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Writing Prompt # 95 – Phantasmagoria – February 22, 2015

The Jabberwock, as illustrated by John Tenniel for Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass

The Jabberwocky, as illustrated by John Tenniel for Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass

 

One of the coolest words ever in my humble opinion is phantasmagoria which means an elaborate and morphing succession of dream-like illusions.

This is what I want you to create a dream sequence, a shamanistic voyage, a drug trip, a progressive and consumptive hallucination. Don’t worry if the imagery is bizarre or doesn’t make sense that is kind of the point.

Yves

Once you’ve completed your post, please tag: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Writing Prompt then ping us back (or put you post address into the comments) and put you info into our new Mr. Linky! Ciao, Bastet.

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About Bastet

I love to read...I like to write...I've travelled the world and seen the sites. I'm past my prime and feel so young, especially when near the young. I'm writing this blog, to remember, to think and to share...with the hopes that someone else will make a comment that will stimulate new thoughts and pathways. Actually, I'm a gabber, so the logical extension of gabbing is blogging! ;-)

12 comments on “Writing Prompt # 95 – Phantasmagoria – February 22, 2015

  1. Jen
    February 22, 2015

    Oooh. A shamanistic psycho psychout! Could be fun 😉

  2. Pingback: harlequin (experimental) | Blog It or Lose It!

  3. Pingback: Writing Prompt # 95 – Phantasmagoria – February 22, 2015 | Morpethroad

  4. Pingback: Phantasmagoria | Finale to an Entrance

  5. tfortner1138
    February 23, 2015

    I have no idea how to pingback, pingforward, or Ping Crosby. I don’t have a blog, nor much of a clue. I do, however, have a phantasmagorical mindchunk to share. I’m going to put it here and hope that it doesn’t make anyone mad that I probably haven’t left it in the right place. Any help on how to properly post something would be helpful.

    Stranger Hemispheres
    By the thin green light of the moors I see
    a smoking wisp of air;
    with empty sockets, dimly stares
    across the swarming deep.
    A deep so thick and dismal even devils won’t live there.

    By the bell that rings, and the crow that flies
    there are portents from the wood
    divined entrails not understood
    since angels fell from sleep.
    A sleep before creation brought their mighty host to bear.
    There’s a fearsome noise a stirring just beyond the tree fall there.

    The tides of night will carry through
    a little nightmare just for you
    you wake up in your grandma’s house
    a flood of light beneath her door
    but you cannot look inside that room
    and you dare not walk along that floor.
    You cannot look inside that room,
    for what is there’s not like before.
    You walk away, and then look back
    and now the door is slightly cracked.

    On a sun-baked field at a distant pace
    two shapes beneath a sheet;
    they move and clamber to their feet
    and start to move your way.
    The abominations charging, in slow motion you retreat.

    In a lonesome cove, by a twilit sea
    a lonely camp fire burns
    the roiling darkness starts to turn
    the shades of red to gray.
    An empty, windblown flagpole clangs its threadbare rope and cleat.
    There’s a warning you can’t cipher in the rhythm of its beat.

    The ether from the inkwell falls
    and grips you tightly in its thrall
    an owl is perched atop a barn
    with lighthouse eyes it sweeps the night
    in judgment, sitting up on high
    it turns its head from left to right
    it scans the ground and then the sky
    and nothing can escape its sight.
    It takes to wing with windward veer
    and heads to stranger hemispheres.

    In the vast and moon washed ocean waves
    you plunge in lucid sleep;
    you’re sinking down into the deep,
    a horror stirs beneath.
    Something’s rising toward you, with an open mouth it creeps.

    From the cryptic, aging battlements
    atop a high cliff wall
    you lose your footing and you fall,
    with fear you grind your teeth.
    Then ten more times you plummet from the crumbling castle keep.
    The mortar gives away sometimes, and sometimes you just leap.

    The world you see when you are there
    is just as real as anywhere;
    a passenger of sideways realms
    who ventures into arcane climes,
    discorporated wanderlust
    through grotesque mansions shadow-rimed,
    through landscapes choked with crows and rust,
    through strangeways never touched by time.
    You wake at last and wonder still
    which one is dream and which is real.

    • Bastet
      February 23, 2015

      Pretty hard to ping or link if you’ve not got a blog … though if you have a facebook page you can put in the url of your status on the comment page … anyway … this was fine too! A very interesting write! Bravo!

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  8. Pingback: Tale Weaver Prompt 2: Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner and Writing Prompt # 95 – Phantasmagoria | mindlovemisery

  9. Pingback: Atlantis: phantasmagorical, phantasmagical – Phylor's Blog

  10. phylor
    March 1, 2015

    Made a mistake, ping back should be https://phylor.wordpress.com/2015/03/01/atlantis-phantasmagorical-phantasmagical/
    in other words: Mr. Linky 9, not 8!
    It’s an oops day!

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This entry was posted on February 22, 2015 by in Written Prompt and tagged , , .
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