Category: pages

Famous Artwork

Choose a famous painting and write about it.

365 creative writing prompts

The museum was oppressively silent on the warm summer day in which our story takes place. The paintings stood before the spectators like effigies, presences dominating in their subtleties. He had eyes only for one. Her gaze was transfixing in its nonchalance, and it was hard to take his eyes off her nose and her lips, angles and curves. They still gleamed, even after all those frozen years. The line of her jawbone framed the oversized silver pearl that hung weightless from her ear. The folds of the turban that capped her hair were cornflower blue and buttery yellow. Her eyes told secrets that her lips did not.

If people noticed or understood, he couldn’t tell. She was staring at him. He could almost hear the tantalizing invitation to follow on those round, shiny lips. She was who he’d come to see. He knew it now that all those miles he’d traveled, the people he’d left in his wake… all the roads of his life always led to him to her. Fate gave him no choice. How had he gone so long without knowing of her existence? How had he gone so long without having her?

The decision was made before he knew it. When did it get so dark? The night air was cold and the door was locked, but his will to see her again outweighed the physical limitations of mere reality. His feet led him in the right direction. He knew not where they took him, but he followed with all the more confidence, armed with his belief that she would be at the end of their unknowable path.

The hallway seemed longer now, striped in moonlight. He held his breath as he neared the end of it. All he had to do was reach for the doorknob, turn the handle… and push. The door swung open on well-greased hinges, and he glanced around the room, squinting into the shadows. Surely, someone should be guarding her? She was more precious than the pearl that hung from her ear, more precious than freedom itself. But, no. He stood alone. Alone with her.

She was resting right where he left her, that smile even more sumptuous in the silver night. He approached slowly. Fingers trembling, he reached out to touch her, hold her. Even more marvelous up close, the turn of her head, the heavy suggestion of her gaze. He would need to be quiet, oh so quiet, if he was to get them out of this modern-day prison. She deserved to be in the light. She was light itself, eradicating the darkness from his soul.

His haste was his downfall. As he snuck through the house as quickly as he dared, a bright unnatural beam, quite unlike the moon’s silvery glow, fell across his face. Suddenly, there were other men there, shouting in tongues as they blinded him with their flashlights. He cried out in horror and agony as they ripped her away from him and threw him to the floor. He sobbed into the carpet as they took her away, unfamiliar sounds and syllables streaming quickly from their mouths. Utterly destroyed, he laid on the carpet and wished for death–not his death, but the death of those who took her away from him. He told everyone who would listen as much, after they pulled him off the floor and marched him to one of their wretched cars.

As they forced him into the back seat, he closed his eyes and pictured her again. That earring glinted silver in his imagination, dangling so close to the cheek he longed to caress. She had a name, he forgot to ask her. Everyone did. That silver earring in his mind’s eye got bigger and bigger until it swallowed her entire face, the round lips and angled nose. He pounded his head against the plexiglass, threw himself back and forth and screamed to the heavens, demanding her name. The men holding him captive struggled to open the door, fumbling with the car keys as blood began streak the plexiglass. He lunged against their arms as they held him down. He screamed and spit in their faces, if only it would help him get to her, if only they’d tell him her name. And then, a sharp pain in the leg, and blackness took over.

The next morning, several small, local newspapers with a dedicated art readership would report an attempted theft of Johannes Vermeer’s famous painting, “The Girl With the Pearl Earring”. The arresting officers and museum security guards reported that the subject could not provide a sound reason as to why he was there that night. In fact, a bewildered press secretary told reporters that the only thing the Dutch police could get the American to say was a single, nonsensical question: “What is her name?”

The columnists were enthralled. One publication speculated as to whether the man was simply tortured by the question that agonized generations of art historians, the question of the identity of the girl in the Vermeer who transfixed you with a stare. The article did, however, continue on to admit that this did not explain the man’s intent of stealing the painting. Another publication posited that he was simply mad. Whatever the truth may be, all reports happily concluded that the painting remained undamaged and available for all to see, provided you did not try to steal it.

Last Person You Talked To

Write a quick little poem or story about the last person you spoke with.

365 creative writing prompts

The creature in his chest was stirring as he traced the curve of its wings, graphite scratching against the copier paper. The sketch took form quickly, confident strokes outlining the details of the creature’s head, its tail, its claws. He sat back in his chair after perfecting the finishing touches and frowned. The dragon was familiar–he must have drawn it thousands of times now–but like all the rest of the sketches, there was something missing. He’d dreamt of it every night this week, and yet he still couldn’t get it right. What was that missing detail? Was it the size of the nostrils, the length of the snout? The texture of the scales or the span of its half-spread wings? Whenever he tried to picture the little details of the creature from his dreams, they escaped him like water escaping a cupped hand.

“Gavin, buddy!”

Jeff’s voice boomed through his cubicle block, and he nearly fell out of his chair from the shock of it. He involuntarily tensed from the anticipation of Jeff’s large and powerful hand clapping his shoulder, but the blow never came. To Gavin’s horror, Jeff was too busy staring at his drawing.

“Nice lizard, dude.” He said. Gavin felt the heat of humiliation rise to his cheeks as he fumbled to shove the drawing out of view. Jeff was still wearing his vindictive, faux-friendly grin as he slapped a stack of overstuffed manila folders on Gavin’s desk.

“Need you to get through all these by end of day.” Gavin was still cooling off from the embarrassment of his boss catching him sketching a fantasy creature on the clock, and Jeff was already moving on. As he continued down Gavin’s row of cubicles, he turned back and shot off a few finger guns. “Appreciate it, dude!”

Gavin had to suppress an eye-roll. Jeff must’ve received feedback on his last performance review, but no amount of appreciative missives could hide his self-important arrogance. Gavin consoled himself with thinking of all the insults he would throw at Jeff’s receding back, if only he were brave enough to quit his job.

But quitting was out of the question. A glossy clipping of a wedding ring taped to his computer screen reminded him of that. Sophie might spend most of her time in fantasy worlds, but she was still, above all, pragmatic. She would never marry him if he didn’t even have the money to put a ring on her finger.

He flipped open the first manila folder and sighed heavily as a sudden wave of defeated exhaustion swept over him. Here he was, toiling away at an entry-level data job, all for her. It sounded more heroic than he felt. Maybe that’s why that dragon haunted his dreams and waking hours. Maybe it was his subconscious yearning for some sort of adventure. Maybe it was because with every passing day, he increasingly felt like it would be easier to slay a dragon than continue to subject himself to this job. He knew with ironclad certainty that this cubicle was not where he belonged, that this was not his destiny. It was simply one step on a path to greater things.

When he took the job, he believed that greater things meant marrying Sophie, getting promoted quickly, making enough money so she could stay home and happily write her stories for the rest of their lives. But the dragon, and the feelings he got when he dreamt or drew it, were evermore encroaching on that reality. Surely his destiny lay beyond the simplicity of domestic bliss, but his reality did not support that belief, and Sophie wouldn’t either. She was the picture of practicality, his grounding force. He’d needed that, when they first met. But lately, he was unable to curb his restlessness, even with that ring taped to his monitor. The dragon was becoming the stronger force, day in and day out. And even he was beginning to accept that one day, he wouldn’t be able to catch those feelings in a bottle anymore. One day, they would break free. And then, it was anyone’s guess at the consequences.

Author’s Note: This is a great example of how the response can sometimes be nothing like the prompt…

Recipe

Write about a recipe for something abstract, such as a feeling.

A REMEDY FOR HEARTBREAK

Say something, say nothing
Familiar hands hardly touching
A question asked that has no answer
Carried away on the wind

A negotiation of our souls
Blackened hearts like lumps of coal
You never liked the autumn air
But I am falling in love.

Meet me by the lake, my dear
Where we will try to swallow our fears
Two roads before our tired eyes
And one will lead to our demise

So let us take the other path
Hands intertwined, road to success

Author’s Note: I wanted to try to work the word ‘recipe’ into this one, but it didn’t feel natural. ‘Road’ in the last line would have been ‘recipe’. What do you think? Can you think of a way to work it in?

Slip-up

Write about making mistakes

How do you know when you’ve made a big mistake? Like, something so metrically large that it may have changed your life forever? It could take years, maybe decades to recognize that kind of mistake. So what’s the turning point? When do you know how royally you fucked up? Do you have to wait for your death bed? Or does it reveal itself to you over time, like bread crumbs leading to the point, the exact moment when everything changed?

And what if you could reverse the clock? Go back to that moment and make the decision again, but the right one this time, the one you were supposed to make, the one that gives you the life that you always wanted. Would you?

I ran my thumb over the surface of the pocket watch. It wasn’t much to look at, just a small, battered, barely working golden thing on an equally battered gold chain. It was a family heirloom, and although it didn’t look it, the watch was immensely valuable. In my family for as long as anyone can remember, the pocket watch, which I now dangled precariously over the river gorge, has been holding humanity and history at bay for maybe the whole of our time here, like an undo button on a video game. The Keeper of the watch, unfortunately, is not the wisest or most responsible member of the family, however. That monumental responsibility falls on the youngest child, and they will remain in possession of the watch until they die. In 1926, the watch was passed to my grandfather. Now, 100 years later, in lieu of his death, it will pass to my brother, a direct descendent. He will become the Watchkeeper, and his life will be changed forever.

Unless.

The watch swung in the wind, glinting gold in the sunlight. I had the power to end it. To save my brother, to stop my family from possessing this awesome power, to let the world march on without the security of an “undo” button.

I let the chain slip through my fingers, but at the very last second snatched it out of the air and close to my chest. Some mistakes, you can’t unmake. I’m very glad I didn’t have to try and unmake that one.

Handle with Care

Write about a very fragile or delicate object

I am shattered 
I am whole 
I fall apart 
and fall back together 
crashing waves on rocky shores 

You try and try 
gather all my pieces 
Do they even fit together anymore? 

Leave me 
(stay.) 
Save yourself 
Love me less 
words I selfishly will never say 

These days pass in 
hazy oblivion 
crowded isolation 
quiet exhaustion 
I feel invisible 
Lost. 

Will anyone stay 
long enough to care? 
Will anyone look 
long enough to stay? 
(You do.) 
(You see what I am) 
(oh darling, I think I'm in love) 
(please oh please, be careful with me) 
(I am as fragile as glass) 
(and on my worst days I am just as sharp) 
(I could never stand to hurt you) 
(oh but I might) 
(please don't leave me) 
(I love you like the sun on the cloudy days)

Holding Hands

The first time you held someone’s hand.

We ran off into the dark that night. Your eyes gleamed as we made for the woods and in the darkness of the canopy your smile came alive. I felt like I saw you that night in all of your honesty. We walked together, side by side, taking turns deciding which direction to explore. There was no meaning to the path we took. It would have been enough just to be with you. But I’m glad we decided to walk. The rhythm of our steps matched the words that flowed from your lips. The words seemed to tumble out of you and the woods caught them up, cradled them and made them okay, made even the ones you were scared to utter safe. I am in love with your mind here. It is beautiful to see a person unravel themselves out here, to listen as they bare their soul to the universe.

We do not touch. We do not need to. This is not a closeness that needs that kind of representation. We laid in the grass and allowed the birds, the crickets, the sudden and unexplained happenings in the woods wash over us. I picked a bright yellow flower for your hair and you indulged me, wore it proudly. This is all I need. But nevertheless, when we made our return to the horses and the people and the unflinching cement, I slipped my hand into yours. The warmth of your fingers tangled in mine is a comfort, nothing more, but a comfort in which I so readily indulge. I wish we could live in these woods forever, and entertain the corners of our minds, explore the dark spots we would never dare to venture to alone. This is the closeness I desire. But we do not live in that world, so for now, the unspoken comfort of connection will have to do. For now, that is all we have.

Sing a New Song

Take a popular song off the radio and write it as a poem in your own words

Based on Taylor Swift’s “High Infidelity” from the 2022 Midnights album

HIGH INFIDELITY
Put on your records and regret me
I broke your heart too many times
So pop the cork, pour the wine

UNBROKEN TRUTH
Sitting in the kitchen, staring at you
I've hurt you lots, you've hurt me too
It's crazy what a few years will do

LOST TO THE AGES
You right there always singing my praises
I'd ask you where it all went wrong
But something tells me you won't stay long

I'LL MAKE THIS QUICK
I'd tell you I love you but it won't stick
Letting you go is hard to do
And I never wanted to hurt you

PLEASE, BEFORE YOU GO
I just want to make sure you know
This love story made me new
It saved me, but I couldn't save you.

Tear-jerker

Watch a movie that makes you cry. Write a poem about that scene in the movie.

Beautiful women

crying in the rain

tears mingling with

droplets falling

delicately on delicate features

hardly marred by sorrow

 

I do not look like this when I cry.

Their sadness is harsh

but fleeting

erased by a kiss from

the hero who is of course

devoted

to bringing them sunny days

where they may forget their pain on a gentle breeze.

 

I do not have a hero like this.

I stand alone and

drum out my afflictions

to this empty world until

I must be collapsing

A dying star.

Not beautiful

not unmarred

not forgetful.

 

You don’t see this kind of darkness in the movies.

The thoughts in my head would

make you recoil and the things I have

done

may make you hate me.

And as so many before you have

you may leave me

 

I do not want a hero

I have no more space in my soul

for concerning myself with the looks of things.

I would not be beautiful

to a hero

My flaws are too pronounced

and too much a part of me.

Please do not try to save me

For this is no movie

and I will not glisten lovingly in the rain.

 

I am not the rain.

I am the thunder

and the lightning

and darling I burn red hot

and to try to save me would be to

destroy yourself.

Darling, there is no need for that.

 

I am unfixable and that is okay

I am imperfect;

Love me for that.

I am too sad and too childish

and too scared to speak;

Forgive me for that.

I am selfish and needy

and lazy and foolish;

I require patience.

 

Do not be my movie-star hero

I have no interest in that person

Be with me

All of me

See me for who I am

and love me anyway.

That is the only hero

I could possibly accept

and the only movie

I would ever want to watch

Sunrise, sunset

It goes round and round.

I don’t understand people who think sunrises and sunsets are the same, nor do I understand the people who think every sunset and every sunrise have little variation. To me, every rising and falling light is unique. Predictable, sometimes? Yes. On a cloudy day, it is only expected that the sky will gradually darken, but sometimes a few rays of light escape the heavy blanket and set the sky on fire–sheer unpredicted brilliance. The sun has marked my days and nights, as it has for millions of people for millions of years.

That summer, I thought the sun would never set, and you gave the colors their meaning. We danced and played in the warmth of an endless sunset, or was it a sunrise, I still don’t know. Was what happened an ending or a beginning?

The night it happened, the earth stopped spinning, I swear. The colors dulled or maybe I was blinded to their beauty, stained with your darkness. I still try to figure out how you hid it so well, I was so wrong about you. It makes me angry to this day, I lash out and meaninglessly strike out at the endless night. Yesterday, I threw darts and imagined every time I hit the bullseye it was your face, and you were mangled and bloody by the end of it. When I get angry like this, I feel like I get even more stuck in the darkness, further and further from my sunrise. I miss the light I thought you were, but I shudder at the thought of getting close to another again. I feel as mangled and bloody as I imagine your face, and I feel like someone is throwing darts at me, hitting me with precision as I try to outrun my own thoughts, my own head. A thankless task. I still don’t know if the sun will ever rise and end this fucking nightmare.