Last year, my fellow Inkling, Linda Mitchell, challenged us to use the #folktaleweek prompts found on Instagram to inspire our writing. This was a challenge I could sink my teeth into. (Here is my response to last year’s challenge.) This year, life has conspired to sharply limit my writing time and energy, but I miss it. I need to find my way back to a more consistent practice. What better way than to challenge myself to use these prompts again? “Lost” is this year’s first word.

Left adrift on a vast
Ocean to wander, a voyager
Searches for an elusive quarry: her own
True north.

Draft, © Catherine Flynn, 2023

Where will this journey take me? I’m excited to find out.

Please be sure to visit Karen Edmisten for the Poetry Friday Roundup.

Happy Friday, everyone! The first Friday of the month brings us to another Inkling challenge. This month, Linda asked us to

Write a prose piece–find a poem in it.

• Or, write a poem, and expand it into a prose piece
• Or, find a prose piece, transform it into a poem
• Or, find a poem and transpose it into a prose piece
• Any interpretation of this prompt is perfect
• Going rogue is acceptable too
• If you end up writing longer than a page of prose, share just a snippet

After a month of searching for an idea, I decided to dig deep into my notebooks for my response to Linda’s challenge. On October 21, 2007, I wrote:

Inspired by an ad in The New York Times:

Last night, as I was sorting through a box of old photos, I found one of me and Mother in the garden one long ago Halloween night. I think I was eight or nine. A white sheet with two holes cut out (unevenly; or maybe it’s my head that’s lopsided) for eyes is draped over me. A plastic jack-o-lantern rests at my feet, ready to be filled with treats. Mother had made a slit on each side so I could carry my cache of candy.  I remember tripping on the extra inches of fabric pooling around my feet as we paraded around the neighborhood. 

What’s really striking about this photo, though, is Mother. Someone who didn’t know her might think she was in costume, too. But her ensemble is classic Mother. Her black patent leather Mary Janes is outshone only by the perfectly poised handbag resting in the crook of her elbow. She’s wearing bright orange tights and a brown mohair coat, adorned with a doll as a corsage. Her hands are sheathed in tiger-striped gloves. 

How I adored her. She was the coolest mother by far, but my friends’ mothers snubbed her. “We make our own fun,” she always said to me. And we always did. And she was always the snazziest dresser, even in the nursing home. On our last Halloween together, she wore a leopard print turban with a bright orange caftan that outshone the moon. 

Here is the photo:

And here is the poem:

Parading around the neighborhood
one long ago Halloween night,
Mother and I turned heads.
Me, a lopsided ghost,
trying not to trip on
the voluminous
white sheet, barely
able to see through
two lopsided eyes,
carrying a plastic
pumpkin filled 
with treats. 

She, a general, standing
tall in orange tights
and shiny Mary Janes
leading her troop. 
No flashlight for us.
She was a beacon.
I would have followed
her to the moon.

Draft, © Catherine Flynn, 2023

Please be sure to visit my fellow Inklings to see how they responded to Linda’s challenge:

Linda @A Word Edgewise
Heidi @my juicy little universe
Molly @Nix the Comfort Zone
Mary Lee @ A(nother) Year of Reading
Margaret @Reflections on the Teche

Don’t forget to visit Buffy Silverman for the Poetry Friday Roundup!