yep, there’s the one of my baby brother standing in front of the car in a diaper.  My other big brother goofing off with a silly grin on his face.  Here’s one of Uncle James.  So handsome.  More photos flash by.  Grandma, with long dark hair hanging down her back.  Lifetimes pass before my eyes.

Finally, I see it.  The only one I have of him.

My mother standing next to my father.  The two of them squinting a little in the bright sunshine.  My mother is looking up into his face.  He looks down at her, an arm wrapped casually around her waist, pulling her next to him.  They are both smiling.

I never knew the man.  Things went awry when I was just a toddler.  Did he love her?  Did he love me and my brothers?  Was his hair brown like mine or dish-water blonde like my little brother?  The black and white photo is a bit faded; it’s hard to tell.

I pass my hand over the face of the picture.  I close my eyes and bring it to my chest.  I’m wishing for a pulse.  A breath.  To feel my hand in his.  To hear him speak my name.

Opening my eyes, they focus once again on the photo in my hands.  Carefully, I put the photo back in the box and close the lid.  I place The Box of Memories back on the shelf.

Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson

 

Posted in Life, Poetry, Prose, Uncategorized

For Mom

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

photo-1453828423292-392a660a502f

    

The walls are permeated with the laughter and tears once shared.

I fill the room as best I can with today’s sunlight.

I open the window, but the breeze does not sweep away the past.

A life once lived clings tightly.

My fingers touch a picture frame.

Frozen in time, you cradle a child.

I can feel the love in the smile on your lips.

Your fingers gently brush the hair from my face.

Behind my eyes, I’m swept away.

I am once again, safe.  Warm.  Loved.

You always smelled of lilacs.

Today, your memory is as vivid as yesterday.

Other times, your face is but a faded shape in the mist.

You are always with me, a part of me.

Copyright (C) 2017 Penny Wilson

*Today would have been my mom’s birthday.  She will always be a part of my life.  Happy Birthday Mom. ❤

Posted in Life, Poetry, Prose, Stories, Writing

The Mirror

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

Looking in the mirror, I have finally gotten to the point where I don’t see the excess weight as often.  I don’t worry so much about the lines around my eyes.  I’ve come to like the streaks of silver in my hair.  These days, I more often reflect on what’s inside.  I know that I am more patient today than I used to be.  I see the value in friendships, relationships and gestures of kindness.  I’ve slowed down, not only on the outside, but inside too.  I’m much more content to spend time listening to the world around me.  I savor the sunrises and sunsets.  With the road ahead of me now shorter than the road behind me, finally, finally, I can love the image reflected in the mirror.  

Copyright (C) 2023 Penny Wilson

Posted in Prose, Stories

Waves

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

You’re standing there alone.  Watching the waves, just like you do every day.  Maybe today I’ll have the courage to say hello. Maybe I’ll have the courage to ask you what is that you see when you look at the waves?  What are you hoping to find?

The wind tousles your brown hair, pushing it back from your face.  Your piercing blue eyes hold their gaze.  They’re as cold as the sea on this November morning.

I take another step forward. I’m closer today than I’ve ever been.  Today.  I must do this today before I lose my courage.  A deep breath and another step forward.  And another.

You turn away and slowly walk up the beach.  Your head down, shoulders slumped.  I can feel the sorrow in your gait.

My moment has passed.  Maybe tomorrow.

I walk forward and scan the waves as they lap the shoreline.  I’m standing where you stood.  What is it that you see?  What are you searching for?   Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask you.  Maybe tomorrow.

Copyright © 2018 Penny Wilson

*This is in response to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Thursday photo prompt.  If you would like to get in on the fun, you can find out all about it HERE. 

Posted in Prose, Stories

Treasured Scars

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

I was never able to hold my breath long enough to avoid the stench of you. Your slurred, dribbling nonsense turned my stomach.  It was a game you enjoyed.  You would watch my face to see how long it took before I became repulsed. 

In your eyes it was fun; harmless. 

I would watch the anger wash over you as the booze took you away.  You were body-snatched, replaced by a monster.  The monster hated anyone in it’s path.  But the hatred was for itself most of all.  The hate engulfed all and rage was the only outlet. 

It was a cry of pain, a cry of self-loathing, unleashed and lashing out at all of those you came into contact with. 

I was the closest target.  Convenient.  

In the light of day, with pounding head and sweaty palms, you could always justify it.  The sorry’s were meaningless.  The flowers withered like my spirit.  Your caustic soul was revealed again and again. 

I prayed for your salvation and I prayed for your demise.  I prayed for strength, for both of us. 

I packed up my sanity, guarding it carefully and ran.  I didn’t realize that my escaping would open the floodgates to the demons you had hidden from even yourself. 

My freedom is dear to me, paid for with anguish and a piece of my soul.  My sanity, at times precariously balanced on a knife edge. 

The scars I have are treasured things.  They keep me safe.

Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson

Posted in Prose, Stories

Mended

Posted on by Penny Wilson Writes

 

“How many times have I picked you up and put you back together?  You’re broken again, aren’t you?  …sigh.  I suppose I will have to mend you again.”

“I hope it doesn’t take as long this time.  The last time was so bad, for a little while, I didn’t think the damage could be repaired.  That was a dark time for us, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps a cup of tea to start.  It helps to calm one, you know.  Let’s sit by the window where the afternoon sun can warm us and the light is good over here.”

“I know dear, I know.  But the pain won’t last forever.  Tomorrow will be better and the day after that, even better still.”

“Now sip your tea while I thread the needle.  I’ve got some fine new silk thread here.  Isn’t it lovely?  The wounds won’t hardly show.”

“Alright, now hold still and I will make this as painless as possible.”

“There now!  Isn’t that better?  You can face the world again with this new patch!  Why, it blends right in with the other patches!”

“Yes, dear I know it still hurts.  But the pain will be less tomorrow.  I promise.”

“Lets put you right back in here where I can keep you close and keep you warm.  No honey, I won’t let anyone ever do that to you again.  I’ll protect you, my heart.  I promise.”

Copyright (C) 2018 Penny Wilson