Writer’s Paradise

Last night, a writer died, and when she awoke, she sat atop the brilliant pages of all her manuscripts, fluffy clouds of wise words that formed a seaside port. The icy waters of her more questionable works held an even-keeled boat ready to set sail into the unknown storms of imagination were the masks we wear become our faces.

Her guardian muse was there to great her with quills for wings and a glass of apple brandy. She had been putting feathers in the writer’s hat for many years. And in each others eyes, they were blemishless.

“What shall we design today?” she teased, handing the writer her pour.

She surveyed the scenery. “Whatever lurks in the street of the sky.”

“Night walks scattering poems,” was her muses ominous reply, and so they emptied the decanter together and waited for the distilled drops to hit them.

Linda Lee Lyberg is today’s host for dVerse’ Monday Prosery. 144 words or less that tells a story and includes this last line of poetry by E.E. Cummings’ poem “IX-Impressions” published in 1996.

In the street of the sky night walks scattering poems


    • Thank you so much, John. I said I wasn’t going to write today after my night class, but when I saw the prompt, I remembered this image I had saved a while back and labeled writer’s paradise. It was meant to be, I suppose. 💜

      Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you. There’s so much of it, I can’t imagine how they would have gotten rid of it. Sorry I didn’t see this lovely comment last write. I appreciate you connecting with this piece.
      Cheers to more inky words.


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