Your word prompt this week is
SMALL
When I think about the word small, I can think about it negatively – small-minded people or people making you feel small. But I prefer to associate it with wonderful, positive connotations, such as taking pleasure in the small things or achieving small victories. What does it mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt VOICE.
Deep Voice
I am being visited by words.
Some come from the world
immediately around me.
Travel, experience.
Some come from my grandmother.
I listen to their shadows.
The voice of my mother
echoes from the center of our house.
Poems of the body,
where do you come from?
Books,
Sunday School
and Saturday night movies,
all equally determining
my voice.
Some fade away
but remain backseat drivers
as one after another takes control.
Nothing ever lost.
Given voice choice words are sending
blessings, curses. Hearts are rending
or uplifted. May true mending
words come speedily.
The place where silence had a voice
Where one hears the quiet by choice
Look at the keyhole and one froze
Swaying rejoice, swaying rejoice
Phantoms of the past all creeping
Menace of pain when sleeping
Time for crying or for cheering
Welter feeling, welter feeling
Rope of hope against a calm sea
Silhouettes of birds as they flee
The sun winking and full of glee
Along the quay, along the quay*
* Monotetra
My brain goes blank from time to time. It stops thinking, and I sit there looking for my thoughts, unable to find them. This feeling is frustrating. I want to blame this on my TBI. You say that was years ago, why bring that up now? Well, I bring it up because every day, every minute, I have to face it. My traumatic Brain Injury did not go away. I will learn every day for the rest of my life how to navigate through life with a TBI. Yes, I get angry at times, I get sad, I feel sorry for myself, but in the end of all those stages, I find my voice, and it’s beautiful. This voice I have now may cry and want to hide, at times, but in the end it picks itself up, looks my TBI in its face and says. Try me. You can’t define me, though. I still have a beautiful life.
Pensitivity101:
A little bit of whimsy from me and memories of the boat.
There were a lot of ducks on the marina and it amused many of the boaters that I had names for quite a few of them.
They all had a different voice pattern, and so we had Laughing Duck, the one that always seemed to know the punchline of any joke before it was voiced.
Then we had Rooster Duck, the smart alec of water fowl who would voice his vocals in the early hours like an alarm clock.
Lonely Duck made one of our berth mates sad each time he saw him because he was always on his own, letting out a single quack as he passed.
The above were our migrant three, a trio of white ducks that suddenly appeared from nowhere and stayed in our basin for many months. Sadly, one was found dead in the water one morning, and the two others were totally silent in their loss, moving away as quietly as they had arrived a few days afterwards.
Nick had finally found his voice. No, not the one he spoke with, but the one that he had been searching for every time he sat down in front of his laptop and was faced with a blank page on the screen.
He had been blogging for about four years now and his focus was flash fiction, short tales between 100 to 400 words. At first, his stories were clumsy and borrowed. Too grand, too dry, too desperate to impress. But over time, he felt that his writing voice had settled into something cool and steady, laced with a quiet edge.
Nick wrote a short story about a man unraveling inside a pristine apartment, where every surface was clean but nothing felt safe. The post was spare, sharp, and unsettling and he submitted it to an online literary journal that picked it up. The editor praised Nick’s voice, calling it “controlled and intimate, like hearing secrets through a locked door.”
Nick was thrilled and let the praise wash over him. Until late one afternoon a few days later when he got the message.
“You lifted this from me. I wrote that exact story, word-for-word, in a seminar nine years ago. I have the file to prove it.”
Nick’s hands hovered over the keyboard, a chill running down his spine. He couldn’t remember ever reading it.
But maybe he had.
Or maybe the voice had come from somewhere else entirely, something buried, not just in memory, but deeper.
He opened a new document.
And as his fingers hovered above the keys, the voice whispered again. This time, it didn’t sound like his at all.
Her voice was gone from screaming for help. Please find me she now repeated over and over in her mind.
“You okay?” The question reached out from the blackness. Her heart raced.
“Don’t try to talk. I’ll get to you. Stay calm.”
The EMT zipped the bag. “Her heart gave out.” We were too late.”
“Didn’t she know that all she had to do was open her door and walk out?”
“Maybe she was confused. Who knows? Poor thing.”
True voice
a thought unspoken
like mist inside a bubble
smothering her mind
the jagged edges hidden
until she finds her true voice
The Log, a newspaper for the Navy mid-shipmen took delectation in announcing the schedule for the college football season starting next month. Knowing they had little if any chance of landing a bowl game, their voice would ring out across the armed forces network letting Army know when the time came for them to face off, the midshipmen would be a force to be reckoned with.
Essence
i will let my heart shine bright,
in every kind word that i speak,
in every gentle touch i offer—
for the world may never see
the soul that lives within me.
i will let my voice rise strong,
carrying truths beyond your sight,
beyond what you can grasp,
to reveal the essence of my soul.
i will let you feel a love
beyond what words can ever say,
beyond what your eyes can see,
a love that lives in endless sway.
My Voice
My voice is like a cement mixer
spinning in a frantic dance,
one moment rough then velvety,
the next, a wobbly trance.
It tries to sound all confident,
but trips over every word,
like a ferret on a caffeine high,
its true self is never heard.
Some days it’s low and sultry,
other times, a high-pitched squeal,
but I don’t care what people think
that’s just the way I feel.
So I’ll still keep on talking,
like a Jabberwocky on speed,
yes – a symphony of weirdness
’cause I know it’s what people need!
When singing away at his everyday tasks
it was noted what a lovely voice he had
he did a bit of singing in the church choir
and had performed at school
but never professionally
The recording machine
did a bit of a number
on our voice of an angel
sounding no more alto or bass
but more cyber and android
Where a few unspoken words soothe the soul more than meaningless long talks.
Where comfort comes from speaking eyes before words do the talking.
Where a warm hug conveys more than endless conversations.
Where love flows regardless of any conditions.
Where silence is understood better than sugar coated words.
I wish to swim along with such souls even if few, rather than drowning in the cacophony of masses.
Don’t you too?
Pop over to iMartist for an audio response to the prompt.
The Voices You Hear
Breathing softly, coming near
Listen closely, you will hear
Voices of those we hold dear
Whisper, whisper in your ear
Spirits who love you, nothing to fear
Ghostly words from sacred bier
Into our hearts, oh so clear
Whispers surround us
In the atmosphere
A number of years ago I was asked to sing for a special Mass at our church: the now late Cardinal Egan of the NY Archdiocese was going to be officiating. The piece that was selected for me to sing was short and simple … just ten words all sung on one note, in response to a verse from the first reading. I’d sung that line a hundred times before and could do it in my sleep.
Ten words, one note, easy.
The day of the Mass arrived; the church was packed with all sorts of bigwigs from the archdiocese as well as a TV crew from Catholic New York. The choir looked resplendent in robes of blue and gold and I was hell bent for leather.
Ten words, one note. I got this.
Fifteen minutes into the Mass and it was time for the response. The organist played the intro, nodded at me to begin and I opened my mouth to sing. Now, let me just say if I had choked and nothing came out of my mouth, it would have been preferable to what did come out … the scratchy squeak of a rusted out fan belt! What happened to my voice? I, a mature, confident, talented woman, had suddenly been transformed into Alfalfa from the Little Rascals!
Ten words, one note, Alfalfa.
My fellow choir members averted their eyes and I couldn’t blame them. To say I was stunned and mortified was an understatement. I just sort of slunk down into my chair and hid behind my music binder. Why is there never a rock to crawl under when you need one?
Ten words, one note, screech.
I was so damn sure of myself; this was supposed to be a piece of cake. I was ready. Did I didn’t clear my throat, drink some water or vocalize before the Mass? Nope, I just plunged into the deep end of the pool head first. Next time I want to make a big splash, I better be sure there’s water in the pool.
Ten words, one note, the end.
Do I remember how I was conceived in my mother’s womb? How I squirmed out of that dark, suffocating, slender passageway to create my own narrative?
But I do remember as a kid if anyone asked me my name I would unnecessarily keep concentrating on my twirling big toe and refrain from replying.
Sis said I was unsmart.
It would take a number of under breath rehearsals to go ask the shopkeeper in the corner of the gully what mother needed.
In contrast, sometimes I would just plunge into unlikely conversations with strangers,”Hey! Aren’t you so and so?” Surprising them as well as my own self.
Many hiccups and downfalls later I learnt to be articulate, at times, to my own detriment. But oh! What peace! I said what I wanted to.
It was too loud sometimes. Too overbearing for others. Too uncomfortable for the Authorities. Too embarrassing to my own self. But there I was. Unstoppable. Incorrigible. Undiplomatic. Too straightforward. Too upfront. Too inconvenient. A misfit.
Now mellowed by age I seek solace in silence. Another kind of voice inside judges me , my mistakes, my wrong doings, my incompetencies, without giving me a single another chance to turn back the clock and find my voice at the opportune moment.
I resign to voicelessness. A wordless bickering that goes on in the mind incessantly I wish to not listen.
The fetal pose.
This damn urgency to Forget and Forgive.
Myself.
She crinched when the recording was played back to her. She hated to hear her own voice. It sounded so … What was the best word to describe the timbre? Maybe hollow, unpleasant and embarassingly high pitched when she giggled.
The others did not seem to be surprised. The sound engineer gave her thumbs up. She had just brought to life the new 3D character of the show: Creepella, a hairy spider always on the lookout for fat flies or shy men to get stuck in her web. She voiced the greedy killer and number one enemy of the star – a dance company waspgirl.
“Perfect fit! Everybody will hate Creepella!” the author of the story sounded delighted and winked at her when she left the studio and went to her locker.
“Well, that’s not so hard,” she thought. “I hate spiders, too. But until now, I did not associate my own voice with one of these crawly things!”
I’ve never been one for blowing my own trumpet, not that there’s ever been much to blow my trumpet about.
The only subjects I was any good at at school were English and French.
Over fifty years later I can say another two things I’m good at; writing , (no surprise there), and singing.
So why does my family think my singing is something to joke about, to tease me about?
I often perform at care homes, something that gives me great pleasure as well as the residents, yet I get comments like ‘ They’re probably half asleep anyway.’ I consider that an insult to them as well as me. Seeing their faces light up, singing along, often with tears in their eyes, I know I’ve done something worthwhile.
It’s more than ‘ Val’s little hobby’ ; I have private lessons and have passed Grades 2 and 3 ABRSM exams with merit, now getting ready for Grade 4.
And later this year , I am making my opera debut, in the chorus of ‘The Marriage of Figaro’.
I have suffered from anxiety, but when I sing, I’m in another world, worries forgotten. Same goes with pain, when you’re singing, you don’t think about anything else.
My grandson asked my husband once, ‘Why is nanny always singing?’
I’ve told him it’s good for your endolphins!
He is right, I am always singing, anywhere and everywhere.
Every year we go to Majorca with my brother and my cousin, and I drive everybody mad singing along in the car to whatever’s on the playlist.
Singing has changed my life, no matter what anyone else thinks.
In my sixties, I have finally found my voice.
***
Esther Chilton 
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