Small Rebellious Acts of Creativity (#SRAOC) is a weekly invitation to explore a word, or phrase, through whichever creative avenue, platform or modality the participant wishes. It is intended to be a philosophical or creative catalyst moreso than a straight up writing prompt.
This week’s prompt was: Blood Made of Crackling Light
There was much hilarity as the three of us imagined an alternative version of Sesame Street; the darker, edgier, seedier side of the wholesome goodness that is Big Bird, Oscar, Bert and Ernie, and the rest of Jim Henson’s creative imagination. However, we will spare you the abomination that was our imagination.
Instead, what did we make of this week’s prompt?
This week I did something I haven’t tried before – using an existing line of text to build a cut-up poem around. As always, I had a hearty giggle at the random page that was chosen and how it was perfect for the prompt. I even managed to find within three clicks, the perfect illustration to pair with it.
Source Text: Running Backward Across Sand, Stephanie Dowrick
Image: The Jester by NoirRojo via DeviantArt
There was a pinprick of blood beading between the nailbed and fingertip. A strip of skin peeled back too far. It reminded him of the mythology of young boys who had picked at scabs believing it would be enough to form scars, yet adolescence subverted their ideology and turned fresh pink skin to rough, hairy acreage. A return to those memories preserved in the smell of Band Aids and Dettol, the formaldehyde of youth. To prise open that jar with the crackling of last light runs the risk of unmasking the stench of naïve hypocrisy and furtive masturbation. For what is memory except the mythology of wasted years.
A storm rages outside, and the lights play a give-and-take flicker with lightning strikes that turn the black night into day, a negative image of everything that is supposed to be.
The energy is palpable, coursing through me with a charge that I savor.
I become one with the storm, allowing the crackling light of creativity within, stirring this mind, this blood, to greater things.
Age and experience provide us two roads. On the first path, we are wooed to relax, resign, and let the lightning remain distant. We cover up, stay insulated from the elements, and go gently into that good night.
The second road is elemental, dangerous. We ache at day’s end, tend to our wounds, marvel at the mysterious injuries that now plague us. We shake our heads as we stare into the crackling light of the fire, too tired to move from the sparking embers that find the undersides of our forearms, and we watch and wait for the pain to find its way to our brain.
Like the expanding time between thunder strikes and lightning bolts from a fading storm, we linger as we wait to feel what we have already seen.
The storm continues as I walk the second road. Let the blood flow more dangerously as I explore the undiscovered path. I would rather ache than wake to find that I had not lived. Today at 54 years offers exactly what yesterday did at 27. I will not be wooed by the resigning, dimming light in the distance. May the blood boil in the crackling light today as it did in a thousand yesterdays. There is no time to resign. There is much blood to be made of this crackling light.