Category: Creative Writing

Writing Prompt: The Witch’s Brew

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

A new coffee shop has opened in town! It’s the newest buzz among the residents, especially the college and high school students that practically live off of Frappuccinos and macchiatos. But upon its opening, it wasn’t at all what students expected.

Blandly painted walls and decor, this shop looked anything but special. A sign hung over the door with a crescent shaped symbol, reading “The Witch’s Brew”. But its interior hardly lived up to this magical name. The only real decoration piece that one noted was a large, rectangular mirror hanging in an odd little hallway in the shop. But if one were to examine this closer, it revealed something far more interesting. The reflection did not accurately reflect the shop one was standing in, but a ornately decorated, and magical hallway. And, if one were to step into it, they would be able to follow that hallway to an even more magical coffee shop. This was the true witch’s brew.

The drinks “brewed” here are not what they seem, with fire dancing along the rim of some glasses or purple steam pouring off others, this is no ordinary coffee shop.

Writing Prompt: The City of Planets and Stars

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Fast-forward waaaaay into the future and humanity has managed to colonize every planet in the Solar system. More gaseous planets dawn floating cities, while the cold rocky planets are kept running by a large forge at their core to allow people to populate their otherwise unwelcoming terrain. But the people are more divided than ever. So, in one last ditch effort to unite humanity under one banner, a city is built, dedicated to every planet and every people. The City of Planets and Stars.

Evening Poems: My Sister’s Shoes

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I remember when she was 11 and I was 7

I always got my sister’s old hand me downs. My mom would put the big shoes on my feet. She’d squish the ends to see if they would fit. She would tell me, before I knew it, I’d be in my sister’s shoes.

We made sticky mud pies and told stories. Got grass stained knees and carpet burns. It was nights of lightning bugs and cart wheels that made the world turn.

I remember when she was 15 and I was 11

She didn’t like looking in the mirror but she would still look. She hid behind her hair and cut herself bangs. Friends were scarce because children are cruel. This I came to know too well.

I remember when I was 15 and she was 19.

Social circles became webs to navigate. She said, they said, who said, who cares? They care, I don’t, What happened? Unfair!

I don’t know how, but we made it out in one piece.  First my sister, and then me.

Now she’s having a kid, and I’m 19.

I know I’m next.

The next sister in line.

If I’ll blink, I’ll miss it.

My mother was right.

Before I knew it, I’d be in my sister’s shoes.

Advice on Writing Poetry

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

★When you’re writing poetry, you don’t have to write the perfect poem. You just have to write today’s poem.

★Read the work of poets your love, but also vary your tastes. There’s something to learn from everyone.

★Give yourself permission to write whatever you feel like writing. If that’s trash, then write trash. We’ll worry about making the trash “pretty” and “clever” later.

★Play with rhyme. Play with with free verse. Play with alliteration. Play with everything.

★Poetry is like literally every other hobby. Practice and get better.

★Keep a journal

★If you have an idea, write it down right then before it flies away. Inspiration is fleeting. It’s easier to catch that butterfly right in front of you than to chase down one that is miles away.

★Be Vulnerable.

★You don’t have to be angsty. You don’t have to have a “muse” or whatever that means. You just need to be a living, breathing person to write poetry and that is enough.

★Understand that not every poem is meant to be shared.

Evening Poems: The Ninth

~ Brooke F. ~ 1 Comment

How do you think a cat would spend its final life?

If it were old and on the ninth

I think a cat would spend its last days

Snoozing in the sun’s streaming rays.

Batting around that ball of lint

Dart around the hall, in a sprint.

And did I mention the

Sleeping. Sleeping. Sleeping.

And around the corners always peeping.

In short I would have to say,

That a cat would spend even its final day

Much how spent every year

Happy and without a single fear.

A cat on even its final minute.

Wouldn’t hesitate to then spend it

Dozing peacefully next to you, as your pet.

Because unlike you, he has no regret.

Evening Poem: I

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I dont know why

I try and try

But theres no strength left in I

I turn left, and then turn right

I feel I am lost without a light

There is no strength left in I

I rely on that “I” so much.

So much that I start most sentences with an I.

I

I

I

Identity starts with I.

That’s on who I rely.

Me, myself, and I.

But not matter what I do

There is no strength left in I

At end of I

There is nothing.

Ironic.

Writing Prompt: Murder Museum

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

A museum displays the many artifacts and backgrounds of famous serial killers. It is popular for bone chilling as well as informative exhibits and draws a crowd world wide.

This is the Murder Museum.

Due its popularity, an exclusive tour is offered to those who sign up for the drawing to be allowed to roam this museum free of crowds. All night.

And of course things go wrong.

During the tour, someone notices the doors locking. And then the tour guide shows up dead.

Someone begins their murder spree using the many left over serial killer weapons and tools in the museum from the exhibits, everyone who turns up dead, dying in their own unique way to commemorate the serial killer exhibit it is based off of. It is now up to a few attendees to figure out who the killer is.

Sounds like an exciting night ahead at the Murder Museum.

Writing Prompt: The Ghostly Cafe

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

There’s a cafe in town in which residents frequent and go to decompress from their hard days. Lilting jazz music fills the air and produces an ambiance of peace that falls over the place and washes over its customers. It is such a serene scene, one would never think it was haunted. But, surprisingly, the ghosts are the heart and soul of this restaurant. Every hour, the ghost of a musician will serenade the customers as they listen with expectant ears and faces. Drinks are served by animated bone corpses. And that weird knocking on the wall keeps time with the music, not at all creepy.

Tell me the story of the ghostly cafe.

Evening Poems: Velvet Hearts

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I’m sorry, they lied to you
Your heart isnt made of gold
I’m afraid, It is a lie most commonly told.

Your heart is made of velvet, vulnerable and soft.
Those who boast invincible
Are liars who should be scoffed

It is unavoidable,
The tearing of the heart,
So when you’re left in pieces, it is often hard to know where to start.

But there is a tailor,
Whose trade it is to mend.
I’m sure If you’ll ask him, a hand he will lend.

And then you will be
Stitched together by mercy and grace.
And better off you’ll be, in this world you must face.