PROMPT:

PROMPT: write about the sky— any aspect of it. color, feeling, temperature, shape (?), etc. write about a sky that inspires you or that exhausts you, or anything else you'd like

after halloween

i feel like the sky is getting closer

my lighter's flicks
tally my cigarettes,
as i count the clouds

i blink—
the moon is bigger

arms wrap around my waist
lips brush against my neck
my eyes close

hands rest on my hips
my eyes open
and the moon moves another inch

...

i feel like the sky is getting closer
i blink,
the moon is bigger

PROMPT: we do a lot of writing in this club-- this week, i'd like us all to take some time to revise something. explore something you've written for an earlier prompt and play around with it. this doesn't have to be with the intention of making it 'better'. make it new; make it different; make it truer to yourself. have fun with it

route (ext.)

i walk the same route
to work, everyday
despite the true crime talk show hosts
who tell me
it's a sure-fire way
to become a missing poster
inside the local walmart
—a milk carton kid in 2024

i walk with
headphones in,
and my hood up
taking shortcuts
through alleys and underpasses
onto the bus
to the taco bell downtown
where my dad told me
the riffraff like to hang

with the only riffraff,
being the one
walking into a faux-mexican fast food chain—
with an outfit you could only find
on the manequin at a Victorias Secret
—hidden under an oversized hoodie

because on days like today,
where being Rory is a herculean task
i put on my shortest skirt & my tiniest top
and go to the club as Aurora instead

...

"i have to work tomorrow"
i tell him,
incredulously undersold,
as his hand rests
particularly on my thigh

i imagine,
in this moment,
the sense my friends could drill
into my dumb drunk brain

but they're not here
so i grab the strange man's hand
hop in the taxi,
and slur my address to the driver
against whatever judgement i have left

ill cry about it
on the phone with them tomorrow

because for one glorious night,
ill be wanted for something

you can't see acne in the dark
and strobe lights like to lie

PROMPT: choose a few specific images and focus almost solely on them in a piece of writing of any kind

i bawled my eyes out
when i couldn't recall your name

snot dribbled down my nose
and i wiped it on the back of my hand
like i did when i was a kid

and i begged god
but i guess he didn't hear me
because the pieces of you i remember
aren't enough to place

and i wept because i couldn't go back
and i wept harder because i couldn't move on
and i cried because i never finished my cake

but i dry my eyes with my sleeve
and hold onto these memories
because i know you'll be back someday
and when someday comes
there's a place for you here
—i even bought a disc drive

PROMPT: find a news article, new or old, and write something based on it

would i have been friends with my dad
had we ended up in the same high school
instead of the same household?

if i told him i liked green day,
would we have gone to shows together?
or would he have shouted "faggot!" at me
out of the window of his impala?

would i still have give him
so much leniency
if it was my door being kicked down
by a man from a foreign army
for something i hadn't done?

would i have been his friend
if he was the misogynist
sat next to me in english class?

would he still love me
if i were an iraqi,
or a lesbian?

an addict,
or a whore?

PROMPT: reflect on and write about a moment that was monumental for someone else and how it affected you. maybe make some comparisons between your experiences, or mesh them.

"You really ought to be more careful," I chastised, pulling the thread up.

Holding still was seemingly impossible for him. Whether tapping his fingers against his arm or stretching his neck, he was always moving in one way or another. Like he would freeze if he stayed still for too long. I couldn't fault him too much; he'd been laying there for what seemed like ages. Lacerations of various sizes littered his back, and deep bruising spanned from the small of his back to his upper left shoulder. His hair fell in lengthy reddish curls around his face.

"You should learn how to sew," he gritted through his teeth.

I rolled my eyes, even though I knew he couldn't see me. The urge to tug a bit harder on the thread came into my mind, but I quickly shook away the thought.

"You're lucky I found you out there at all," I lectured, hooking the needle under the skin of his shoulder blade. He took in a sharp breath. "You could've died, you know."

"The thought never crossed my mind."

I couldn't tell whether he was making some sort of macabre sarcasm about his near death experience, or whether he was being genuine.

"How much longer do I have to lay here?" He asked.

"I'm almost done. Be patient."

"Us higher beings aren't known for our patience."

I smiled. "At least you guys seem to have a sense of humor."

He laughed, softly. There was a sort of boyishness to him that felt endearing. I didn't know whether it was his delicate features or soft laugh, but the contrast between that and the fate he faced was tragically poetic.

"Not all of us," he said after some time. "Just me."

...

"Alright, I'm done." I sighed, trying to shake the numbness from my hand. It had taken me another half hour to finish the sutures, during which neither of us really said anything more. At a certain point I thought he'd fallen asleep, until he told me the elbow I'd been resting on him was digging into him.

"Took you long enough," he joked, sitting up and stretching his arms. I sat next to him awkwardly, fumbling with the hem of my shirt.

"Can I ask you something?" I finally said.

He didn't answer, simply looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite place. Kind, no doubt, but still perplexing.

"What... happened?"

He tensed, then met my eyes.

"I made a stupid choice. I tried to take down a kingdom all by myself. Tried to topple a deity. What a fucking joke." He laughed an exacerbated, pitiful laugh. "You should've heard it. The last thing Isaiah said to me, I—"

His voice wavered.

"What did he say...?" I asked hesitantly. He didn't answer, and I was afraid the eggshells I was walking on had finally broken. But then he spoke.

"How you have fallen from heaven, morning star," he regaled his name's meaning mockingly, "son of the dawn."

He took in a shaky breath.

"That's funny," I said under my breath, almost immediately regretting it. "S-sorry. It's not funny, just... That sounds like something someone told me once."

"Who?"

"My mother."

It was his turn to ask questions now.

"What did she say?"

"Pretty much the same thing," I took a breath in, "but without the courtesy of being called her son."

I sat there motionless, using whatever energy I had to stop myself from breaking down. Then he brought me into a tight embrace. I embraced him back, clinging to his torso. My hands traced the injures on his back, gliding across the sutures that had brought us to this moment. Then I cried. Then he cried. And we were two sinners, weeping on each others shoulders.

PROMPT: reflect on a ritual, whether it's a personal habit, cultural tradition, or invented routine. what does your ritual signify? what happens when a ritual is interrupted or transformed? how does it evolve over time?

i walk the same route
to work every day
despite the true crime influencers
and talk show hosts,
who tell me
it's a sure-fire way
to become a missing poster
inside the local walmart

i walk with my headphones in,
in the city, late at night

i take shortcuts in alleys
and take the bus
to the taco bell downtown
where my dad told me
the riff-raff like to hang

ive never been one to take precautions
because i know
no matter how many

drinks, i turn down
articles of clothing, i wear
or keys, i keep between my fingers

they'll still tell me
what i should've done better
if anything ever did happen.

and everytime they do,
all i hear
is "you should've been born a man"

PROMPT: think & write about a place you love and how it appears in your heart & life.

ode to cascadia

she is the only constant in my life
i love her textured skin
filled with mountains,
creeks, and lakes
the peach fuzz pine that covers her face
makes the summer heat a bit more bearable
i'm content when she cries,
and even though it's cruel
she never holds a grudge
because she knows it's not personal
she never complained when we built towers
or buildings or bridges or homes
and every time the mountain is out
i smile,
knowing i have a friend

PROMPT: write about the feeling of clothes on a body— the way it fits & feels, and what each material inspires.

his gildan shirt clung to his chest
and tapered off the further
down his body it went
it looked great on him
but it looked a lot better
laying atop my lampshade

my hand felt across
the patches and pins
scouring his jeans
the dental floss caught
on the guitar-induced callouses
of my fingertips

slowly, un-donned
his skin no longer
with a barrier to mine

...

his boxers sat on my hips
far better than his

my necklace looked nicer
clipped around his neck

and his shoes were always better
when they were sat
by the door of my apartment

PROMPT: explore how things break, branch, become fractals-- where does the importance in repetition or breaking away from it lie?

girlhood

barbies
|
mud potions
|
a hello kitty towel
|
"you can't
go to the movies
with those boys
it'll be your fault
when something happens
to you"
  /    \
the start     the end
  of sexism   of girlhood
      |           |  
 mansplaining    gender crisis
   rape         |
    |           |
          victim blaming   "im not a lady, mom"
                      /     \                 /       \          
                     overpolicing me     turbo          "well you    \                       
                     underpolicing men    slutiness     sure look    poisoned              
                          \   /              like one;"  femininity     
             \ /                        \  /
                  V                    gender crisis
              imposter                      V    
                   syndrome                gender crisis  
                                    \_________________________/                      
                                  V                    
               disappointing my parents

PROMPT: write about stones as keepers of stories and witnesses to history. what silent wisdom do things like stones have, with their enduring presence? AND write something based off of another piece of writing, art, music, etc! maybe an ode to or a commentary on it— whatever feels right.

scattered on my person
littered on my frame
purple and yellow bruises
dot across my face
work is like a boyfriend
that gets worse as you age
what would these walls tell me
if i bowed to them and prayed?

PROMPT: think about the absence of something and how the shape it once filled & now leaves affects things. is it good? sad? bittersweet? write about it.

i laugh at One Piece memes,
even though i've never seen it,
because a boy-i-tried-hooking-up-with loved it

the only reason i gave the yakuza series a shot
was because of an old friend—
who i had fallen out with
—who absolutely loved it

my regular go-to coffee order
is the same as my moms;
and her love of soap operas
lives on in me

"i am a mosaic of everyone ive once loved"

once, being the key word

the boy-i-tried-hooking-up-with
can't tell me about the last album he bought
and i won't be able to put
the singles from it on my playlist

the slang i once took from my ex-best friend
is permanently stuck in 2016
and his mannerisms have long since
faded from my subconcious mind

there's pieces of my mosaic missing

because the people ive taken from
aren't here
for my kleptomanic tendencies

PROMPT: write about digital ghosts. explore the remnants of a person— a digital footprint, if you will— that lingers even after active online presence fades. what does it mean for us to have two selves— the real life, which is ever-changing, and the online, which will always be every version of you at once, keeping the old and new.

last online: august 14, 2016
an old roblox account i cant get back into
removeddit and orphan_account
and a nine year old comment on a youtube video
from a country across the world from mine

PROMPT: this one's more open-ended; I just want you to think and write about jellyfish, because i love them and i'm feeling like hearing about what they mean to you! here's a playlist that makes me happy and might inspire you.

ode to the jellyfish

i met a girl last summer
at shilshole bay
where the puget sound
met lake washington

i almost missed her the first night
wreaths of seaweed framed her face,
stained glass skin
peaked above the salt water,
and all i could make out
were small stars
floating in her stomach

her stringy braids
were caught on the dock
inbetween the planks

old wives tales
and middle school science class
told me to walk away,
but my hands worked faster than my brain

she didn't say anything
or nod or wave or smile
but i knew she was thankful

—i swear i saw her wink

PROMPT: write about brief encounters, fleeting moments, first impressions. what do these leave behind for us?

"Hate the sin, love the sinner."

The old woman with the curly bob gives a small smile. Her gaze doesn't meet mine, as she's sitting down, but regardless I meet it. There's warmth in her words, but all I see in her eyes is pity. She holds out a pocket bible outstretched in her hand.

The stand she's behind is typical of any small-city-festival-proselytization booth. A white fold-out table adorned with banners, booklets, and other religious literature. All of the important words— Hell, repentance, judgment, Leviticus —are bolded on the signage.

I think about what she must have thought in order to stop me specifically. How my height gives away my biology. The way my feminine shape must still peak through my boxers and cargo pants. The trans tape peaking out the side of my sleeveless tee. The boy I'm interlocking hands with.

I grab the bible with my free hand. Deep copper text on top of a dusty navy cover. I trace the words 'King James version' with my thumb. How could something I spent so many years escaping still look this beautiful? I grip the book out of frustration.

"But I am the sin," I tell her.

Her smile waivers, caught off guard, and she looks at me in confusion.

"The sin is fused into my skin, and threaded into my heart. The sin is graffiti scrawled on an overhead highway sign, with the words 'FAGGOT' and 'TRANNY.' Separating me from the sin is like splitting an atom from itself. Me and the sin are like the men i commit them with—"

She huffed, in her objection.

"—entangled despite the eyes."

PROMPT: write about evolution and devolution. how do we unravel & re-ravel? think about what histories our bodies & communities & species & worlds are made of.

overtly overbearing fathers teach
the tricks to their own kids
clearing their browsing history
and faking an occupied bed

i dont want his temper
or his hatred
i want his drive and yearning
not his innate fakeness

egoistic mothers
love to treat you like you're dumb
they force us to be daughters
when we want to be their sons

i learned a lot from her
whether it's what she hoped or not
i will be better than her
i will be everything she wasn't

PROMPT: consider 'trace elements'-- barely noticeable things and what they change. think butterfly effect! are their effects expected & small or disproportionate? is a 'trace element' an extra bit of DNA? is it some milk in a loaf of bread?

i like to buy things
on ebay;

used things
with stories

claw machine prizes
and christmas gifts
that sat in storage

trapped in boxes,
label over label
until they decide
it'd be better off with me

when i open that package
and reveal my piece
an aroma alien to me

cigarette smoke
and old cologne

traces of someones love

PROMPT: write about or use asymmetry in your writing. what is the intrigue in imbalance? maybe work with different-sized stanzas or long, long sentences followed by short ones, or think about how no two bodies are the same, nor two halves of the same body, or how the feeling of a painting shifts with where the objects sit.

i fall betw
een the pri   the
me meridian     sky  
my body fol        line
ded a milli-------------
on ways ori   is
gami'd unti     pre
l i can't s        ttier
ee myself a--------------
s me who  i   on
am is unkno      my
wn to those        own;
that are th--------------
e closest t   sile
o myself in      nce
between the        is my
closet  and--------------
the unemplo   new
yment  line     favo
the old que        rite
eer special          song
--------------------------

PROMPT: explore on the softness & blurring of edges—dawn/dusk, the place between sleep and wakefulness, transitions from youthfulness to adulthood and adulthood to old age. what do those borders & changes feel like, look like, smell like?

One day closer to freedom, I think, wiping spaghetti stains off of a red-and-white tablecloth. The checkered print had been seared into my mind by the time 7 o'clock hits. Glasses clank and clatter as I load them onto the tray. I try (and fail) to grab a plate without getting butter on my hands.

Of all the days to be wearing rings.

I let out an annoyed sigh, and haul the tray to the back.

This isn't my job— I wipe a plate into the compost bin —I'm a host. I'm not a busser, I'm not a server. I sure as hell don't get paid like one. I pick the straws out of the cups. A plate shatters in the kitchen. I should quit.

I don't, though, instead I simply continue grabbing used napkins and utensils and keep my thoughts to myself. My coworker, one of the serving staff, passes by my left shoulder with a plate of chicken parmesan (I could smell it before I saw it). She turns to me before making it to her table, and asks me something:

"We're getting drinks after work, wanna come?"

My feet, calloused and blistered beyond belief scream to me. "Please, not a moment more of walking!" They beg; they know just as well as I do. I have to do this all over again the next day, and the next, and the next after that.

I know all of this to be true, and yet I still muster up a reply.

"Sure, when are you off?"

PROMPT: try to make your writing as silent as possible. i know it's a weird prompt-- don't take it too seriously. have fun. what does it mean for writing to be quiet?

flowery language
made for pinterest
sentences
that don't really mean anything
with randomly placed italics
and line art
that has nothing to do with the theme
of the poem
quiet as in not loud,
or quiet as in doesn't speak?

PROMPT: explore the concept of time in your writing. play with the idea of how we perceive passing time [linear/cyclical/all at once/not at all] and make it weird and surreal, or maybe go more classic & write some fun time travel/time loop fiction. how does time shape us?

"poetry is supposed to suck a little bit"
i told myself
in my high school writing class
hours old drip coffee
no longer cold
sitting to my left

the over-top edge
i developed under fluorescent lights
was a bit more than necessary

"poetry is supposed to suck a little bit"
i tell myself
sitting at the dining room table
writing straight into the html of my neocities page

three years have passed
and i still write useless diatribes
about how sad i am

—a coffee to my left

some things change
some things stay the same

PROMPT: explore a life cycle in some kind of writing. for example, you could use metamorphosis, diapause/hibernation, paedogenesis [very weird], puberty, the salmon life cycle, the amphibian life cycle, or something else entirely! you don't have to be direct-- just start here and get inspired.

its 1:32 am
and im googling images
of apartments i used to live in
crisped and color-corrected
until they're no longer plausible

unnaturally florescent cyan pools
with not a dead wasp or twig in sight
stand out among the freshly cut lawns
and dark oak buildings
they repainted since i left
no more chipped brown paint
with moss growing in the cracks
the fences are still rotting, though

i guess not everything can be perfect

the buildings still surround
the picturesque courtyard
with firs,
a park,
and hounding parents

claustrophobic all the same

someone else lives there now
in apartment U3
i don't know who
but i imagine they're a lot like i was

i hope that the kids are taking care of the place
that they still ride their bikes around the parking lot
and wipe out over speed bumps
and the laundry room is still the primary hangout spot
for awkward loser pre-teens like me
i hope that the pool is still closed for maintenance—
like it always is
—and the ice cream truck still makes it's way around the block regardless

so that when they,
inevitably,
get priced out
the next batch of poor kids
will experience it too

PROMPT: take time to explore different structures of whatever you like to write. for poetry, consider writing a pantoum, ghazal, or abecedarian (some of my favorites). for an essay or fiction, consider writing vignettes, something in epistolary form, a diptych/triptych piece, a frame story, or a circular narrative.

a love letter in my locker with a pretty red bow
he cupids his arrow, but it still doesn't land
i exist in a place demonized by most

no water, soil, or fertilizer; nothing to be grown
a cattle to the herd with no loving heart-shaped brand
im on the other side of unrequited love

halved in his chest, the x-ray does show
romance isnt a tool that i have in my hand
i exist in a place demonized by most

black eyes and busted lips are the closest that ill know
to highschool sweetheart boyfriends with hidden knuckle brass
im on the other side of unrequited love

used, abused, and ran through; you reap what you sow
too late for me, i guess, no take-sy backs
i exist in a place demonized by most

"a life of sex and lust is nothing to boast"
every indulgence taken part in... not meant to be that
i exist in a place demonized by most
im on the other side of unrequited love

PROMPT: write about echoes, sound, and reverberation. what is an echo— just sound or something more? how can it reverberate through past, present, and future? can emotion be an echo in that way? what else can be?

A screaming silence stood in the air.

The counting of an analog clock could be heard clearly throughout the small studio. The ticks were practically claps with how much silence they could move through. They imagined the inside of the clock. Gears scrapping against each other, springs and sprockets bouncing up and down. Intricate enough to fit inside a flat circle the size of a small cake.

They shifted a bit. A few joints let out a satisfying crack. Staying in the same position for so long began to show its effect, but they couldn't be bothered to do anything about it.

"You awake?" They asked the boy underneath them.

His body laid slack— one leg draped over the edge of the couch. His arm curled under their chest, holding them in place. He had to take noticeably larger breaths because of the dead weight. With every one he took his chest rose and fell, and they rose and fell with it. Their breathing was off-sync from one another; he began inhaling moments before they began exhaling.

"I am now," he replied.

"I can't exactly stay in the same position all night, you know."

"Sounds like an excuse to me."

They rolled their eyes.

"Fine, I'll get up if you want me to—" they propped themselves up to move, but he pulled them back down.

"Hey, hey, I didn't say that." He held them tighter against him.

"That's what I thought."

The same silence overtook the air again. Not awkward, just... present.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he whispered.

"Surprising, hm?"

"...What is?"

"That I have a heart."

PROMPT: fuck salvador dali for being evil. that said, write a piece inspired by two famous dali paintings-- persistence of memory and the elephants. consider exploring movement, slowness/speed, heat/cold, and warped sensations.

he hovers over me
hands planted on either side of my body,
carefully balanced above.

we stayed in this position for ages
our joints surely stuck
sweat cascaded from his skin,
dripping like analog
glinted across his warm-toned tan body;
the street lamp outside
made for nice lighting

the air around us warped with heat
he leaned his head down to kiss me,
steadily with shake,
and I melted underneath him

he kissed me
his hands traveled up my shirt
my breath hitched
he kissed me again

the windows fogged
boys will be boys
and all I can think of is Titanic '97
ripped through concentration

the walls came down,
and I laid motionless on my bed—
the blue hue of my phone taunts me

these accounts, on lifted stilts,
finally came crashing down
now existing as pings on a cell tower

i wish it could be more
at least, I think I do
it won't be though,
and there's no one to blame but me
in what could only be called
"the consequences of my actions"