It’s time for another serving of Soul Cookies—those satisfying and nourishing treats that are also great at getting your creativity in gear and seeing what happens when you just try (one bite)… So if you’ve been wanting to try something a little different and like to have fun with language, give it a go! We promise a completely supportive and positive environment here at Fork & Fiction. Check our our first Soul Cookies installment (and awesome writing prompt responses) here.
This time it’s all about things—objects we use every day that are witness (if objects can be witnesses) to the highs and lows and in-betweens of our relationships. That old cliché “if these walls could talk”… well, now it’s time for them to spill it. The writing generated from this prompt could take the form of a poem, a piece of prose or just a few snatches of dialogue—whatever works for you.
As always, I’m going to give it a go here and now, and I’ll see you in the comments for more writing prompt fun. Try it! Post it here! You know you want to…
The Prompt: Write about an argument from the perspective of an inanimate object.
It is not easy to say this: I am in pieces. He swept me up in the dustpan with the hasty motions of someone who has seen their own downfall. As he swept I could hear him cursing, but I felt his fear. I am her favourite, her mother’s mother’s, no longer used at tea time, but admired whenever she walks through the dining room. Although he bumped my spout against the wall when they moved in, it didn’t crack. This morning, my gold plating was still pristine. But in an instant—crash—I am no longer whole. Now my shards are hidden in the cheap china bowl he bought her for Christmas that she pretended to like. The cupboard is dark and dusty and dank. There is divorce in the air.
Hope you find some inspiration this week, in whatever form it comes, and keep being relentlessly creative!
He lies. It’s his personal secret, his little treasure – a depository of lies. He doesn’t feel guilty. He lies infrequently and these are just for him, no-one else. He wouldn’t admit it but he likes it. There are some lies that taste good. They’re a salted sweet, a licorice. She wonders, of course she does, I’ve heard her ask, mistrust in her voice, but he is too good. Her secrets I don’t know about. She has some I am sure, but I am his, I belong to him. I take in the moonlight with him, the wedge of milk-white shine on the balcony. I feel the night air, the damp and chill in it. Hear the chime of crickets, the breeze running fingers through leaves. I am in his hands and at his lips. The treasure in the palm-sized box, slipped deep below his neatly balled running socks.
YES! I mean, NO to smoking, but hell-yeah to the writing. Love the ‘wedge of milk-white shine’.