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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write. Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground. Kiya's gift. I love it!
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Kathleen-613's creation for my blog

"Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself."
CHARLIE CHAPLIN


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Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.

David Whyte


Marci's gift sig










This is my supplementary blog in which I will post entries written for prompts.

December 2, 2017 at 6:41pm
December 2, 2017 at 6:41pm
#924829
Prompt: Creation Saturday--- Scribbled on the back of a bookmark, she read the most interesting thing...

=====================

The words, The vexing part of the matter is that I am a Martian, was scribbled on the back of the bookmark that she found on the windowsill at the library. Was anyone playing a practical joke on her?

She saw nobody around where she stood. The other people were reading books and magazines in the sitting area. There were only two little girls at a computer and the three librarians at the front desk.

Whatever it was, she had no business tiring her brain over. She tried to put the bookmark back on the windowsill, but she couldn’t because the bookmark now stuck to her hand. She shook her hand, tried to rip it apart with her other hand, spit on it thinking that the liquid would dislodge it somehow, but to no avail. The bookmark was stuck inside her palm and was making its way under her skin.

She ran to the front desk and showed her hand to the librarians. “How lovely,” one of them said. “You have one of our bookmarks tattooed on top of your hand and inside your palm. Which tattoo artist do you use? My brother would love to visit him.” She looked at her hand and screamed and ran out of the library. By this time, the so-called tattoo had sneaked from her hand to her arm between the elbow and the hand.

“Don’t act so crazy,” said someone with a squeaky voice, but she didn’t spot anyone around her. “It is me, Silly! Your Martian. Don’t worry, I’ll stop at your upper arm to get a better view of your world.”

“Please leave me alone,” she whispered.

“Hey, Lady, you picked me up. I didn’t ask you to, did I? I may have tricked your mind a bit, but still, you are the one who took me from my perch inside the window. So, live with it.”

Well, she can’t have her arm amputated, can she? Maybe now, she can use this Martian in some way since he knows tricks alien to her and her world. After all, didn’t Marcus Aurelius say, “Accept the things to which fate binds you”?



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