Sometimes, words aren’t enough. She realizes this in his wan smile before he drains his glass to give her a perfunctory nod, grunting at the bitterness burning down his throat. He says nothing as idle conversations stray by their table and that’s when her words echo back to her. Like soulless drips collecting, rippling out into a void. And there’s nothing else to say because he’s heard it all before. So what do you do when words are all you have to give, even in their superfluity? She calls his name softly and reaches across the table, squeezing his hand.
We’ve tumbled right along into a new weekend. Another State of emergency is about to be implemented where I live, and I’m starting to wish i could just work from home.
Besides that, I enjoy weekends because I look forward to SammiCox’s writing prompts. This weekend was quite challenging; it’s really hard to write a story/creative piece in only 19 words. For me, at least. I stared at the first two lines of my entry for over an hour before I could piece it into something coherent — I hope.
Please enjoy your Saturday and have an awesome weekend 💕
There is an odd moment I recall every now and then. A memory that revisits in the hour when the moon untangles her chiffon veil, shadows pooling at her feet. Tonight, it finds me in my failed search for sheep to indulge a silly bedtime routine.
I met a girl whose heart lived in a basket, woven of twine with lilies and thorns; rusted in ruby hues from her bleeding palm. I couldn’t understand how she was alive while her heart throbbed outside of her. And as if she could hear my thoughts, her lips twisted in a peculiar smile and with a silken voice, she told me things weren’t always as they seemed. Almost like a cryptic taunt, mocking my curiosity.
But what perplexes me even more is that I can still hear the jaunty staccato of her heartbeat echoed within my own, as if she is more than just a dream stepping beyond the ivory threshold of the surreal to find me.
Amy squinted at the mirror, fingers pressed to its cold surface framed in mahogany. Her expression twisted, confused at the empty space that should’ve shown her reflection. Everything else in her bedroom had one, so where was hers? She yelled out as her mother entered her room, gasping when she saw herself…in bed?
But…that’s absurd! I’m standing right here!
I’m a little sad since I broke my writing streak (unintentionally). However, SammiCox’s Weekend Writing Prompts still help me to stay on track.
I rewrote this entry a number of times, but I think this was the best way I could end it for a story in 61 words. I hope you’re all doing well! ✨
Emma wasn’t scared of the dark. When nightmares separated themselves from the spill of formless shadows crowding the spaces of her room, she didn’t scream nor cocoon herself within the safety of her blankets.
Instead, she watched rotted hands stretch from beneath her bed while ghoulish eyes blinked at her through the slats of her closet, as the chill of a child’s disembodied laughter raked over her ear. But her heart only quavered with an innocent curiosity towards them, to know the world beyond harmless phantasms. And they took her, like countless others, devoured in the mystery of the night.
Bella had started a treasure hunt for seashells, spurred by tales her grandmother had told her when she was a little girl. She’d heard seashells carried the voice of the sea. Dulcet murmurs full of secrets to be understood by keen ears and a quiet mind. But all the seashells she’d collected held barren echoes. A forlorn silence. As if the sea had departed the shells which treasured its heart with a cold goodbye.
What do you see, through the looking glass? Fingers part threadbare blinds of faded scarlet. Eyes wary of the world spinning on apathetic hums; familiar notes of a known pantomime.
Phantom arachnids crawl over the senses with itching persuasion. What’s the point of going out today? Hang the mask back on the shelf. Pour a bowl of cereal. Let the radio fill the quiet spaces. Today, we won’t hang ourselves on the puppet master’s strings.
When energies like elements collide, something magical happens. Lightning bolts race down the spine as goosebumps chase the sensation of shivers so intense, it can hardly be contained behind a composed visage. That’s how it always happened in her mind, but perhaps she was being too romantic.
A day late for this prompt by SammiCox, because it slipped my mind. But better late than never! And this also helps me to keep up my writing streak. I hope you’re all doing well ✨🌼