…On Poetry and Fiction – “Voices” and “Rosalie and Michael (One Special Day)”

http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/      

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

 

 

The following is an excerpt from my second novel (ebook), titled “Voices” – a work of contemporary fiction (mystery, suspense, romance); with an accompanying love poem, titled and connected to two main characters,  “Rosalie and Michael (One Special Day)”. (Creating a relatable poem directly connected to your work of fiction, is simply a summarization of your work with a twist of emotion through a symphony of words.)                                              

…Michael, sensing a deep mournfulness in the air by the heaviness of his conversation with Rosalie, chose to change the subject.  So he blurted out, “Well open your mail!  Edgar and I went out of our way to get it for you.”  Rosalie smiled and proceeded to open the white envelope… she took a look at the return address and noticed that it was from one of her publishers.  As she read in silence, Michael studied her face for the smallest clue as to what was in that letter.  After another minute of silence, Rosalie jumped to her feet and said, “They want to meet with me Michael!  They like the manuscript on my last submission – the mystery novel!  The one about the two friends who lived in the Victorian mansion!  My God, they want to discuss the manuscript with me!”  Michael responded, “You go girl!”  Then he lifted Rosalie up in his arms and twirled her around the living room as if they were dancing.  They were laughing like children, overjoyed at Rosalie’s success.   Edgar joined in too by jumping up and down, circling around and in between Rosalie and Michael, wagging his tail uncontrollably.  Edgar had no idea what they were so happy about, but he was thrilled to share this moment with them.  When they decided it was time to settle down, they breathlessly plopped themselves on the sofa and wallowed in Rosalie’s newfound bliss.  Rosalie was ecstatic, Michael was proud, and sweet Edgar ran off to sleep…Michael went into the kitchen and grabbed two champagne glasses, then walked over to the pantry and took out a bottle of sparkling wine.  He popped the cork, poured the wine, and shared this moment of love and success with Rosalie.  Their eyes were beaming and their hearts were pounding as they tapped their glasses together, sipping their wine in merriment. 

While sharing this moment, Rosalie suggested to Michael that if her book sells, maybe they should consider moving into a larger apartment in the city.  They both adored Greenwich Village…Michael loved the idea.  He commented that with her success on mystery novels and his success with children’s books, he can’t imagine them not taking the opportunity to start a new life with Edgar in the Village.  The city is just waiting for them, and they would fit in so well with the “artsy” types; and Edgar would make friends with all the “artsy” dogs.  They both shared a laugh.  Then Michael grabbed Rosalie’s hand and said, “Seriously though Rosalie, let’s not get ahead of ourselves now.  One step at a time.  I love the idea, but we have to take this one step at a time.”  Rosalie jumped into Michael’s lap and said, “We can dream and we can plan, can’t we Michael?”  Michael responded, “Of course we can.  That will be our dream and that will be our plan Rosalie.”  So again they tapped their glasses and sipped more wine in merriment.

…Then Rosalie had another brainstorm to share with Michael.  She suggested that they both put their heads together, share their thoughts and write a novel.  Michael listened curiously as Rosalie continued.  Rosalie thought they should turn their ordeal about Maria and the cellar into a mystery novel and call it “Voices”.   She added that it would be fiction based on real life events, which they experienced during this tragic episode in their lives.  She went on to say that it would be their project, and their story, and they could tell it honestly and respectfully. 

At first Michael thought that reliving those horrible events that Rosalie had to endure, all over again in order to write this novel, might not be the best thing for Rosalie.  Rosalie responded that it would be the best thing ever.  It would be the best therapy ever.  She explained that writing is her passion, and what better way to heal than to put it all down on paper – with Michael by her side.   She said, “You’re a writer Michael.  You should understand that better than anyone.  We write from experience.”   Michael just shook his head and said, “You’re a brave woman Rosalie, and an awesome writer.  Yes, we can do this together.  It will be my honor…Now let’s seal this perfect plan, together, in the comfort of ‘our’ room before little Edgar wakes up.” 

Rosalie wrapped her legs around Michael, as he carried her off to his bedroom, where they would define their dreams, plan their future, and create new and wonderful memories while frolicking under the pale blue bed sheets on Michael’s bed.  They would find themselves making passionate love in an endless tale that would soon become their life story. 

Rosalie and Michael (One Special Day)

As Winter snow settles upon my windowsill

and Spring showers caress my face        

As Summer sun ignites my spirit

and Autumn breezes whisper tales of love

As swaying trees whisper to the winds

and frolic in the clear, crisp air

I will hear Mother Nature’s voice,

as she wisely speaks to me

(It is then that I will listen

and forever think of you)

I’ll know God placed you on this earth

            so our paths may cross but once

And the birds and butterflies will dance for us

            in sunshine and in clouds

The children will laugh with innocence

The elders will stroll with joy

I will hear God’s voice in the shadows,

            as he wisely speaks to me

(It is then that I will listen

           and forever think of you)

Since all will be well within my world

           Where peace and love wear smiles

I will accept the gift allowed me

            and embrace the signs of you

Because today we will get to share

one gift that has a voice

A gift that wisely speaks to us,

So elegantly wrapped for two -

Hidden in a blessing, on this “One Special Day”  –

(It is then that I will listen

            and forever think of you)

Authors Note (For Spillwords) – Fiction and Poetry go hand in hand. Any work of fiction can be connected/accentuated by a poem of similar theme and emotion. Hopefully, that is what this piece has accomplished.

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT (A Poem written by Phyllis P. Colucci) (Christmas 2017)

CHRISTMAS 2017 - SHARE THE BLESSINGS

CHRISTMAS 2017 - HAVE A MERRY AND A HAPPY!!!

http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/   

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT

(A Poem written by Phyllis P. Colucci
  -    Spillwords Press)

The Christmas Spirit! Can you hear it?

The Christmas Spirit! Can you see it?

The Christmas Spirit! Can you feel it?

You can hear it in the laughter of the children, in the snow

You can see it on the faces of the shoppers, all aglow

You can feel it through the shadows of the Yuletide, long ago

The sights and sounds of merriment bring mounds of Christmas cheer

The smells of scented pine cones travel far and near

Roasted chestnuts on New York corners crackle every year

As the Christmas Spirit lights the season while it visits here

Large wreaths adorn huge wooden doors of churches along the way

And nativities remind us of his birth on Christmas Day

His love will live within our hearts as we speak to him, and pray

In hopes the Christmas Spirit can settle where it may

The earth lies calm beneath the stars, while the heavens sing with joy

Special blessings come like fallen snow for every girl and boy

And the children dream with innocence of “that” one special toy

While God works wonders in their lives, in spiritual deploy

The spirit touches all of us with hands of purest gold

Our souls enriched and made anew; yes, both the young and old

Through melody and sacred hymn, we invite the truth be told

So the wings of Christmas Spirit may awaken and unfold

Embrace the magic of the light that transforms darkness – oh so bright

The birds, the deer, the snow so white,

                greet the spirit through day, through night

Recognize that Christmas speaks through metaphor and essence,

                projecting sacred images of spiritual presence

So can you hear it, can you see it, can you feel it too?

Just be aware of echoes - from the spirit within me and you.

A  Note From the Author: The Christmas Spirit "speaks through metaphor and essence, 

projecting sacred images of spiritual presence".   - We must recognize the signs of Christmas and the true meaning of the season. When the Spirit of Christmas comes knocking, seize the opportunity and allow it into your home, and into your life. Share the blessings.
If you've never experienced Christmas in New York, you must ! ! ! MERRY CHRISTMAS ! ! !

...On Poetry and Fiction - "The Waltz of Ghouls" (Insomnia)

http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/      

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

 

            “Insomnia” is a presence that slips into bed with you without your permission. It gets under the covers, steals your pillow, rests its nasty head upon your shoulder, and lays itself down beside you – and there is not one darn thing you can do about it! You twist and turn, sit up at the edge of the bed, pace the room, and gaze out your window – yet it’s still there following you and standing next to you every step of the way. “Insomnia” stalks you, terrorizes you, and doesn’t give up.

            One night I decided to embrace “Insomnia”. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was there. I introduced myself with tired eyes and a half-smile, then moved closer to the far right of my bed and just let “Insomnia” sleep to the left. I felt its heartbeat, sensed its touch, and smelled its wicked scent. How ironic, I thought. “Insomnia” gets to sleep in my bed, while it keeps me up all night. So I decided to talk to it. I told it stories about my day, and tried to add some humor to my words. I thought the conversation would help put “Insomnia” to sleep and, perhaps, allow me to fall asleep as well. It didn’t work, however.

I knew “Insomnia” was listening, but it didn’t respond. It didn’t even laugh at my jokes. I came to the realization that “Insomnia” was far from friendly, which is something I knew all along; so why waste  time trying to befriend it. It’s just a lonely, malicious foe, looking for a place to hang out. So I let it stay in my bed, while I got up and walked over to my laptop and wrote a poem all about “Insomnia”. I named the poem “The Waltz of Ghouls”, since it’s actually a bizarre dance that occurs in everyone’s bedroom, at the darkest hour, forcing you to stay awake.

Once the poem was completed, “Insomnia” magically disappeared from my bed, and I got under the covers and fell fast asleep. I present to you, my friends, “The Waltz of Ghouls”:

THE WALTZ OF GHOULS

Have you known the torment from the darkest hours of the night?

                Where wicked, whirling skeletons dance ‘til morning light?

                                Their shadows breathe quite heavily

                                                as they tip-toe ‘cross your bed

                                                ascending to the ceiling…drifting overhead

Their melancholy hissing echoes in your ears

                Tapping at your heart, rousing all your fears

                                Blanketing your weary soul with rash, undaunted fury

                                                raping all your virtues

                                                playing judge and jury

The Waltz of Ghouls has just begun at this haunting hour

                For there is no refuge – nocturnal demons are in power!

You may close your eyes to their performance and force the curtain down

                yet your soul will dwell amongst them

                                they will offer you the Crown   

A Queen they seek to rule their haven as they gather where they may

But No!  This shall not happen while you turn and look away

                …the dark is gone!  The light has come!

                …now they are lost in “day”

…On Poetry and Fiction (Dialogue-Only Writing Style)

http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

            With this article, I’d like to discuss the “Dialogue-Only” writing style. Dialogue between characters can take place in a short story, novella, novel, or even poetry. It’s simply conversation between two or more characters with little or no narrative. In fiction, it can invite you to participate in the storyline; In poetry, it can take your heart on emotional journeys deeper than the words themselves.

       

            One of the first ebooks (novel) I ever attempted to write, titled "The Hand She Dealt to Me", actually ended up being a work of fiction written totally in "dialogue-only" style. I didn't realize the direction I was going in until I was half way or better, towards completion of the novel. That's when I stopped and questioned myself as to what the heck I was doing. With all the work and effort that I had already invested in this work of fiction, I decided to ride it out and continue on this path until I reached the end of my story. To my amazement, I was fully engrossed in the characters, the storyline, the twists and turns in the plot, the climax, and finally the ending. I surprised myself when I went back and read/proofread the entire novel. The reason being was that I also felt a much deeper connection to the characters - who they were, how they spoke, what they desired. I knew them. I knew them all and I knew them well. I felt their pain, joy, troubles, love, happiness, sadness, losses and triumphs. I no longer recognized if they were speaking through me or if I was speaking through them. Something different was happening here. It was a magical connection and a magical transformation between writer and characters.

       I actually felt a sense of accomplishment after using this style of writing. As a writer, I soon discovered that a “dialogue-only” writing style may possibly take a reader deeper into the minds and personalities of each character. The reader may find themselves seated inside the story, while the action and conversation happened in front of them, behind them, to the side of them, or all around them. It would be like reading a story in 3D. Much similar to reading a play, but more like watching a movie since this style offers the reader more depth, imagination and interaction.

      However, since this was a style I was not familiar with, both as a reader and as a writer, I decided to research the style to see if other authors attempted this. To my surprise, I found a bit of information out there which helped me come to terms with the fact that I had chosen a unique writing style - and was setting myself up for some serious criticism.  Through internet search, I came across the following article on “Dialogue-Only” writing style (at The Rumpus.net) by a young writer named Alexander Kalamaroff, August 9th, 2014, which was quite interesting:

“The dialogue novel is a unique creature. In it the conversations among characters are the primary or only means of narrative advancement—so the initial experience might be similar to reading a play or movie script, where we’re tasked to mentally dramatize what we’re reading. But the dialogue novel is intriguing because it is not meant for stage or screen. And compared to its compatriot, the monologue novel—which has a substantial history shaped by Dostoevsky, Nabokov, and W.G. Sebald, to name only three masters of that form—the dialogue novel is quite rare. While they can be challenging to read, dialogue-dominated narratives create amazing opportunities for philosophical inquiry, stylistic originality, and stunning creativity that are surely worth exploring.”

      ...So, in my opinion, readers either love the style or hate it. Some of my critics felt confused in keeping up with the dialogue, the characters, and who was speaking at the time. Others enjoyed it thoroughly, according to verbal and written reviews. I made it a point to use the characters' names quite frequently in order to identify the speakers so  readers could follow easily. I also made an effort to use separate paragraphs for each speaker. It seemed to flow smoothly for me.  However, I was the creator of this work of fiction. I owned it, I controlled it, I brought it to life. Of course it would run smoothly for me as I read it. So knowing that this work of fiction could somehow prove to be challenging to a reader, it's out there living amongst the many books on the Amazon market, waiting to be purchased by someone who wants to be challenged. Yes, it reads like a play, but feels like a movie. You may find yourself in the middle of the action, with a sudden urge to reach out to the characters. You will want to touch them, talk with them, laugh with them, cry with them, accompany them on their journeys; eat with them, drink with them, and whatever else tickles your fancy.

       You may be pleasantly surprised by this writing style, while enjoying a wonderful journey, with twists and turns that may place you so deep into the story that the only way out is to remain there until the very end. Ha! So if you are brave enough as a reader to be challenged by the experience, try a “dialogue-only” novel at some point. I can honestly say it’s not for everyone, but it’s definitely for someone.

      You decide - Here is a sample of that writing style from my first ebook; a novel titled “The Hand She Dealt to Me”:

      Oh Carla.  I didn’t mention a word of this to Steven or Julia last night.  Mike was over for dinner also, so I tried to forget about Amira the Fortune Teller and just be myself.  I had a really hard time doing that last night.  Steven thought I wasn’t feeling well.  I convinced him I was just a bit tired; that I did lots of walking during the day.  But I was haunted by her.  It all started yesterday while I was sitting on a park bench.  She approached me out of nowhere and asked me where I got my cappuccino, because she noticed the cup said “Café Bianca”.  She asked to sit down to chat, and I said sure.  She seemed pleasant enough.  I didn’t want to be rude.  She had a very heavy accent.   She’s from the Middle East, Lebanon I recall her saying, but she was living in Pennsylvania for many years with her parents.  She later married a gentleman she met in Pennsylvania, who was also from Lebanon.  Anyway, after her parents died, she and her husband divorced, “American-style” as she put it.  I got a chuckle out of that.  I found it amusing since she’s a foreigner.  It’s so funny how foreigners look at the “American” way of life.   They even have a name for everything we do here, good or bad  – “American-style”.   I don’t know if she was serious or just being sarcastic, but it was kind of funny to hear, especially with her accent.   Anyway, her husband went back to Lebanon.   She also told me she was very sad because she learned she couldn’t have children.  I felt so bad to hear that, because the pain on her face really got to me.  Anyway, I guess at that point she fulfilled her desire to come to New York and start a business.    She gave me her card and invited me to her shop.   I noticed on the card that this shop she was talking about was called “Amira’s Mystic Fortunes”.  I then realized she was a Fortune Teller.  Of all the people to run into.  Anyway, she claimed she was pretty new to the area and that I was one of the few people she had a chance to sit and chat with.   I was really taken aback by this.  It felt weird, like she purposely singled me out.  She looked me straight in the eye and said she sees I have some family issues going on and that I have an aura around me that shows I’m very concerned about my life.   She wants me to go see her.  She wants to give me a free tarot reading.  She wants to help me.   I told her that I don’t believe in that stuff.  I’m Catholic.  What’s even more ironic is that she told me that she’s Catholic too.  I thought she was Muslim, coming from the Middle East and all.  But she said there are many Catholics in Lebanon.  So we chatted a bit more about our families, then  - all of a sudden - Gary appeared out of nowhere.  So I used him as an excuse to get up and get away from her.  But wouldn’t you know it, as I walked home later on, I ran smack into her shop.  She was sitting outside.  I tried to avoid her, but she called out to me.  She truly wants me to visit her shop for a free reading.   She said she has some gifts for me.  A good luck crystal, some scented candles.  It’s like she is drawing me to her… Oh yes please, I’ll have two eggs over well and turkey bacon on the side.  Whole wheat toast, no butter.   Thanks. 

      I’ll have my eggs scrambled with rye toast and Canadian bacon, thank you… Okay, so Lia - just avoid her shop.  Throw out the card.  What’s the big deal?  I don’t understand why this is upsetting you so much that you couldn’t wait to tell me.  You don’t have any serious problems in your family other than the normal everyday issues we all deal with.  Everybody has family issues.  Come on now.  She’s not telling you anything out of the ordinary.   Steven is doing well at the pharmacy.  Julia is pursuing an acting career.  She has a really nice boyfriend.  You and Steven get along so well.  What is the problem here?  If anything, I would think you have a pretty good life Lia.  Forget about this “aura” she sees around you.  This is what these people do.  They get you to question yourself and your family so that you turn to them for guidance, while they take your money.  You know this Lia.  I don’t have to explain this.  You’ll see, that shop will close up in a few months and all of this will mean nothing.  That’s always what happens sweetie.  These fortune tellers move on and set up shop in some other place – after they’ve taken your money and practically your soul. 

      I know Carla.  I realize all of that.  Don’t you think I’ve gone over this in my head.  I was up all night playing this over and over, like a tape recorder.  

      Don’t you see Lia.  She already has you in her grip.  She kept you up all night with this!  It disrupted your sleep already?  That’s a problem waiting to happen.

     

     But Carla, you had to see her.  She is strikingly beautiful.  She had this strong presence about her.  An unusual and very strange magnetism.    You just had to be there.  You can feel it just being in her presence.  There is something about her I can’t explain.  You just had to be there.  She had long auburn hair, tied back with a gold silk scarf.  The scarf had sparkling rhinestones throughout.  It was gorgeous.  Her eyes were big and bright and so alive.  They were golden brown  like a  lioness,  outlined by very dark lashes.  They were mesmerizing.  They were piercing.    She was just absolutely gorgeous.   She had an olive complexion and she wore a subdued berry color lipstick.  She was about five feet four inches, medium build.  Other than that, she wore very little makeup.  In her ears were these very large gold hoop earrings with an intricate design in them; and she had half her arm adorned with colorful bracelets that jingled every time she moved.  You know how gypsies dress?  Well that’s how she looked, if that gives you a better idea.  I think all fortune tellers dress like that, so I think you get the picture.  Anyway, she had on an ankle length dress which had every color of the rainbow in it; brightly woven into vertical stripes that shimmered a bit. Very pretty.  Her boots were black with these really pointy toes.  Her shawl was a dark red and it was tied in the front with a big knot near her upper chest.  She just had this air about her.  I loved listening to her speak, with that very pronounced Middle Eastern accent.  She was just very persistent with me, but pleasant.  It seemed as if she could make a statement by just looking at you without exchanging words.  She had a special power that could draw you in, lure you in.  You really had to see her in person Carla.  Even her perfume filled the air.  It was like nothing I ever smelled before.  It was a mix of herbs and flowers, with a hint of fruit.  There was a bit of cucumber in the mix.  A very strange aroma.

     Lia. Stop it! You sound hypnotized by this woman.  How much time did you spend with her that you can describe her in such detail? You studied her to perfection.  From her head to her toes.  You’re not going to see her are you?  Give me that card.  I’m going to get rid of it.  This is nonsense sweetie.  You know what I really think?  You quit your job at the library too soon, not long after Steven opened up Roma Pharmacy.  I think you need to fill your day with more constructive things.  Now I’m happy for you.  Steven is doing well with the pharmacy, and that’s great.  You don’t have to work anymore. Terrific. But maybe all of this free time is not very good for your well-being. Maybe you need to get back into the workforce. Go back to the library. It’s only a few hours a day. I think it will be good for you.

"Tricks" and "Treats" on Halloween Night (Spillwords Press: Halloween 2017 Submission)

http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/      

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

                                  

The wind howled, the pelting rain charged at my windows, and the swaying trees danced in the darkness beneath the full moon. If this was any other night, it would have been okay. Tonight, however, it was Halloween and I was alone in the house. The lights flickered, the floors creaked, and ghostly shadows crawled up and down the walls of my living room, eyeing me from the ceiling.  My house suddenly transformed itself into an eerie dwelling for all creatures of the night. They slipped in through my windows, through my skylight, under doors and through my mind. They settled in, took control, and moved about as invited guests. To me they were unwanted intruders and I was their hostage.

As they continued to roam like gloomy silhouettes, brushing past the mirrors in the room, I snuck into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea. Thankfully, they didn’t follow me. While they made themselves at home in my living room, I sipped my tea. I sipped away time in the kitchen, minute by minute, with every swallow. There was something about tea that always calmed me down. Especially when I drank it from one of Mom’s dainty vintage teacups, adorned with hand-painted roses. -  Ugh! The dainty little teacup did not work in my favor this evening. Even that precious teacup seemed quite out of place in a house that reflected the unnatural overtures of a freakish Halloween night.

I heard my big old Grandfather clock, as it chimed at fifteen-minute intervals. That familiar sound comforted me. It gave me strength. I walked back into my living room amongst the unwanted intruders, and stared right at them. I was fearful – but this was my home. I glared at them as their shadows swept past my couch. Yes, I sat down anyway and continued to sip cold tea; but my mind played tricks on me. I heard footsteps above me, coming from the bedrooms. Some were loud, others soft. They stopped, then started up again. I even heard ghoulish whispering with hints of laughter. Impossible! The man of the house, my significant other, was working late; and the kids were at a Halloween Party. No one was home but me. I sat there frozen in time and space. Was my house haunted? Absolutely not! I lived here with my family for many years and there was never an issue or a supernatural occurrence! Ever!  - I must be insane!

My imagination ran wild tonight. I rolled myself up in a ball on my couch, and decided to stay that way until someone came home. As long as those footsteps remained above me, I’d be okay. If they started coming down the stairs, I’d be ready to run the heck out of here. I listened and listened until they finally stopped. However, the ghoulish whispering with hints of laughter continued…then the footsteps started over again!  I gazed toward the stairs in the direction of the bedrooms as the footsteps subsided. Curiosity got me to stand at the foot of the stairs as I listened some more, while fear grabbed my hand and escorted me back to my couch. Oh my God, I was truly alone in this huge house. I didn’t even have the television to keep me company. It was out because of the rain. I had nothing and I had no one to save me from myself tonight…After several more minutes of this self-inflicted torture – the doorbell rang. I jumped for joy knowing someone else was out there, even though I was frightened by who it might be. I was willing to take my chances.

I peeked through the blinds and saw a group of anxious children dressed in their best costumes. They yelled out, “Trick or Treat! Trick or Treat!” – I was so relieved. So I put on my purple witch’s hat, grabbed my over-sized plastic orange pumpkin that overflowed with all sorts of Halloween candy and, with a great big smile, opened my door and dropped fistfuls of candy into each one of their bags. The little ghost thanked me, the happy princess jumped with glee, and the two shy skeletons ran off with their goodies towards the adult waiting at the corner. In a matter of seconds, they were all gone and I was alone once more. I apprehensively walked back into the “house of horrors”, ducked past phantom shadows, and took my seat on the couch again. I hugged my favorite throw pillow, and waited for my family to come home. All was quiet though the shadows still lurked around, climbed up my walls, and brushed past the mirrors. I was numb, and I felt intoxicated by the night. I blinked hard in hopes that the shadows would disappear when I opened my eyes.  They hadn’t. They were still there! However, “Divine Intervention” came to my rescue.  I magically dozed off while Halloween continued to breathe and thrive all around me; but I was safe in the arms of slumber.

…I felt someone gently tap at my knee. I opened my eyes – and there stood my kids and their father, with platters of cupcakes, cookies, candies, chips, pretzels and soda. They wore floppy black hats that sparkled with orange glitter, as tiny white plastic spiders sat in cobwebs across the brims. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or if this was real. They all laughed hard, while I sat there in shock. I asked, “What’s going on? Why are you home so early?” What I soon learned was that they had never left the house. They were upstairs playing Halloween tricks on me, while preparing trays of goodies so we could celebrate this beautifully, terrifying night together – and that’s just what we did.

I must admit I was quite upset since they let me go on for hours feeling spooked, while they were upstairs having a grand ol’ time watching me.  Despite their little “tricks”, however, it was quite a “treat”.  I accepted their sweet, silly antics as the spine-tingling perfection it proved to be, on this spectacular Halloween night.

An Excerpt From My Next Writing Project (Currently an "Untitled" Novel)

                                http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

This is an excerpt from my newest writing project, currently untitled…yet a work in progress: 

…The mass was quick, and the family priest was kind. He talked about the Marty he knew. The Marty who showed up at mass quite frequently with his family; daughter Lisa and wife Sara. Joe listened as the priest spoke about Marty, the loving father and husband.  Joe respected Marty through the words of the priest, and continued to show support to the grieving “sisterhood”.  Before the mass ended, the priest offered his condolences to Sara first, then to Lisa, and then to Marty’s sister Susan. He left Joe for last. Susan heard the priest whisper to Joe, “Take care of this family.” Joe nodded and shook the priest’s hand. He understood what his duty was as Sara’s new husband.  He had been taking care of them all along since Sara and Marty divorced some time ago...They all got into Joe’s car and followed the hearse to the crematory.

     The ride to the crematory was a short one. No one spoke in the car, not even Joe. Joe just kept his eyes on the hearse in front of him and followed it slowly. This was the final step in laying Marty to rest. This was the real goodbye.  The Funeral Director came over to the car and asked if anyone wanted to actually be present at the cremation. The entire “sisterhood” nodded in the affirmative, as they wiped away tears with a handful of crumpled tissues. All three exited the car, as Joe followed behind. The Funeral Director warned that this may not be an easy thing to witness and gave the ladies a chance to respectfully back out. Instead, they joined hands and followed the Funeral Director inside the crematory. Joe continued to follow behind to show his support.

     …They were seated in a plain room with a glass wall, in which they witnessed the cremation.  It was not a simple or a short process. It took a bit of time, and it was as unpleasant to witness, as the Funeral Director warned.  It seemed as if the “sisterhood” was temporarily being held in a torture chamber. Only they were there by choice and not by force. They were the ones being tortured as they sat through the cremation process. Although they did not see much since the door was closed after the casket was placed inside the crematory and the process started, the noise from the cremation chamber along with their imaginations was blood-curdling and seemed much louder than expected. It sounded like jet engines. Marty, thankfully, was home free and clear. He saw and heard nothing. His anguished soul moved on. It was now time for the “sisterhood” to move on, as well.

     The Funeral Director escorted all four of them back to Joe’s car, and assured Lisa that he would contact her as soon as her father’s ashes were placed in the urn of her choosing.  He promised her that all will be handled properly and that she is not to worry. He shook everyone’s hands and once again offered his condolences. They got into the car, and Joe took them out for a late lunch at a nearby diner where they ate lightly, mourned heavily, and prayed for peaceful healing.

…On Poetry and Fiction : A Poem dedicated to “The Music Man”

                                   http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/

    https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

 

Poetry and Fiction are wonderful ways to tell a story, convey a message, put your feelings into words, or memorialize someone or something. As a writer, take advantage of both options and speak your mind, tell great stories, and let the world know what’s on your mind. You’ll be amazed at how many people out there are listening as you talk, talk and talk some more – So speak from your heart, through your Poetry and Fiction, and entertain others with your words.

            

            Let me tell you a story about a man I once knew back in the 1980’s. He was an Elementary School teacher, and a musician as well. A very passionate man, who cared deeply for his students and always carried a song within his heart. He gave his students the gift of music, as they played in a school orchestra under his teaching and his direction. They too learned to carry a song within their hearts, and perhaps today they are still doing that. Perhaps today they are sharing their music and talent with an entire universe. If so, I’m sure they recall with fondness, their dedicated teacher who created this “magic” in their world…He is the one and only “Music Man”. So let me tell the story further through this short poem below.

        

            THE MUSIC MAN

He stands erect, his hands unfold

     He holds them in the air

And with a sigh, he proudly smiles

     While the children up and stare

They prepare to play a song with ease

     His wish is their command

They raise their violins up high

     Responding to his hand

The melodies begin to fill

     the dark and silent halls

With harmonies that vibrate

     against the white-washed walls

This mix of “dulcet symphony”

     reveals the wonder of his plan - -

     (to give the children power)

           of the “Music Man”

…On Poetry and Fiction –“The Treasure Chest” (A Dream and a Memory)

                                          http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

 

 

 

            I had a dream last night. I found an old wooden treasure chest up in the attic of my deceased Grandmother’s house. In reality, that house was torn down some years ago when developers started erecting tall apartment complexes in our Brooklyn neighborhood. Yet, as dreams would have it, that house was alive and well. The treasure chest was old, dusty and crying out for someone to open it. The wood was rotted and smelled with decay. The musty odor danced around the entire attic until it stopped - and THEN, it hovered over me like a blanket of evil that held the secrets of time and grew stronger with age.

            

            Yet there was something special about it. Although eerie in nature, it had a mysterious quality that I couldn’t explain; all I knew and all I felt was that it could calm the spirit and entice the heart with its strange appeal.  It was frightening, it was terrorizing, it was unnerving, it was intriguing – but most of all, it was magical as its power took hold of me with a compelling grip I had never felt before. I just had to open it. This treasure chest was inviting me to do so, and I felt an uncontrollable urge to oblige. So I lifted the top of it with all my might and pushed it up and back, as far as it would go.  The echoes of the rusting and squeaking metal hinges rang in my ears. I sneezed and coughed as the dust from the chest entered my nose and mouth relentlessly. Yet, I persevered, because I knew that treasure chest held something extremely important that I needed to see. I felt that Grandmother knew it too. I was drawn to her attic like a magnet. Something or someone wanted me there. I soon realized it was all good, not evil; and through wicked darkness I found “my” light.

            

            To my wonderment, as I looked into the old wooden treasure chest, I could see all the way down to the bottom. It was like looking through the transparent waters of a limpid lake. I found no jewels, I found no silver, I found no gold. What I found was inexplicable. The inside of the chest looked bright, bedazzling and new.  It sparkled like calm waters kissed by rays of sunshine.  I wanted to run my fingers through it as if it were actually a tiny crystal-clear lake in a chest. I wanted to see the ripples in its waters. So I did just that. I thought I was hallucinating. As I continuously ran my fingers through an empty treasure chest, ripples of words the colors of the rainbow started jumping up at me like miniature dancing ballerinas.  They were dainty, soft, gentle and graceful. They were different sizes and different shapes. They were different heights, different lengths, different widths and all unique. They pranced about in unison. They turned and swayed and whispered melodiously. The choreography of words was performed to perfection. The faint sounds of sweet song became a treasure like no other. I was simply awestruck.

            As the dance came to an abrupt halt, I soon discovered the reason I was drawn to my Grandmother’s attic. My eyes remained fixed upon those enchanting words, and my ears quite attentive to their subtle harmony.  At this magic moment, they spelled out a message for me. The message read, “Open this treasure chest when you are lost. We will dance and sing for you, and inspire you to write once more.”  Then I woke up.

Little did I know, this was the answer to my writer’s block. It was all in the treasure chest of my dreams, locked away in the memory of Grandmother’s attic. So I sat at my laptop, with an espresso by my side – and a lemon peel and a shot of anisette to go along with it – and began to write my next novel. Ripples of words the colors of the rainbow started jumping up at me like miniature dancing ballerinas, and I typed away as my novel unfolded before my eyes with ease.  I could feel the rhythm of my poetry tapping at my heartstrings. I had a sense that this could be one beautiful masterpiece, with a poem or two upon its wings; specially choreographed through a “dream” and a “memory”. 

  

Always remember that your next “masterpiece”, be it fiction or poetry, may be hidden within your dreams and amongst your greatest memories. All you need to do is pay attention to the message.

…On Poetry and Fiction – “The Dictionary, Thesaurus and Google are Your New Best Friends”

http://spillwords.com/author/phyllispcolucci/

https://www.amazon.com/Phyllis-P.-Colucci/e/B00VMU8B44

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                Whether writing Poetry or writing Fiction, have you ever entered the phase of your writing where you were just stumped, puzzled, confused, baffled, disheartened and unable to move on? Did you ever feel that your writing was just not up to par? Were you ever at a point where you looked at what you had written and it just seemed worthless, simplistic and insignificant? Of course you had.  You actually sat there and stared at your computer screen, feeling terribly embarrassed that someone may one day read this garbage you just wrote. You had great ideas in your head, but some of those words you had chosen to express those ideas in your poetry or fiction, just did not convey the message you desired; just did not create the images you desired; just did not arouse the emotions you desired. We’ve all been there, done that, and felt like failures.

So now what do you do? You get up and take a break and dwell in self-pity. You look into a mirror in your home, and begin to wonder who you really are. Are you a writer? You certainly don’t feel like one. Yet writing is your passion, your greatest love; and yes, this IS who you really are.  You look back into the mirror and notice yourself blushing from thoughts of humiliation, thoughts of self-consciousness, thoughts of self-doubt; questioning your own worth and your own creativity. The person staring back at you is not someone you like or admire right now. That image of YOU lacks self-esteem, exudes sadness, and has lost the glow in its eyes. That image of you seems weak; it seems broken. -  No! No! No! Can’t have that now! Those are simply images of how you see yourself at this particular moment in time, as you struggle to create…Those images are not who you are! Those images are not real! – So, what now? – You must look away with determination and a renewed strength. You must get back up again and become whole. You must do what is near and dear to your heart. You must write beautiful poetry and create marvelous fiction. Yet still, you feel a part of your soul has been ripped out of you and you are unsure as to how to start over again.  You are frozen in time with no direction ahead of you. You are lost and alone without a friend in the world. You struggle to move forward, but you are drowning in quicksand. You are stuck in your own mind.

Well - have no fear, dear writer. I know those feelings all too well. I’ve seen those images in my own mirror many times. However, I’ve also discovered that there were three very special and loyal friends at my disposal, who would be more than happy to help if I called upon them. So may I introduce you to them? One is the “omnipotent” Dictionary, that will provide you with any word you need, listed in alphabetical order, ready to save you with a quick jump into your poetry and/or fiction. This friend will provide the meanings to any word you choose, and show you the correct form and pronunciation of every word you select. Now is that a great friend, or what?  

Well, there is more to come. Your second special and loyal friend is the “unfailing” Thesaurus, that will provide you with a wide selection of magical words, allowing you to choose the ones that best suit your needs, emotions and creative mind at the time of your writing. Thesaurus will pick up where you leave off, so that only the most perfect words will become your most perfect poetry and your most perfect fiction. Isn’t that a magnificent friend to also have on your side? Feel better? - Okay then…Well, we now have your third special and loyal friend here that will take you on journeys which have no bounds. Journeys where you can research any information you need to know about, any information you need to learn about, or any information you need to verify in order to write your poetry and tell your stories with clarity and realism.  That third precious friend is “informative” Google.  I know you’ve spent lots of quality time with this friend. I have, and it’s been well worth it.

So now, I’d say you are on your way to writing the most harmonious poetry and the most unique fiction at every attempt. You will continue to create beauty from this day forward; beauty that you will share with the world with great pride, not painful embarrassment. Treasure these three friendships, for they will never let you down. Keep them by your side at all times. Be sure they are only a “reference” book away or, better still, a click away on your computer. Feel free to download the “omnipotent” Dictionary  and “unfailing” Thesaurus apps to your phone. “Informative” Google is already there. Remember, they will never leave your side if you never leave their side. Carry them with you. They want a “literary” relationship with you that will continue to flourish. They will forever guide you, assist you and enhance you as you write, write, and write some more.  

Be brave now. Go take a look in that mirror again. I guarantee the person staring back at you has been made whole again.  That person is confident, strong, creative, happy, smiling and one you will forever admire and respect, once again. That person is YOU -  a successful writer, who now has the most valuable and treasured support from three very special friends.   

A few parting words…REMEMBER THIS:

If your poetry is meant to take your readers to emotional depths, you must be sure your words are perfectly chosen in order to match the theme of your poem and the passion in your soul.

If your fiction is meant to take your readers on fabulous journeys, you must be sure your information is accurate, factual, honest and true, so your fiction is believable and your characters real.