Another week, another six-sentence story — and this time, it's dead poet. Hmm... I wonder if this one leans more toward the poets or the readers. Maybe a bit of both? I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.
As I write this, I’m listening to Vitali – Chaconne (live), performed by Emilie Autumn. I’m not sure how many of you will notice, but this six-sentence story, like many of my others, has been inspired by her music. Perhaps there's also notes of an old love buried deep within me, too.
Rules of the hop:
Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less.
Use the current week’s prompt word.
PROMPT WORD: BOOKMARK
Others' Stories can be read here. A few days later I noticed I forgot to add a link... Am sorry, it is here now.
All of my Sixes can be found here.
the Wonderful Blog I found the challenge from: our amazing GirlieOnTheEdge.
Six-Sentence Story - Dead Poet
The smell of cinnamon in the room, a burnt candle on the bedside table, an empty bottle of Shiraz on the floor beside the ivory bed, and finally... a lady clutching onto a tattered book while tangled in her silken sheets with a tear running down her cheek.
It was almost as if she had fallen in love with the dead poet himself and every breeze through the drapes felt as if he was mocking her in her misery, for that is how comforting she had pictured his touch to be.
Oh, such was the life she led, scribbling sweet nothings into a notebook with her muse unknown to her readers and preaching her undying love and longing for a man who had lived in another century.
It was as if irony had a role in her life, for she never wed or bore any children, other than the books she spawned out one after another in her lifetime and it just happened so, that a young boy had found one on his grandmothers' shelf and snatched it for himself.
What made him do so, he still can not tell, for he didn't read it long after his bubbie had passed and a bookmark had caught his attention as he was packing his belongings for a move and the words of our lady struck his heart as he read them out loud with the breeze passing through his windows making the hair on his body stand.
And perhaps... this is how the poets are made.
‘The smell of cinnamon in the room, a burnt candle on the bedside table, an empty bottle of Shiraz on the floor beside the ivory bed, and finally… a lady clutching onto a tattered book while tangled in her silken sheets with a tear running down her cheek.’ Great opening.
Thank you! 🙂
Indeed, perhaps it is how poets are made.
Or maybe this is just one of many ways to grow a poet.
Bra-va! *audience clapping subsides*
Such a sensory laden opening sentence that flows into an emotional, poignant story of an impossible, never to be requited love.
Beautiful Six and awesome audio reading of it.
Thank you so much, if it wasn’t for your blog I wouldn’t be writing these, so thank you too!
Interesting view of poets and their nascence, and nicely read too.
Thank you! The moment one of my favorite short-story writers comments on my story!!! Runs off screeching in fangirl*
Not sure to focus my compliment on the visual aspect or the final-sink-of-the-hook ending.
what the heck, both were the best part of this Six.
Thank you so much Clark! I am so happy you liked it! The comment did bring a huge smile across my face as I read it while at work. Thank you again!
The opening sentence is captivating and sets the scene for a truly touching tale.
Thank you so much!
What she wrote influenced the younger generations. I suppose that could be for good or bad. In this case it may have been good.
I hope so, that he will write some lovely poetry for his muse and that could be read by younger generations to come, maybe even hundreds of years later, and he too… Will be loved.
It is that one insight which makes a poet, not necessarily a moment.
I personally think it could be a bit of both, a moment in which one’s soul was touched perhaps.
I believe you’re on to something. So much of poetry is inspired by tragic and lonely reflection. This Six made me think.
Yes, I have pondered on so many sleepless nights, where does the poetry derive from, but it made my head ache so… Let’s just keep writing.
I remember telling you, not long ago, of the Victorian aura you create – among other creations…
Emilie Autumn…The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls…Chaccone…see where I am gettin’ at?
Your Six…let me echo what Doug, Mimi, Clark & Denise voiced.
Laced or Unlaced.
Hehe, yes, I do remember that, and truthfully I never noticed it before your comment myself… but the last two… Might have been a little intentional. Yes, Our dear Emilie, I have been loving her music since I was a young lady in turmoil, covering her songs while alone, she is truly so lovely. Shamefully, I haven’t read the book itself, only what she has read on her albums… Perhaps I should change that. And I love the unlaced part for writing music… Sometimes I can not seem to concentrate without the music. Ahh… Chaconne.
Thank you! I am glad you liked my six.
A beautiful, poetic story. The opening sentence has such rich imagery. And she may not have had children, but she certainly gave birth to creativity in at least one other, it would seem…
Lovely reading too.
Truly captivating wording, took me right to century old sweet dusty room.
Great reading – made me wish for a longer story then only 6 sentences
Aww, thank you so much. I do have some longer stories coming up in the next few months :)… wink* wink*
Beautiful, sensual write, and I’m sure that’s it, how poets are made!