By: Zoë Felfle, Senior Since the beginning of the quarantine, I have found more and more ways to pass my new, prolonged time indoors. Because of my new abundance of time, I decided that I should get some writing done. After all, what else am I going to do other than watch Netflix, eat, study, and sleep. Still, it’s hard to get inspired when the only view is the walls within my house. That’s why, since we started journaling, I decided to start writing 10 minute stories. In other words, I came up with a prompt or found one online, put a timer on for ten minutes, and wrote whatever I could think of within the allotted time. I have enjoyed these little bursts of writing so much that I decided to print two on this month’s flyer. The first is about a girl based on a song I was listening to by The Beatles: “Devil in her Heart.” The second, although it isn’t a ten minute prompt, is a poem inspired by Emily Dickinson’s poem “Much Madness.” Enjoy! Born in the Wrong Generation![]() The girl’s too-skinny arms wave like reeds in the winds as she shuffles side-to-side to the tune of an authentic vintage record in a dingy old basement permanently smelling vaguely of pot. Dirty blonde hair falls in knotted rivulets around a bandana with an interesting and intricate pattern she found at a thrift shop down the street. She wears the high-waisted, bell-bottomed jeans of a decade long gone, the decade she remembers even though she was born over thirty years later. She hears yelling and a sharp crash above her. She ignores it, forcing her attention back towards the Woodstock, hippy, drug-induced daydream she created for herself over years and years of dissociation and isolation. The flashing face of a dead boy bursts before her eyes, but before tears taint her woven world, she pushes him away. She is living, laughing, and trying to love and nothing from the mess of real life will stand in her way. Much MadnessMuch madness, in divinest sense,
Is much opposed to innocence. Oceans rise and kingdoms fall, Yet madness stares down at it all. Burning at the fun’ral pyre, Madness laughs into the fire, For people die and people rot And madness sees what she has wrought. She is not darkness and is not pain, But she lingers all the same. She is not light and is not bright, But she sparks throughout the night. Much madness, in divinest sense, Is not pain or war or resonance. Still she wonders at the walls As she lurks within your halls.
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Zoë FelfleHi! I am a proud Ravenclaw and am always obsessing about one book or another. My current obsession is Ms. Peregrine's Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs. (I highly recommend it if you're into magic, WW2, and a blend of two real and magical worlds)! |