26 Days Remain
26 Days Remain
A continuation of my #last100days2023 project
Welcome to my #last100dayproject!
What will you do with the remaining 26 days of 2023?
Today’s prompt:
What image or memory comes to mind when you think of “voice”?
Everyone has their own voice. The voice they speak with, the voice they write with, and the voice they aspire to.
I think about how the sound of our own voice sounds different than we think it should when it is recorded and played back. Hearing my own voice has become more of a regular occurrence with Zoom recordings and audio messages to friends. I have taken to recording messages to myself while I am walking to reference for writing later.
Who has the voice that you find the most soothing? The most irritating?
What does your character’s voice sound like?
I invite you to search your notebooks and drives for the prompt word and see what drafts you have that you can resurrect and revise.
What will you write today?
A list
A metaphor
A memory
One sentence
A conversation imagined between you and a stranger
Whatever you choose - have fun!
Happy writing!
I invite you to leave a comment!
You belong simply because you are here.
A little more about me: Tammy L. Evans is a writer, teacher, and coach living in a tiny house on a peninsula with her husband and adventure cat. Her location device is her loud laugh. She is working on a non-fiction book about how to submit and publish your first pieces. She is the creator and host of THE BRADBURY TRIO COURSE. Her poetry has been published in The Storyteller, FoxGlove Journal, Story Hall, Blue Insights, The Partnered Pen, and others. Her fiction has been published in Gone Lawn, South Florida Poetry Journal, Cabinets of Heed, Spelk, Five on the Fifth, Clover and White, Fiction Berlin Kitchen, and others.
This one brought tears to my eyes. I know I am emotional today but this... this.
(a stream of consciousness free write of the voice in my head called on to be present)
the voice, being vocal, sharp vocalisations, voices in my head multiplying the tiny heartbeats of each red blood cell pulsing through veins and arteries and capillaries, voicing the parts of a whole chord, the choir preaching to the coral in the sea, of keys, waves of off-key applause, noise as music, the ocean's tide pulling the mermaids away from the sailors, the sirens away from their seaweed hammocks; the anchor holding the kite of a ship in the water of the sky, darkness in the deep, the depths of a comatose sleep, a cloudless night sky without stars, the pressure to be silent or to be flat, to implode, to leave the world crushed, only for the voice to speak and sing again, for the bubbles of sound to rise, to rise, to rise up, up, up, passed surprised whales, exploding on the surface like a storm pushing up, the watery eye of the earth blinking, to sing clouds into existence, to yearn for a time when the moon may have its water back, its voice restored with gravity, with gravitas, if only science was magic and magic was a song the moon sang as a body dancing around a bigger body dancing around the fire with rotund friends just out of reach of touch but not out of sight, not out of sight, not out of mind, as visual voices, because voices can be seen as well as heard as well as felt as well as loved in the pull and the push of the universe expanding into the light, into the voice of atoms