Featuring those who submitted to the previous writing prompt from Live-Love-Write, here are the participants, listed order of submission, along with information on the newest prompt. Please remember to fave this journal to help support your work and the prompt!
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All literature and comics in response to the prompt are welcome and encouraged.
Previous Writing Prompt
Write anything that features one or more of the following:
- a complicated happiness
- make up
- a historical knife
My GrandadIt had been a week since Grandad had died. Myself, John and our Dad were going through his old things. Mum was downstairs trying to unstick the cutlery draw with a crowbar that we had found in his old shed and was about an inch close to using the chainsaw we had seen next to it.
Mum had always said Grandad lived in a pigsty, she’d make snide comments about the house every time we visited; Dad said that he was a hoarder thanks to the rather large number of boxes piled in the back bedrooms, so much so the bed had dust on it from 1994. Myself and John however, thought it was cool. John used to say that it was a jungle due to the large rolls of fly paper extending from the ceiling to head height, not to mention the crocodile that lived in the toilet. Well, almost. The noise it made was certainly reptilian.
Myself, however, I just saw it as an elderly man’s castle. Apart from the toilet, I didn’t mind the odd box or the fly paper or the mess. It was his home.
I am not much
in the restricted section.Midnight is the quiet hour, the witching hour,
the hour of sweet dreams and wretched nightmares—
it brings forth the dance we simply cannot get rid of,
our steps echoing in the caverns of the hallows of the
Library, and together we let our feet guide us from
section to section.
Mystery was one we danced in most often, its masked
murderers and thrill seekers a complement to
your secrets and my hidden rooms—we pretended to not
see the clues left for the other to find, to not see
the numbers that glowed from the open pages of left
behind physics books.
We never did make it to the Romance section and
I always wondered what dance we would have had there -
if we would waltz through the European history books,
tango down the South American literature, foxtrot to the tune
of the early 1900's in the sparse music section; and while
you strayed to the rigidity of Non-Fiction, I let myself
wander past Fantasy and into Mythology.
I was always drowning when I ventured too far in,
Stuck conflictions I’m stuck.
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know where to go.
But I want it.
I don’t want things to change.
I think I’m happy.
But it’s complicated.
But I want to run away.
Shaded BeautyLife is quite hard, and has taken its toll.
I cover the marks, and let no one know.
Broken and scarred, both my body and soul.
Make-up goes far, but it’s only for show.
Look like a star, or at least meet the goal,
and shade the dark, fading beauty below.
Skin and PlasticThe ocean salt-licked calluses from my feet,
sand clawed into my knee and
swallowed my sunglasses (I paid
for all the times I wrote about it as though I’d been there
with skin and plastic).
It was easy letting it throw me, I already know
how to go limp, how to
accept the battering, how to
float to the top playing dead (It shook me
like a snow globe and for a moment under the night sky
things were real again).
I first saw the Atlantic
under the cover of night, and last saw it
running and stumbling towards it,
fists and teeth and all my bruises bared and gleaming
under the pinhole stars (once it was as dark on land as it is
across the water).
Someone thrust a jacket into my hands
and I laughed.
On the drive home I pressed my ear to the window.
(I expected to leave the ocean,
I didn’t know I would have to leave the sky).
That One Night I stand in the cold Alaskan night. Starring into the eerie shadows of the evergreen forest that is behind my house, the thought of the mysterious creatures that could be lurking in the shadows sends chills up my spine. It was 2 years ago. Two years when everything I thought I knew about this world crumbled. It all started, with a precious family air loom.
I was twelve at the time, playing in the snow in the front yard. I was having fun, building a snowman. I was always playing by myself, since there weren’t many kids in the area, or people for that matter, but I didn’t mind. I had my father. He was always looking out for me, even though he snuck out at night. I never questioned though. He was always back by morning, in the same upbeat and happy mood he is always in.
It was gettin
This month's writing prompt, from now until February 28th:
Respond to the following theme:
It's been a long time, but you remember how it goes. Thank you all for your absolutely lovely work. I enjoyed reading every piece, and I hope to see more!
If you have any questions, please feel free to ask below.