And God clings to a shore,
harpooned, gleaming
under the sun. There’s
the sheen of bruises beached,
yours. Perfumed, chaste, lovable.
At your side, hair strands fall and
clog up the sink overflows; 
it’s where all the water goes.

Sand trickling down the hourglass
ever so smoothly, waiting for nobody,
seconds turning into minutes, 
time bolts without us realising
making us question that one thing,
that we could have done differently.

What a mysterious thing time,
transforming everything it passes by,
not once did it wait for a man,
an attempt not to ruin its master plan.
the trickling sand is now coming to an end,
time is indeed nobody's friend. 

 
 

Sand trickling down the hourglass
ever so smoothly, waiting for nobody,
seconds turning into minutes, 
time bolts without us realising
making us question that one thing,
that we could have done differently.

What a mysterious thing time,
transforming everything it passes by,
not once did it wait for a man,
an attempt not to ruin its master plan.
the trickling sand is now coming to an end,
time is indeed nobody's friend. 

 
 

in number, there is power, or so they say but
in number also death arrives, every day and
i wonder why we send our men out to defend
us when all that will happen is that they'll return
dead and we'll mourn them in our beds, silently praying
for them to come back, but we know that they will never
so we send a few more to attack and they too will come
with blood on their thighs, their heads...

She dips her fingers into boiling oil to check the food.
She presses her palm onto cast iron skillets to check the heat. 
My mother cooks with her hands. 

She scrubs our scalps with shampoo.
She wipes her lipstick stains from our faces with her thumb.
My mother cleans with her hands. 

She rubs our backs and pats our heads while we cry. 
She dresses our wounds and holds us close.
My mother cares with her hands. 

She snaps with...

Your fingers are divisible between the winds’ breaths 
They braid my hair like stranded sunlit rays, each one twisting over the other, never ending
Secrets from the trees’ leaves whisper their nieve knowledge to me, careful not to catch your notice
They whisper things about you and me, ideals of the greatest dreams of their mind, and only our fate as imagined 
And when you look at me, knowing my back has stiffened to stone, but not from the keeling...

1. Sunflowers are golden like sliced citrus. Two cracks in the vase, a hand clenched into a fist, ready to crush the flowers. Tell me what it's like to breathe, to spill. Light refracts around a halo of petals. We are glowing gilded-girls, chalked with clay and charcoal dust.

2. My fingers smell of rubber balloons, filled with the hope of spaceflight. Jet fuel is burning empty like the outer cosmos. A pair of matte-black flats sinking into wood, dull...

Paisley Blue:

what is your favorite time of day?
I really love the golden hour! I am not a photographer but I am obsessed with observing how light hits things and I just love the effect of golden sunlight. (In fact, the golden hour is called the "magic hour" in photography.) Also I am obsessed with how we use dusk/dawn to signify beginnings and endings, starting over, and just change in general? I bring up this motif in my writing...

The AC is doesn't work. One day, it just stopped.
It stopped blowing air. I stopped making noise. It stopped shaking with age and coughing up dust.
I think it died. 
We don't have any fans. That would've been too nice.
So now we leave the windows open. Waiting for the wind. 
It doesn't come very often.
As Florida winters aren't really winters. Not anymore. 
Instead of a cool breeze we get the sticky stench of tobacco.
The neighbors are...

PROMPT #1: WRITER ID


    What is your favorite genre to write? 
    I enjoy any type of writing over all, but I'm mainly drawn to fiction.

    What is your favorite genre to read? 
    I like mysteries, fiction, and sometimes fantasy.

    What draws you to the WtW community? 
    I've been writing since I was really young and I had just started to look for some competitions in early november of last year. A...

And God clings to a shore,
harpooned, gleaming
under the sun. There’s
the sheen of bruises beached,
yours. Perfumed, chaste, lovable.
At your side, hair strands fall and
clog up the sink overflows; 
it’s where all the water goes.

Sand trickling down the hourglass
ever so smoothly, waiting for nobody,
seconds turning into minutes, 
time bolts without us realising
making us question that one thing,
that we could have done differently.

What a mysterious thing time,
transforming everything it passes by,
not once did it wait for a man,
an attempt not to ruin its master plan.
the trickling sand is now coming to an end,
time is indeed nobody's friend. 

 
 

Sand trickling down the hourglass
ever so smoothly, waiting for nobody,
seconds turning into minutes, 
time bolts without us realising
making us question that one thing,
that we could have done differently.

What a mysterious thing time,
transforming everything it passes by,
not once did it wait for a man,
an attempt not to ruin its master plan.
the trickling sand is now coming to an end,
time is indeed nobody's friend. 

 
 

in number, there is power, or so they say but
in number also death arrives, every day and
i wonder why we send our men out to defend
us when all that will happen is that they'll return
dead and we'll mourn them in our beds, silently praying
for them to come back, but we know that they will never
so we send a few more to attack and they too will come
with blood on their thighs, their heads...

She dips her fingers into boiling oil to check the food.
She presses her palm onto cast iron skillets to check the heat. 
My mother cooks with her hands. 

She scrubs our scalps with shampoo.
She wipes her lipstick stains from our faces with her thumb.
My mother cleans with her hands. 

She rubs our backs and pats our heads while we cry. 
She dresses our wounds and holds us close.
My mother cares with her hands. 

She snaps with...

1. Sunflowers are golden like sliced citrus. Two cracks in the vase, a hand clenched into a fist, ready to crush the flowers. Tell me what it's like to breathe, to spill. Light refracts around a halo of petals. We are glowing gilded-girls, chalked with clay and charcoal dust.

2. My fingers smell of rubber balloons, filled with the hope of spaceflight. Jet fuel is burning empty like the outer cosmos. A pair of matte-black flats sinking into wood, dull...

The AC is doesn't work. One day, it just stopped.
It stopped blowing air. I stopped making noise. It stopped shaking with age and coughing up dust.
I think it died. 
We don't have any fans. That would've been too nice.
So now we leave the windows open. Waiting for the wind. 
It doesn't come very often.
As Florida winters aren't really winters. Not anymore. 
Instead of a cool breeze we get the sticky stench of tobacco.
The neighbors are...

PROMPT #1: WRITER ID


    What is your favorite genre to write? 
    I enjoy any type of writing over all, but I'm mainly drawn to fiction.

    What is your favorite genre to read? 
    I like mysteries, fiction, and sometimes fantasy.

    What draws you to the WtW community? 
    I've been writing since I was really young and I had just started to look for some competitions in early november of last year. A...

one step,
one breath,
one moment at a time.

i n h a l e,
exhale.

Easy
That's what they called her.
They didn't care about her mother, nor her father.
Easy
That's what she was.
A piece of property that could be thrown around like a ragdoll.
Easy
Like a piece of cake...
Easy
Oh because she was so fake.
Easy
but what about what happened to her?
Easy
No wait, we have to discuss this further.
Easy
The time they attacked her?
Easy
Before she went crazy
Easy
The way they touched her?
Easy ...