Writing Prompt #8

Today’s Writing Prompt is:

Write a prose poem…any topic this week!

My Response to Last Week’s Prompt is:

It’s hard not to feel
the terror of these walls
as they slowly cave into
shapeless, oozy blobs of
plaster and paint chips.
There’s not much color
left over from those bright
days it used to enjoy.
Maybe that’s what
happens to certain shades
when there’s no one
there to enjoy it.

It’s been so long
that the plants have
started to take over—
growing on, around, in,
and even through the
old mansion. That aching
spiral stair, marble cracked
and sagging, is still
the centerpiece of stories.
And this must, critter
ridden furniture looks
like lumpy ghosts
beneath the dust covered
sheets left by the
memories of people who
lived together with these
semi-shapeless blobs.

Untitled
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

I work in healthcare.
Not in a medical way,
but I still deal directly
with patients, and sick people
can be hateful, as I’m
sure you know because you’re
human and therefore must’ve
been sick at some point
in your long or just beginning
life. But, besides certain
cases–the ones who make
me want to cry–I still
can’t help but feel
tenderness for them.

The friendly ones are what
really get to me though–the
patients that treat me like a
person and actually talk to me.
It’s hard not to learn their names
and become friends with them
and grow to love them as a friend.

And I go home each night
and pray for all the faces
I’ve seen throughout the day–
kind and otherwise–
because I know bits of their
stories from the tales
they tell, especially stories
of their sickness. And
sometimes, you go through
that sickness with them,
celebrating the ups and
mourning the downs.

I know when they’re not there.

Writing Prompt #7

Today’s Writing Prompt is:

Using either Pinterest or Google, do a search of “abandoned buildings” and use whatever attracts you most as inspiration.

My Response to Last Week’s Prompt:

He couldn’t believe that his friend, Susan, had set him up on a blind date with someone called Dr. Knuckles. Was that a name for a wrestler or an actual doctor? But, then again, his name wasn’t exactly what people would call “normal” either.

And, what was probably the best part, Susan wouldn’t tell him what this person’s first name was. This annoyed Billy as he had a thing for names and it left the sex ambiguous. The latter didn’t really bother him that much since he swung either way, but he liked to know how to act in situations that he had time to think about before they actually happened. He was a planner.

He hiked his hood up over his head as it started to rain, shoving his hands in his hoody pocket. Billy loathed parking downtown and wished Susan had picked a different restaurant for him and this doctor person to meet up.

Billy hoped he/she/whatever wasn’t terribly ugly; he liked to date people who at least resembled humans. He sidestepped around a large puddle, frowning at the muddy leaves collecting in the gutter flow. He hated gutter flow. And gutters. And rain. And having to walk through it all because the city’s idea of “parking” were a couple structures thrown in the midst of the old and new buildings that composed their downtown area.

When the street lamp in front of him shorted, he stopped and stared at it with chin raised, rain spattering his face and running down his neck. Billy wondered if a passing car’s headlights had made it think of daytime or if the city was slacking again.

Then he shrugged and kept walking. It wasn’t his problem and the restaurant was close anyways.

As he passed the building before his destination, he wished they were meeting there instead. Billy stopped again and stared in the windows, part of him wondering if the baristas thought him a perv. It was a quaint cafe and bookstore in one that he could picture himself melting into. He contemplated going in the store and buying some coffee. But, if he did that, he’d never leave the store. He didn’t particularly care what this Dr. Knuckles thought of him. But he didn’t want to insult Susan.

Billy sighed, watching the small puff of white float out of his mouth. He was glad that it was starting to get cold again.

He rolled his shoulders as if stretching before a workout, and then marched to the next building and through the doors of The Bistro.

This is just a small piece of the short story that I’m currently working on, which was inspired by the previous writing prompt. It’s getting pretty interesting so far; cross your fingers for me that it stays that way.

Woman Writer
By Seanna Lyn Wilhelm

Even a broken clock
is correct twice a day,
but what of a broken mind?
A writer’s mind?
A writer.
A woman writer.

Have you noticed that
there is no such thing as
a man writer?
It’s typical for a man to write,
but a woman who writes
is “other,” is “abnormal.”

Patriarchy wins the day
again. I imagine
they want to put us in zoos.
Some in cages where one
can write, and some where
writing isn’t allowed.

They’d compare how
the two groups acted.
When they grew bored,
they’d turn us into cadavers
to see what it is inside
the unique brain cells

that makes a woman write.
They’re afraid to set us free
because, what would happen
if the world learned
that our otherness is a lie?