These have been languishing (or perhaps deepening) in my journal this week as I have been in the wilderness that is Grading Hell.
The prompt for Day #8 is here.
“Ottava Rima Goes Rogue, Turns Sonnet(like)” The lights went out at quarter past, came on for ten, then out again for good. Each car that now drives past is an event; the nightly train sounds loud and close. The neighborhood feels strange; the air looks soft, feels dark. I wander, and I know I should conserve the batteries, light the spark- ing candle, read, and go to bed. But kittens’ paws are deafening and voices—in the street, my head— will not be hushed; they yak, they sing. My usual masking fan is still; I’m forced to hear my own thoughts spill.