Tag: writingblog

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.

Things to Romanticize

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

A list I began for no reason and will probably continue. I just want to fall in love with the mundane again. It’s all in the little things I suppose.

Car Rides

The sleepy feeling of driving at night with someone you trust. Chill music playing in the background. Street lights whizzing by in the dark. The green glow of the radio controls.

Letters

Pen and ink. The wonderful scratching sound of writing on parchment. Being unnecessarily fancy. Writing in cursive. Talking about the weather and how much you miss them.

Elevator Rides

You feel busy and important but not so much so that you’re above smiling at those who get in the elevator with you. The little compliments you offer your temporary traveling companions. A shared moment of quiet in everyone’s day as the chime sounds after each floor.

Freshly baked bread

The smell filling the house. Soft butter. Soup. Cold, wet weather.

Lightning bugs

The smell of fresh July air. Mason jars. Contests between siblings to see who can catch the most,

Sun Rises

Being up and about before everyone else. Quiet time. Reading as you watch the world wake. A misty blanket which slowly lifts.

Lace curtains

Rays of sunshine streaming through. Patterned shadows being cast on the opposite wall. Quaint and homey.

Dabbling in many different hobbies

Who knows what you’re into this week. Fast paced. Knowing a little bit of everything. Endless possibilities. The joy of learning for the sake of learning.

Hand written notes (the handwriting doesn’t have to be perfect)

Personal. Gratitude for everyone in a small way. Smudged letters that reveal a message that has that person floating the rest of their day.

Moths

Flitting around light. Patterned wings. Night butterflies.

Evening Poems: Its not that I hate myself, I’m just tired of my own crap

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

It’s kind of sad.
I dont know when exactly but I think I stopped enjoying my own company.
I dont enjoy being alone anymore.
It’s been forever since I’ve enjoyed my thoughts and told myself stories before falling asleep.
My head hasn’t been a nice place to be lately.
Things weigh down heavier than I remember.
And I’m just so tired of myself. Which is unfortunate as she’s the only person in this world that I’m guaranteed to have.
I dont know when exactly I started being uncomfortable with being alone. Maybe it was a slow sort of process.
But it makes sense now why I have so many hobbies. Things that can distract me from the company that I’m keeping.
I dont particularly hate myself but she’s a very exhausting person to be around.
And so I’m tired all the time.

Evening Poems: Candy Wrappers

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I used to have time to write down the processes of my mind.
And convey them through weaving stories.
To make a feast of my innermost desires and fears to be consumed by every hungry reader.
Now I have less time
And even more thoughts.
So instead I package them like candy,
Coated with sugar to hide the sour inside.
And I call it poetry.

Evening Poems: Golden

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

Golden child, golden child,
As soon as you were born
Your parents cooed
What a treasure! So beautiful.
And as you got older and you were quick to read.
Shes so talented they said. Ahead of the curve.
But as your pace slowed to match the others,
You can hear the disappointed words of your mother.
When you raised the bar so high you yourself could not reach
You did not realize this was a permanent arrangement.

And so golden child, golden child, you began to fall.
For you tied your worthiness of being loved to your performance.
And so when you sometimes struggled to keep pace,
Tears born of failure, tarnished your golden face.

Evening Poems: Battles

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

I love you
Coming from the wrong person
Those words feel like a weapon
And twenty swords drawn, aimed at your heart,
Just waiting for the precise moment to thrust.
You do not trust the person you love to love you back in a gentle way
A way that is good for your soul.
No, they are the type of person that will hit you, all while dripping good intentions like blood from a wound.
Punch you in the stomach while softly telling you that you are their world.
And the tragedy is, they often mean it. But cannot see beyond their own red hands.
The special pain of oblivious lovers.
Am I cursed to love the ignorant?

Perhaps so. For you are a poison that smells of Roses and I drink you in all the same.

Evening Poems: Victorious

~ Brooke F. ~ Leave a comment

The many victories of a healthy mind
Are In the small things I’ve come to find.
Nails no longer bitten to nubs
Flesh and blood and hangnail stubs.
I buy myself a coffee with little guilt.
And By midmorning, I no longer wilt.
Hunger is something I actually feel.
Food can be enjoyed, senses real.
I can sleep and wake with the sun.
And I feel full when the day is done.
Even if I haven’t exactly changed the world.
I was not lost in a sickening whirl.
I saw my coffee thick with cream.
Walked barefoot in a little stream.
I saw the rain fall in a mist.
Along the pane the water kissed.
These things weren’t lost on me- I saw them all.
I couldnt before- I was too busy with my fall.
These are the victories of a healthy mind.
All the little things that you can find.