Today’s writing prompt, brought by Greg Wright, was: “Write a piece inspired by the line, ‘Come on, Virginia, show me a sign.'” Ten minutes of writing produced the following unexpurgated works.

 

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Come On, Virginia, Show Me a Sign

Greg Wright

July in Williamsburg. Just after noon.
I can feel my “death fabric” like a second
soggy skin, wet and warm at my back.
The sun angles angrily at my eyes
which I shield with a piece of marketing
from the museum eight doors back.

On the drive last night from Richmond
rain came down like Egypt’s frogs,
and I couldn’t even hear my sister yak,
which says more than you can possibly know.

But today is clear, and humid, and searing.
I look to the west, where clouds build
like a dark cumulus of battering rams.
The fast-moving front is still miles off.

But this is Williamsburg, July, just after noon
and I can read all the signs quite well, thanks.
We are in for another damned, damnable plague.
This state may be for lovers, but I—I am not one.

 

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Untitled

Subhaga Crystal Bacon

I’ve taken to watching the mountain
tops—so far off in the distance
as to seem unreal—for the first signs
of snow. It’s only late September
and the days are sun full and apple
ripening, first days of fall. It’s easy
to imagine some fairy queen
aloft in the grey skirted clouds
that lower at the end of day.
The Virgin Queen, whose domain is ice
and snow; I’ll call her Virginia,
my own godmother’s name—my
middle name. Virginia, the giver 
of immaculate winters. Her basket
of storms like cold gems glowing
and blowing when she deems it.
Virginia, my own pure self, silent
and glistening as winter. Sign seeker,
seer of signs.