Non-Fiction Prompts
Prompt 3: Write from the perspective of an inanimate object.
My Object: Indica’s (My Cat’s) Urn.
The yowl of my spirit is trapped in this invasive golden grave. She can’t hear me. Once a purring essence of love and support, now a silent tin box, sitting on a vanity of polaroids, makeup and christmas lights. At first I cried. I no longer had a place in her world other than this small piece of teenage bedroom decor. But I have come to learn to appreciate my given place of rest in this world. From here, I can watch over her.
Prompt 4: Write about a metaphor that means something to you.
I’m covered in patches. Patches sewn from straw, silk, cotton, you name it. I have to sew these patches over the broken hearts and open wounds accumulated by the rain of the world. Sometimes the wounds get ripped open, and I have to resew on a patch. Every time I do, I try to think about how to patch up the wound and with what material and what it’s gonna take. I go over it so much, because I don’t want it to rip open again. I need to get stronger. However, it can be difficult to find a material that will get stronger over time whether than ware out. I don’t want to worry about tears that will slow me down. I want a suit of armor to ensure no one can touch me. But the thing is, I cannot just go out and purchase the best suit of honor. Because no one knows a better fit for me than me. I have to make my suit.
Prompt 5: Write about memory from the point of view of someone else.
The mesmerizing orange and dandelion yellow swirl around the glass art. Crimson crayon and and a forest green of the bowl that sat in his hand so many times. As it’s passed around, the value of time is slowly under appreciated. As the flame of life grows dimmer, the glass becomes an empty void, only filled with the spiritual smoke twice a year. But the hashful taste chases the void right out of the room. A medicinal giggle of remembrance dances ever so slightly upon thy tongue and lips. And every time the cloud of burning herb catches a lump in your throat, you remember the rose red and coughing tears that touched his face, just to be sucked out by the pale white of the end.
My Object: Indica’s (My Cat’s) Urn.
The yowl of my spirit is trapped in this invasive golden grave. She can’t hear me. Once a purring essence of love and support, now a silent tin box, sitting on a vanity of polaroids, makeup and christmas lights. At first I cried. I no longer had a place in her world other than this small piece of teenage bedroom decor. But I have come to learn to appreciate my given place of rest in this world. From here, I can watch over her.
Prompt 4: Write about a metaphor that means something to you.
I’m covered in patches. Patches sewn from straw, silk, cotton, you name it. I have to sew these patches over the broken hearts and open wounds accumulated by the rain of the world. Sometimes the wounds get ripped open, and I have to resew on a patch. Every time I do, I try to think about how to patch up the wound and with what material and what it’s gonna take. I go over it so much, because I don’t want it to rip open again. I need to get stronger. However, it can be difficult to find a material that will get stronger over time whether than ware out. I don’t want to worry about tears that will slow me down. I want a suit of armor to ensure no one can touch me. But the thing is, I cannot just go out and purchase the best suit of honor. Because no one knows a better fit for me than me. I have to make my suit.
Prompt 5: Write about memory from the point of view of someone else.
The mesmerizing orange and dandelion yellow swirl around the glass art. Crimson crayon and and a forest green of the bowl that sat in his hand so many times. As it’s passed around, the value of time is slowly under appreciated. As the flame of life grows dimmer, the glass becomes an empty void, only filled with the spiritual smoke twice a year. But the hashful taste chases the void right out of the room. A medicinal giggle of remembrance dances ever so slightly upon thy tongue and lips. And every time the cloud of burning herb catches a lump in your throat, you remember the rose red and coughing tears that touched his face, just to be sucked out by the pale white of the end.