Writing Prompt: Jan 15 - 28

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Writing Prompt Feature: Jan 14th, "Last Days"

For this prompt I asked you to suspended belief or disbelief. Imagine instead that science, technology, theology and prediction all agreed on one date, one time. And that time was Tomorrow, exactly 24 hours from now. And the featured entry was:

CollapseI met you in a side street meshed in silence, halfway between my home and yours. Just as I set out to find you in the heart of the doomed city, you did the same, heading for my place. It is amazing how we always are on the same wavelength, guessing each other's thoughts and actions.
Or maybe it is nothing out of the ordinary. It is normal that we want to spend the last hours of our lives together.
"Hey," you greet me as I put my arms around you. "You seem tired. Didn't get much rest, I suppose?"
"I couldn't sleep for days." Not with all the noise, shouting, chanting in the street. Not with the knowledge that these would be the Earth's last hours. That night, I stood at the window, meditating on the transitory nature of human endeavour while trying to discern the faint red glow of the sky caused by the intensifying cosmic radiation. With no electricity, the city was resting in darkness, but the intense glow of stars gave it an ethereal atmosphere. There were much more stars in the sky t

Collapse by helice93
A wonderfully balanced intermingling of intelligent science, philosophy, human observation and dialog come together within this one piece. The results are both touching and slowly terrifying; calm and embedded with a thick tension at the same time. Very good work.


Writing Prompt: Jan 15th - 28th, "Chilled to the Bone"

As the winter winds blow across my lawn, spreading the ice crystals in random little spirals and creating sparkling piles of frost and snow everywhere, I can't help but let the winter weather influence my every thought.
This sessions prompt involves a common phrase that can be used in a variety of ways. When you hear that someone is chilled to the bone, what do you envision? Is it the effects of the winter winds brushing over exposed skin, or the feeling you get when the street lights suddenly blink off as you cross the abandoned street? Is it that physical feeling of winter, or the emotional feeling of fear rushing through you?

(Originally I was going to continue the Last Days prompt, but on further consideration I have decided to save the a second prompt in those lines until a later date)



All writing prompt participants will mentioned in a news article feature, and one will be featured in the bi-weekly journal with a blurb about why they were chosen. So get in on the free publicity today, and work out your brain muscles!

For those of you who use the writing prompt, please remember to put the Poets-N-Prose icon in your artist's comments.
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If using the prompt, please submit to the Writing Prompt folder.
Those pieces  that come to the Writing Prompt folder without being part of this prompt, and without having mention to the prompt in the artists comments, will be declined - Please use the group's drop down list accordingly and don't just submit to the Writing Prompt because it's the first thing that pops up for you.




Please note: These following  feature works are not affiliated with, contained in, or part of the PNP Prompts or Group.

:icondailylitdeviations:                                         DLD Pick of the Days, Jan 1-14                                    :icondailylitdeviations:
ingloriousi am all smiles
and pale sun,
too.
and we are wild
things
it's true.
but in past lives
i was good.
The Trembling RoomThe parents are sitting
behind a glass wall
on a brown leather couch.
Not black.
Not a black couch.
There is nothing black
in the room at all.
There is a glass coffee table
with shiny chrome legs.
There is a ceramic vase
holding red flowers.
There is a window
overlooking the hospital yard,
green grass, oak trees.
There is a mother, wringing her hands,
there is a father, grinding his teeth,
and there is silence.
There is so much
ready to break
in this trembling room.
Mud by lluviosa Out of ThymeIt wasn't until after she died that Trevor realized he couldn't cook.
The realization came six months after the funeral, when all the casseroles and baked goods were eaten and when all the flowers had long wilted, but before the critical time when he knew that it was time to box all her things away and donate them. He had started to do that, but when he got to her clothing, he couldn't take it anymore and the job was left unfinished.
There was no sudden moment of epiphany for him. He was able to cook simple things-spaghetti, soup from a can, microwave dinners, pasta and sausages, things like that. But as he stood over the stove, stirring his noodles, his eyes fell on the spice rack by the oven. It was made from wood and carved with whorls and loops-a unique piece which she had chosen from a craft fair and likely overpaid for the honour of owning. It was too small for her collection of spices; they were crammed in and had to be stacked two jars high.
The spice jars were covered in a lig

On a Rainy AfternoonLike outside patters, Chopin's rain
Drips steady with the flatted A
On sakura of orange peel
And washes down my sun-sweet meal:
A harvest from the girl who plays
A strain that wanes but comes again.
The Minotaur's Bride"Why, such untruths," says the Minotaur, stroking my cheek with a waxen claw. "What reason have I to murder and, ugh, how I shudder to say it," (he provides a theatrical little twitch of fur) "eat my guests?"
"That is merely what they say."
"They, they, they. And who is they, and how do you suppose they know? Have they been here? Do they dine with me?"
"Well, no, sir, but . . ."
"You silly little girl. So silly. So charmingly silly." He holds my entire chin now in his massive hand, and I know he can feel my frantic swallows like a sparrow's heartbeat against his flesh. "Why do you suppose I request only maidens and unwed men?"
"I... I do not know, sir."
"Well, goodness, it can't be that they taste better. Why on earth would anyone suppose a virgin tastes better than a slut, or vice versa? Humans are humans. I imagine you lot all taste the same."
"But marriage…"
"I'm a lonely creature. Admittedly a greedy one as well. No one needs seven wives at once. But I do enjoy i
Skinny Dipping in MortalitySome days, Tartaros beckons to me.
My mother's desperation to retain me was understandable, it seems. It seems that I am stuck between two forces that need me like breathing, that tug back and forth until I now fear that I may rip in half. Mother calls me back with warmth and sunlight; he calls me back with silence.
The dead are the most interesting conversationalists, at least when they can be coerced into speaking. Oh, some simply stare or wallow about in their sadness, but others – the good dead, the ones who do not think they still live but truly know it – are truly worth my time. That is the only thing I possess in droves. I have all the time in the world.
The Underworld is a marvelous place to me. It is here that old men can become young in the eyes of eternity; here ugly girls can fancy themselves beautiful; here young children grow old with cynicism splashed across their innocent faces.
I am writing this down so that I will not forget it after I return to the surface

In the WildernessDown the street they've got a trash fire burning,
and it gathers the wind and paints ghosts upon faces
all orange and black, lucid and lascivious.
This ain't the Motor City though, it ain't the Bronx...
truth be told I live outside of town, outside the loop,
and people on this street rarely speak English,
and I rarely understand what they're saying.
And I see them, and I think, "America the Beautiful"
I don't really know what's expected of me,
sometimes you find yourself places you'd never imagined,
find yourself locked by gravity in a space of time
and you're where you're supposed to be,
because
you're where you are.
And if that's not enough for you, you don't deserve more.
I don't keep my lawn mowed, I don't tend my garden
or stain my hands with earthy soil. I grow mostly weeds,
and resilient Elm that are easier to grow than to kill.
Around here, you don't make yourself a target.
You don't project to the world - "here I am, look at me"
around here, you keep it quiet. Maybe you say, "
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The Featured Artists and Pick of the Day listings for DLD can always be found here: dailylitdeviations.deviantart.… . Be sure to check them out. :)



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LauraS45's avatar
I love that story The Tell Tale Heart! by Edgar Allen Poe. I love him to :) I have some ideas now I cannot wait to get stared. :happybounce::excited: