Featuring those who submitted to the previous writing prompt from Live-Love-Write, here are the participants for this week, featured in style, 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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Last Week's Writing Prompt
Write anything that features all of the following:
- a green balloon
- a broken mirror
- the words "magically delicious"
- a strange handshake
The Desperate and the FallenShe always held her trinkets close.
A rusted bracelet from once before
with the name “magically delicious” sprawled across.
He gave it to her once
to make her laugh.
She was always more somber than she deserved to be.
Stony like the cemetery angels to which she identified.
She laughs through her tears
because she knew it to be true.
She lives in a roundabout truth.
The kind of truth that
bites you in the morning.
Wanting to simply shake it off.
See it coming.
A trip before the fall.
How she'd wish she could travel back in time.
To fix the past
and just bask in the light of yesterday.
When childhood was all birthday parties and secret handshakes.
Fingers grooving together making obnoxious shapes
of birds and the bees.
And nothing to cry over but spilled milk.
Now time has aged her.
Bended and folded her.
Creases and lines in her face
to match the ones she could better conceal.
Hidden in her
in a place that remained to be unmoved
since the day he became compelled.
To be where
A Star Is RebornSeated in her dressing room, Margot Lavelle examined herself critically in the mirror. She applied her make up carefully, all the while bemoaning the fact that this low budget commercial she was appearing in wouldn’t pay for a proper makeup artist. “Honestly, why should I put my name to their product if they can’t treat their stars properly?”
“Because, my lovely Margot, you need the cash since your film career has dried up.” Edgar Shepperton, the director of the commercial, stood in the doorway. “They are doing you a favour by using you for the advert. It might just kick start your career again.”
“I was the star of many movies!” Margot wailed. “I shouldn’t be doing commercials. I’m going to call this off; I’ll tell my agent to find something more suitable for an actress of my stature.”
“We both know you won’t quit on a contract.”
The Zimmerframe CollectiveThey’re the leaves that don’t fall
Because the label
Means absolutely nothing to them
You can see it in the way they traipse
With sunlight highlighted in their hair,
Enlightened by hindsight,
Knowledge the range of Everest.
Grow like roots
In a swamp of skin
Secrets and treasures hidden within.
Turns grey like those forgotten days
Yet their shadows still bring life
Where they hobble along anyway.
So let them stew, lose their hue
Whine about food stamps
At the front of the queue
Because they still have enough heart
To fight a losing battle
We're all born with from the very start.
DoomedIt's strange, how things come to be. How people get where they are, without knowing, or planning to. I mean, if I had a choice, I don't think I would choose to be laying here on the ground, surrounded by broken glass. I didn't break out a window, if that's what you're thinking, I fell...on a mirror. So what does that mean? I'm laying on a broken mirror right now. But what flashes through your mind, as it's ending, do you think? For me...it's really odd, just random bits of my life, not the whole thing, and it's not fast, just...normal. First off is my roommate telling me his cereal was "magically delicious, you should totally try some, dude." What a waste of my last minutes. Who cares about your damn cereal, I'm dying.
Second comes something different, one of those suppressed childhood memories, where something happens you can't control, and it's mildly upsetting. In this there's child me, from an outside view, and...I've lost my balloon, it's floating up into the sky, and I'm wonderin
Boys at the Cracked WindowThe homeless boy stood in the rain, staring through the cracked window, a broken mirror that showed a dying, lost reflection. He watched the mayor’s son, sitting at the dinner table with his father, a large, pompous man with a well-groomed moustache and dark gelled locks, and his mother, a fragile, prim lady who made up for her unimpressive figure with a regal demeanour and glossy lip stick that smelt magically delicious, like plump cherries on a rich black forest cake.
As he gazed at the three of them laughing together over dinner, the boy pressed his soiled little finger tips on the wet window pane, frowning as his envy welled up inside him like a green balloon. The green balloon he had once held when he was with his family in the market place.
It was a day that constantly harassed his reluctant memory. The warm afternoon sunlight on the flowers, the bright drapes of the stalls, the laughter of the town, his own happiness the surrounded him as he tottered innocently beside his
SwimmingThe paper was too close to the candle. Far too close, so there was no surprise when it suddenly caught fire.
But did it have to be that paper? The one paper that I had used to draw, in ink, the world I saw so clearly in my mind. It was infested with impossibilities and fantasies, yes, but it was mine and it was perfectly drawn. On that one paper.
It all begins to crumble and the ink seems to melt away.
And you – what do you see? You impossible, perfect person who is trapped in my world. Born from my mind and everything I ever wanted in a person. Do you see a gigantic blaze in the distance or do you feel an intense heat that melts away the earth?
The cliff below you starts to disappear and you turn to look at the edge of the paper – the edge of your home – where the ocean I have drawn in blue ink ends.
You try to swim there to see if you can leave this decay. Maybe jump onto another page. Maybe.
Now you're swimming and you're screaming. Screaming at me to put out this fire. Pleading ang
This week's writing prompt, from January 28 to February 3, is:
Wow, so many fantastic entries this week! The special prompts are definitely going to be a thing. This week is the word prompt, so have fun with that! Quick note to add about the subject:
"B-flat minor is traditionally a 'dark' key. Important oboe solos in this key in the orchestral literature include the second movement of Tchaikovsky's Symphony No. 4, which depicts 'the feeling that you get when you are all alone', in Tchaikovsky's words." (from Wikipedia)
I don't quite know if that's true, but I thought it interesting all the same. In any case, interpret any way you like, and I hope to see great entries for next week!