W.O.R.D. - Prompts, Sharing, and Feedback (OOC) Club

Here's mine. I wrote it at like 10 pm (22:00) so it might sound a bit weird:

I am the storm.
Watch me rumble;
Watch me crackle with electricity,
Free
And alive.
Watch them cower from my force,
Meek
And afraid.
For I have the power
Both to nurture
And to destroy.
Watch my raindrops fall,
Fall upon the faces of the forgotten
And bring into them new life.
Watch me start raging forest fires,
And in turn, put them out.
Look to the skies
And see me dancing there.
Unapologetic.
Unafraid.

Wow, @Calypso Starling, that's beautiful! I the lines Look to the skies/And see me dancing there.
I will write mine at some point. Kinda busy rn. You're all doing great!

@Ashley Coulson thanks!
This is for the last prompt. It's late. Oh well. I was kinda in a dark mood

Words taken from Mockingjay, by Suzanne Collins.
anticipated | blow | know | asks | Peacekeeper | watched | exercises | everyone | one | match

I didn’t anticipate it.
I should have, but I didn’t.
How that one warm night in spring, while everyone slept,
Something in me
snapped.
How I lit the match.
Blowing on the embers,
I watched the flames grow:
a phoenix-colored blossom, lighting the night.
And as the stars emerged,
one by one,
smoke filled the air.
But I,
I didn’t care.
No, I reveled in it.
The destruction, the despair.
As the first screams arose,
and those who called themselves the Peacekeepers
attempted to cling to some semblance of sanity,
I fled.
But I was watching.
And when the smoke at long last cleared,
and the scent of charred flesh faded,
everyone carried on as always,
and tried to forget.
Sometimes life is an exercise in letting go.
But I,
secluded
and alone,
Have failed to do just that.
So I watch,
silent.
No one knows I am the one who started the fire,
But I do.
I know.

Words taken from Suzanne Collins’ The Hunger Games
moment | murmuring | lady | floor | she | screams | speak | voice | hearts | piece

The Lady lives alone.
She always has, and as far as anyone can tell,
Always will.
Some say they can hear voices
Coming from her ramshackle old house.
Maybe there are voices.
Who knows?
Oh right, The Lady does.
Every night, as she lies in her bed, the Murmurings begin.
They grow louder and louder,
Surrounding her.
Choking her.
When she can barely breathe
She stumbles from her bed,
And steps across the floor.
Her slippers pass over the broken pieces of many hearts,
Long-since stopped beating,
That lay there.
She pays them no mind.
To her, those broken hearts are old news.
She continues across her bedroom.
The disembodied voices
Follow her.
She glances at the window, but doesn’t stop there.
She’s tried that before.
She comes to the staircase
And takes the steps two
At a time.
She knows there’s nowhere for her to go.
To run.
To hide.
The door at the bottom of those stairs,
The one that leads to freedom,
Is never unlocked for her.
The Murmurings are even faster now.
They hover around her head like a wreath.
Taunting her.
She swats at them as if they were flies.
This doesn’t deter them.
She tries to speak
To beg with the voices.
But the moment she opens her mouth they fill her throat.
She tries to scream, desperate now,
The only voice that should be in her throat is her own
But it is nowhere to be found.
She falls to her knees at the base of the staircase.
Puts her arms over her head.
And this time
She manages to scream.
Then, she falls asleep.
Or is it that she awakens?
But whatever the case,
She will relive it all over again
Tomorrow.

@Eliza Corrids thanks! Lol, that's the best thing I've heard all day. Weirdos unite!

Cool prompt! Here's my attempt at it (warning: it got long, so it's under a reducio). It...also got dark. There's stuff to do with war/bloodshed/death, so if that is something that makes you uncomfortable, please don't read it.

Reducio

The Bridge

There was a time where I didn't speak, or cry. There was, in fact, a time where I didn't wail with voices long forgotten; where I could be mistaken for any structure of brick, mortar, and stone.

I suppose I still am like any structure of brick, mortar, and stone: I have not seen them, I cannot be faithful with my words; please take them with the uncertainty that everyone else has, ever since I sang my first song, years upon years ago.

Well, I suppose that I have always watched. Do other bridges watch? That is a question that you can answer better than I; but even before I spoke, before I sang and cried and wailed, I watched every man and woman and child that passed, every step taken, every look given; I watched with more attention that I can say you ever have.

Perhaps I am just like any other structure of brick and mortar and stone. I will leave that for you to decide.

1.

I am young that day. My cobblestone surface reflects the sun more brightly than the river I cover, and my railings are of lustrous silver. I listen to the musician's whistles (much like a song that I heard the street-boys sing once) and the cries of the mother's child and the jabber of the girl, maybe twelve. The world glistens with the color of life, and then it is sucked out all at once.

First it is the sky to lose its color, I think. It dulls to navy, and so does the river I cover. Then it is the musician's whistles that go (he takes his guitar in hand and he walks quick enough to worry; then he stops) and then the cries of the mother's child and then the jabber of the girl, maybe twelve.

The noise deafens, and I do not pay attention to it as I have the whistles and cries before. This is when sound starts to hurt me. It is when I come to recognize the footsteps (loud and all at once; left. right. left) and the roll of the machines.

Blood is spilled that day, on the cobblestone path that no longer shines and dripping down the lustrous silver of my railings.

That night, I sing the song that the musician had whistled.

It was too lovely to have gone unheard, and I do not think that he would have sung it again.

2.

People talk about the bridge that sings, and they are waved off as lunatics. I sing every night, the same song, at the same time. Bridges do not get bored or tired, I think.

The sky is almost cerulean again before the footsteps come once more (left. right. left) and the roll of the machines grow louder. This time, I think that they will stay, because of the way the sky dips down into black, and the smoke that wafts. I see fire, too; it is far, and I hear its crackles.

Then comes the fire; the other kind. It's loud, deafening. People will no longer care about the bridge that sings. I am just brick and mortar and stone; the fire is louder than me, than the musician long gone. I feel the fear; it is too loud not to hear, too bright not to see.

The day passes much faster after the fire subsides. The people walk the cobblestone surface once more, but I do not hear the cries of the mother's child.

Now, every night, after I sing the musician's song, I cry the way the child had. I remember them, painfully so. It is the least I can do.

3.

People don't speak about the bridge that sings and cries, though I can tell that they listen. I don't blame them. There are more important things to speak about.

The people seem to think that the fire is gone, but I do not. I can see that the sky is never really cerulean again. It dips to navy, but it is gray; like the smoke that wafts when they arrive once more.

I won't bother you with the details this time. You know of them just as I do.

This time, it is the girl who jabbers, maybe twelve, that is gone.

I add her words to my memorial each night. It is what she deserves, at the very least.

4.

What bothers me most is how the people do not speak.

I, of brick and mortar and stone, must say the words that they do not, for when the fire went in finality and when people walked once more, they seemed to pretend that the fire was never there. But there is ash where the people do not look. There is still smoke, and it wafts, but they do not seem to care.

Now, they do speak of the bridge that speaks and wails and cries. They do not speak of the things I say, but I suppose that it is recognition enough.

Every night, when the grey dips to black, I sing his song, and his cries, and her jabbers.

5.

They decorate me with ribbon and velvet, as if that will hide the stains that cover me. They dangle bells, as if they will drown out my cries and whispers.

I watch, everyday, and I can tell that they fear. It is too bright not to see, and too loud not to hear.

I suppose that if people do not acknowledge, then it is the bridge that must. Nobody speaks of the musician, of the mother and her child, of the girl maybe twelve. I listen for their names everyday.

I do think that I am just any structure of brick, mortar, and stone. I am no different than when I did not speak. I still watch. I still hear, the music that plays a bit too quietly, the words that are spoken with apprehension.

Perhaps it is what I have seen that is different.

Yes, that must be it.

I don't know what to say about this, but it was fun (and kinda depressing) to write, I guess.
It's also kinda rushed, but I don't have the time to elaborate on it right now really.

@Lillian Davis I have no words. That was so good! The paragraph Well, I suppose that I have always watched. Do other bridges watch? That is a question that you can answer better than I; but even before I spoke, before I sang and cried and wailed, I watched every man and woman and child that passed, every step taken, every look given; I watched with more attention that I can say you ever have. was just . . . . wow.

@Lucia Fox I forgot to do this one as well. Oops!

Week #7

For this week's writing, we will each be doing something slightly different. Each person will receive three pictures in a reducio under their character's name at the bottom of this post. Each person's three pictures are unique. Some will make sense together, and some will be totally random. Your job is to write a piece of poetry or prose about those pictures. You can use one of them, two of them, or, if you want to challenge yourself, I would encourage you to use all three of them. You can write about the objects themselves (for example, if I got a pic of a spider web, I could write something like spun from delicate wisps of thread, it clutches hopefully to the edges of the dew speckled branches . . . and on and on like that) or I could write about an emotion it makes me feel or something it reminds me of (for example, if I had the spider web, I could write about resilience or something). It's up to you, you're the artist! Please remember to use the pictures under your name and not someone else's. Good luck!

The Audacity of Man
The operation is about to begin,
And the universe holds its breath.
At the audacity of man.

Arcing over the sky,
Glittering like a metal jewel,
Flies the raptor.

Clipped wings spread wide,
The jet rushes by.
A gust of wind.

Demanding jobs call.
Pilot thinking about wife alone at home.
I’m sorry.
Sorry I had to go.

Soaring vertical.
Both engines lit.
The sea below holds its breath,
At the audacity of man.

Continents like dinner plates,
Placed on the shining blue spread.
Nothing else matters.
After all,
All are just victims of circumstance.

Engine’s cooling,
Twisting around,
The metal bird flaps its wings,
Heads down.

Swooping over ancient ruins,
At Mach 5,
The world holds its breath,
At the audacity of man.