Writing Prompt
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Saturday WriteO Prompt: Clap
Oskar had waded through the remnants of the town for over a day, not finding anything important or useful in the rubble. His stomach was grinding with anxiety and hunger, worrying about what was going to happen when it finished… Continue reading
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Thursday WriteO Setting Prompt: Bag
The sprite slipped into her hand-bag, falling in between the small gaps of jumbled objects as she jostled it in her walk. When they finally came to a stop, the hand-bag was thumped once more, dropped onto a counter and… Continue reading
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I’ve Revived my Writeometer
Years ago I download an app called Writeometer. I stopped using it for a long time because of my inability to keep a schedule and the big low of my writing years but have recently cleansed it and started using… Continue reading
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Tuesday WriteO Poetry Prompt: Warden
Sometimes I feel small, Like I’m curling into a ball, As if making myself small, Will make life feel less threatening, Sometimes it feels like I’m being swallowed, Like my body is being hollowed, Into the darkness, I am swallowed,… Continue reading
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Writing Prompt: Foreclosure
When I was younger, I moved a lot, Home was not a house, not a place, not a single spot, But I wanted that room, that place I always knew, I wanted my own space, known by few, But that’s… Continue reading
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Writing Prompt: Cleaning
I do and don’t like cleaning. It’s one of those things that I don’t want to do when it’s someone else’s mess or if someone tells me to, but I sometimes will like cleaning the houses of my siblings when… Continue reading
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The Christmas Edition
She had cream coloured hair, with caramel streaks. her eyes were a variant of light browns, like walnuts without their shell. A snowy path with lanterns dangling from the trees, dimly lighting the way with a little swing as… Continue reading
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A Flower Child
Her hair sticks out in thick, orange locks, like a bonnet of petals, the blondish centre appearing to be the centre of this little flower. Continue reading
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Always a Painting
There is always a sunset and a sunrise. A painting that drifts around the world. Changing and morphing but always the same kind of beauty. Continue reading
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The Little Shed
At the end of the trail was a little turquoise cabin. It was small and opened with two glass doors that folded against their frame. Surrounding the cabin, and even crawling up and over the roof, were flowers of an… Continue reading
Hopfield is Writing 