Prose
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I’m sitting on my porch for the first time in months. The weather is unseasonably warm for February. Instead of snow, the gray clouds threaten rain. Perhaps I should be worried about this sign of climate change, but the moment, I am relieved by this short break from winter. After 2 weeks of continual bad
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I wet the tip of my pen like dipping toes into the ink black sea. Knowing it would be best to jump in all at once, I wade in line by line, staring at the endless expanse before me. The surface is calm, intimidating in it’s emptiness that hides entire worlds waiting to be released.
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I’m obsessed with balance. Dualities and extremes, spectrums and shades of gray- it’s all related in my mind; Maybe because my life has always been imbalanced. Always unsteady and unstable, I’ve spent my whole life looking for a ground that won’t shift under my feet. Contrast and opposition are how many view the world. What’s
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Last night I drowned. I stood at the lookout point of a canyon, looking down. The overlook loomed over the edge of the canyon, opposite a waterfall. The water fell as a thick mist into a rain forest that stood at the edge of a bottomless chasm. No matter how hard I tried, I could
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Gray is the color of neutrality, nuance, and ambiguity. Maybe that’s why so many people dislike it. People like clear-cut sides and answers; they crave the simplicity of black and white. Gray is more complicated than that. It blurs the lines with it’s many shades. You could call it “indecisive”, but I find it to
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Prompt: Write about the secrets carved in the door. The old wood was scarred with years of secrets. Words twisting, turning, and overlapping, covered every inch of the door until it breathed in the dim lights of the hallway. The carved words spoke in whispers, in voices echoing their physical presence.Some smooth and quieted with
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I become obsessed with perfection when my anxiety spikes. Filling every moment of my time with self-improvement tasks, as if I could compensate for my own shameful humanity through diligence. It’s a performance, with myself as the only audience. A dance of of wild precision – a single misstep will bring me crashing down. It’s
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Prompt: Write about someone’s eyes without saying the color. You would have thought they’d be cold. Cold, flat, and hard- like a sheet of ice on the lake in January. But, those eyes weren’t cold at all. They were bright. Bright, expressive, and lively- like light dancing off the waves in June. People are full
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Inspired by the Pintrist prompt: “Write what he said about the coffee” “It’s cold.” He said it blandly, an observation rather than a complaint. It was a short sentence. A mere two words about a cup of coffee after a stony 16 hours of silence. “Should I warm it for you?” I asked, careful to
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The sun beat down on your face as you lay in the grass next to me. Your right arm rested over your eyes, while your left hand rested on my knee. Next to your head a full dandelion temptingly nodded it’s cotton head. I reached across your sleeping form, careful not to disturb your slumber,
Bringing Mae Flowers 