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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.
 
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The Writing-Practice Journal #715323 added January 13, 2011 at 11:32am
Restrictions: None
No Thanks Needed
Jan. 12, 2011
Prompt: What if someone said, “Screw you!” instead of saying, “Thank you.”
Her hands ripple like waves as she pours the blackberries from a burlap bag on to a plastic bowl. He focuses on the red scratch marks on her hands and arms, on the clotting blood in minuscule droplets. He doesn’t understand why she is so happy as if she has harvested the moon and the stars.
She chooses a handful of berries from the bowl and turns to the faucet. She washes them with care and puts them on a small plate that she picks from the dish rack. She places the plate in front of him at the table.
“For you,” she says. “Today’s gift.”
“Screw you!”
He bites his lower lip, staring at her thorn-etched hands, at the blood on the long red scratch lines. Blood makes him sick. Blood is disgusting. The sight of it should be reserved for only the war. The war he came from. The war that messed him up. He gags.
“What’s eating you now?” Her voice is concerned, not angry. “Are you okay?”
He stands up suddenly and with a swipe of hand he knocks the plate with the blackberries to the floor, on the stone tiles. The plate shatters and the blueberries leave purple marks where they hit. He runs out of the kitchen as if fleeing from the enemy.
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