Darkness clings to light, a delicate gray cushion of hope.
I have a compass And it always points North. Something in my inner ear Bear towards the cold, the lonely.
Miles never would’ve imagined that tonight his life would be on the line. He was ordinary. Grab the box. Pack products. Repeat. Get paid. Sleep. Get a day off in between. Life was cut and dry. “Work until you die,” he’d say.
I’ve been writing most of my life, starting around age eight with poems and journal entries. Writing then was natural; I wrote because I had something to say about the world, and if there was no one to talk to, well, I could talk on paper. It wasn’t until after I’d been working a few years as a press correspondent and an editor that I discovered my voice. It happened when I wrote on a topic I felt passionate about, at a time when I was angry.
Like boats tied in harbor, bicycles list against the harbor station walls—
Let us follow, to farm dances atop the hay bales, Where the skirts of young girls catch wind like sails. Fieldsmens’ pitchforks gleam under the harvest moon, and the young girl falls into a June night’s swoon.
look in the mirror that’s the ghost of you a fraction of a second ago I look into my lover’s eyes and she seems alive though I know we’re wilting
This baggy old structure features three or four bathrooms walled in, sealed off decades ago. Ghosts won’t rattle my dentures, rats and mice won’t trouble my soul, but I hope that big grisly spiders won’t appear when I burst the walls to salvage the antique plumbing.
If you’re craving to write something new, experimental, or you want to explore a topic, even jumpstart a stalled writing project, a writing prompt can be a great catalyst. Some writers generate enough ideas on their own—thank you very much—without what may feel like an assignment. But a writing prompt, as short as a word or not words at all, can free the writer to explore new terrain for the thrill of seeing where the journey leads.
After his eviction, Daryl headed uncertainly to an extended stay motel on the main drag. But after sorting through his crinkled bills, after counting and recounting, found he was $7 short for a night’s rest, and the wan dead-eyed clerk refused to cut him a break. “Sorry, it's hotel policy. Nothing I can do.”