Creative Writing Prompts

He should have been told I wasn’t human. That was the worst part. But the crew found amusement in watching the fresh ones get all worked up over me.

The boy, whom I’d heard called Harrison or maybe Harold, was waxing the deck, his large eyes flitting over to me and then hastily back to the floor. I continued my song, closing my eyes to listen to it roll out over the waves, placating my kin who swam far below so our ship would sail to shore untouched.

When I concluded with one last lilting note, I turned to the captain, a greyed man with leathery skin from many a year aboard.

“The wind tells me a storm will stand between us tonight. I must rest my voice whilst we sail in sunlight.”

He only nodded. The captain, in his age, was superstitious against my kind. Remembered the days he and his men feared the song that now keeps them safe. Smart man.

I made my way down to the deck, where the foolish boy was daring to openly stare. He gripped his mop tightly, repeatedly swallowing as he seemed to be working up the nerve to speak. Thankfully, he was unsuccessful, and I made my way belowdecks in peace.

In the tiny mess hall, Kielman and O’Connell were playing some game of stabbing a knife between their fingers. They looked up at the clatter as I cracked open the saltwater barrel with my rations.

“Kid speak up yet? I got money on him screwin’ up the courage before the end of the voyage, you know.” said Kielman with a chuckle.

Even with our differences, most of the crewman weren’t so bad. Their humor was crude and they stunk like tobacco and alcohol, but as long as they had the good sense to mind their gazes and hands, we got along well enough.

“I would know, as my bet lays with yours. I predict he will become emboldened enough before nightfall.”

The door bangs open for none other than the foolish boy to stride in, face reddened and breathless. Kielman and O’Connell halt their knife game, stiffling their conversation at once.

“Uh. Um. Hello there. What’re you doing down here?” He sputters, then grimaces at his tactlessness.

I fix him with a sultry look, still standing over the open saltwater barrel. “I am fetching something to eat.“

“Of course, yeah. I, uh. I wanted to tell you something. If that’s alright.” He rubs the nape of his neck.

I wait, staring unblinkingly as he had earlier.

“I just, uh. I wanna tell you that I think you’re real pretty, and that I’d like to treat you to dinner or somethin’ next we dock.” His words come out in a single exhale, running together clumsily.

I sigh, turning my attention back to the saltwater barrel. I plunge my arms in, stirring the kelp as my clawed fingers search for slimy, tough skin.

“What’re you…”

With a splash, I pull a small squid from the forest of loose kelp, the thing still writhing in my grasp. Keeping my eyes locked with his, which now are filled with strained confusion instead of shy apprehension, I bite viscously into the head of it, its juices spurting out over my hands as it goes still.

“What do they call you, boy?” I say, licking the blue blood off my fingers one by one.

“Harrington.” He sqeaks.

“Do you know what I am now, Harrington?”

“You’re a siren.” His voice descends into a miserable whisper.

“That’s right, boy. Now, run along, back above deck, and ask those so-called friends of yours why they let you make such an ass of yourself these last few weeks.”

He turns and dashes right back out the door without another word while Kielman and O’Connell explode with laughter.

Pop Pin prick to cosmos Timeless to tempo Dilation to coalescence Dust to cloud to planet Crash Collisions, collapses, chaos Time Time Time

Pool Carbon to compound Chemistry to biology Bacteria to backbone to breath Bees, Crocodiles, dinosaurs Crash Time Time Time

Growth Divergence by populations Catching prey Dodging trouble Camouflage, tooth, poison, claw Tools, tribes, tech People Time Time Time

Conversion Crops to domestication Blade to bomb to bullet Cutting to burning to bombing Taking territory Grabbing, grasping, grinding Construction, cars, computers Grow, grow, grow, Cough to cancer Pestilence to death Greed to power Crash Crash Crash Time Time Time

Traversing wintery planes everyday. Trudging back from work everyday. Slinging the coat onto the rack everyday.

The bitterness of daily monotony bites into my skin. My soul feels the sting of the never ending labour.

My daughter runs downstairs to greet me, throttling headfirst into my unmoving torso.

I am a man of few words. And although she cannot see it from her height, a smile breaks across my face.

A warmth in the ice.

If you are to read this poem, know this.

The words I’m about to write are intended to slay your bliss.

I hope you’re sitting uncomfortably.

I hope you can’t reach that itch.

Your skin is beginning to prickle, whilst you’re reading this.

Your scalp is screaming “dig your nails into me?”

Picture images of lice, mice, and fleas.

In the corner of your eye, just out of reach, in the contours of your room, hides a beast.

It watches you at night, while your tucked up and asleep.

It runs its fingers down your spine and listens as you breathe.

You’re now aware of every sense of which you possess.

This poem is intended to indeed cause you stress.

Don’t blame me for these uncomfortable words.

I did not come up with this prompt.

But a challenge I must meet, and if it’s uncanny that you seek I hope that you find it here.

What’s that crawling within your ear?

Can you feel its legs inside the drum?

Scuttling, scurrying, rum-tum-tum.

Illusions can be cruel, they can make you feel things that aren’t there.

Remember again the itch within your hair.

Your tired eye is beginning to twitch, you must give in, itch itch itch.

Your nose is tingling, are you needing to sneeze. Itch that nose as if you have fleas.

Your skin is infested, bugs under your skin.

Itch your wrist, rub your eyes, scratch under your chin.

I’m sorry for these words, for these uncomfortable sensations, but if it brings you some solace I would just like to mention; I myself am experiencing these nasty interactions to my own twisted words I am giving a reaction.

I am just as uncomfortable perhaps more so than you, let’s say take comfort in the knowledge it’s just a mind’s trick or two.

Tonight, the song of stars, sweet harmony, It calls your heart away. Please, stay.

In times when you forget our history, Eager to find your way, Please, stay.

Even when all I give is agony, Another broken day, Please, stay.

I don’t know who I am and what I’ll be Tonight, don’t let yourself near moon To float away, Or you will miss the flowers, they will bloom, Under your feet, someday… No matter how I push you far from me, Just stay. Tonight, Please, stay.

Oh, sweet glow of the screen, Your relentless shine bathes me in your artificial warmth. Who needs the sun, that overrated star, When you keep me company at 2 a.m., Reminding me of emails unanswered and dreams deferred?

Hail to thee, traffic jam! You majestic symphony of honks and exhaust fumes, Where I spend my precious hours contemplating life’s grand design— Or simply counting how many red cars pass by. Surely, nothing brings us closer to enlightenment Than inching forward at 5 miles per hour.

To thee, oh notifications, You delightful interruptions of my fleeting peace. A text! A like! A work email! Oh joy! How thoughtful of you to remind me That silence is the enemy, And rest is for the weak.

And let us not forget the blessing of small talk, Those profound exchanges of “How’s the weather?” And “Busy day, huh?” Oh, the intellectual feasts we share! Surely, Shakespeare weeps with envy from his grave.

Modern life, I sing your praises, With a heart full of caffeine and a soul half-charged. For who could long for simplicity, When complexity is so deliciously exhausting? Thank you, dear age of progress, For giving us everything we never asked for.

Jordan had always hated the flickering streetlight outside their house. It buzzed like a dying insect, and its erratic blinking cast unsettling shadows in their living room. Night after night, the light would stutter, as though it were gasping for attention, and night after night, Jordan cursed it under their breath.

One particularly sleepless evening, armed with a mug of cooling coffee and too much frustration, Jordan found themselves staring at the offending lamp through their window. They noticed something unusual—the blinks weren’t random. There was a rhythm to them. A long flash, then two short ones. Another long. Three more short. It clicked in Jordan’s mind: Morse code.

Jordan sat up straighter, their annoyance morphing into curiosity. They grabbed a notebook and a pen, their fingers trembling slightly as they began to write down the sequence of long and short blinks.

“Okay,” they muttered, pulling up a Morse code chart on their phone. “Let’s see what you’ve got to say.”

The translation was slow work, and the message made no sense at first. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Jordan blinked, the words sinking in. They lived alone.

“Nope,” they said aloud, their voice wobbling. “This is ridiculous. Just a prank.”

But their basement door creaked faintly at that exact moment, as though stirred by an unseen draft.

The notebook fell from their hands. Their gut told them to leave, but their legs carried them to the basement door instead. The light in the hallway buzzed in sympathy with the flickering streetlamp.

Gripping the doorknob, Jordan hesitated. The streetlight blinked furiously outside, its message repeating. T-H-E-R-E-.-I-S-.-S-O-M-E-T-H-I-N-G-.-I-N-.-T-H-E-.-B-A-S-E-M-E-N-T.

Against their better judgment, Jordan pushed the door open. The basement stairs loomed below, shrouded in darkness. They fumbled for the light switch, but nothing happened. The streetlight’s frantic flashing filtered through a small window at the top of the stairs, illuminating the gloom just enough to guide their steps.

At the bottom, the air was damp and heavy, smelling of mildew and something faintly metallic. Jordan scanned the basement. It was empty.

Relief washed over them—until their foot brushed against something soft. Looking down, they saw the corner of a large tarp, slightly dislodged. Swallowing hard, Jordan pulled it back.

Beneath the tarp was an old chest, its metal surface riddled with scratches. Carved into the lid, in jagged letters, was a single word: HELP.

Jordan’s breath hitched. The streetlight outside went dark for the first time in years.

And then, the chest began to rattle.

Jordan stumbled back, their heart pounding. The chest rattled violently now, the sound echoing off the basement walls like a trapped animal fighting to escape. They wanted to run, to leave the basement and never return, but something rooted them in place—curiosity, terror, or maybe the desperate plea etched into the chest itself: HELP.

The rattling stopped. Silence pressed in, heavy and oppressive.

Jordan’s trembling hand reached out, almost as if guided by an unseen force. Their fingertips brushed the cold metal of the chest. The moment they touched it, the streetlight outside flickered back to life, its glow casting faint patterns through the basement window.

Jordan pressed the latch. It gave way with an eerie, almost reluctant creak.

Inside was a pile of old photographs. Dozens of them, yellowed and curling at the edges, all showing the same thing: a small child standing in front of a familiar house—their house. The child’s face was smudged and distorted in every photo, as though it had been erased or blurred out deliberately.

Jordan’s hands shook as they flipped through the stack. On the back of each photo, written in spidery handwriting, was the same message: DO NOT FORGET ME.

At the bottom of the chest lay a folded piece of paper. Jordan unfolded it carefully, revealing a crude map of their neighborhood, with a single red X marked over the streetlight in front of their house. Next to the X were three words: DIG. FIND ME.

A cold sweat broke out on Jordan’s forehead. They rushed back upstairs, grabbing a flashlight and a shovel from the closet. Against every instinct screaming at them to stop, they stepped outside into the chilly night.

The streetlight flickered, slow and steady, almost like a heartbeat, as Jordan began to dig.

The shovel struck something hard. Jordan knelt down, brushing the loose dirt away with their hands, and uncovered a small wooden box, weathered and cracked with age. They hesitated, their breath clouding in the cold air, before prying it open.

Inside was a tiny, leather-bound diary. The first page was dated December 8, 1974, the handwriting messy and uneven:

“My name is Emily. If you’ve found this, please help me. He locked me in the basement. No one hears me. No one looks for me. Please don’t forget me like everyone else did.”

The streetlight blinked one last time and went out. Behind Jordan, the basement door creaked open.

And from the darkness came a voice, faint and broken, but unmistakably a child’s:

“You found me.”

Jordan froze, the soft, trembling voice sending chills down their spine. Slowly, they turned toward the house. The basement door was ajar, a faint glow emanating from the darkness beyond it. The night felt unnaturally quiet, as if the world itself were holding its breath.

“Emily?” Jordan whispered, clutching the tiny diary tightly to their chest.

The voice came again, this time clearer, closer. “You found me… but I can’t leave.”

Jordan’s heart hammered as they stepped toward the house. “What do you mean? How can I help you?”

The glow from the basement grew brighter as they approached. The air grew colder, heavy with the weight of something unseen. Jordan descended the stairs once more, flashlight trembling in their hand.

At the bottom, the chest was open again, but this time, it was empty. The photographs, the map, everything was gone. Instead, standing in the middle of the room was a figure. A girl, no older than eight, her translucent form flickering like the streetlight outside. Her dress was torn and faded, her eyes wide and sad.

“You’re… Emily,” Jordan said, their voice barely above a whisper.

Emily nodded. “He buried me here. No one came to find me.”

Jordan’s breath caught. They looked down at the floor where the chest had been. The dirt beneath it seemed disturbed, loose and uneven.

“I’ll—I’ll call someone,” Jordan stammered. “The police, an investigator—someone who can—”

“No!” Emily’s voice cracked, sharp and desperate. “They can’t help me. Only you can. You’ve seen the signs. You’re the only one who listened.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Emily pointed toward the far corner of the basement. Jordan followed her gaze to see a patch of bricks along the wall that didn’t quite match the rest.

“Behind there,” she said softly. “That’s where he put me.”

Jordan’s stomach churned, but they nodded, adrenaline pushing them forward. Grabbing a crowbar from a nearby shelf, they chipped away at the bricks, the sound echoing in the small space. Each brick revealed more of a small, dark cavity behind the wall.

Finally, Jordan uncovered a bundle wrapped in tattered cloth. They froze, their hands trembling.

“Open it,” Emily urged, her voice both pleading and firm.

Jordan unwrapped the cloth, revealing the brittle remains of a small skeleton. A sob caught in their throat as they realized the truth. Emily had been here, forgotten, for decades.

Tears streamed down Jordan’s face. “I’m so sorry,” they whispered.

Emily knelt beside her remains, her translucent form flickering more violently now. “It’s not your fault. You’ve done more than anyone else ever did.”

The glow around her grew brighter, warmer, as though she were finally at peace. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice fading. “I can rest now.”

The streetlight outside flared to life one last time, its steady beam cutting through the night. Jordan felt a wave of calm wash over them as Emily’s spirit dissolved into the light, leaving behind only the faint scent of lilies.

The basement grew quiet. The oppressive cold lifted. Jordan stood there for a long moment, staring at the small remains.

The next morning, they called the authorities. Emily’s story made the news, her remains finally laid to rest in the town’s cemetery.

And for the first time in years, the streetlight outside Jordan’s house shone steadily, casting a warm and unwavering glow.

Every night, the architects shape the dreams of the mortals, but when one architect falls for a dreamer, the boundaries between their worlds begin to blur…

…-~>^*!~-…

Landscaping is extremely intimate. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying!

Maybe it’s because I’m young, that I don’t have enough control over my patience. But you try spiriting away into someone’s dreams—a manifestation of their vibrant, inner lives, where they hope and fear and love—and tell me it’s not personal. Tell me it doesn’t leave you raw… like a fresh wound exposed to the harsh winds.

For architects, this is supposed to be work. A responsibility. We are to craft dreams like potters twist clay, with precise hands and stable minds. We’re not supposed to feel them.

I wasn’t supposed to feel them—wasn’t supposed to feel her.

Her dreamscape was rough, at first: blunt at the edges and sharp enough to cut. We—she staggered through a feverish tornado, getting scraped with unimaginable pain. I could sense her fears gnawing away, desperately clawing towards her.

It took everything in me to still that storm, to guide it into a calm, light breeze. My heart had ached as I transformed the fallen trees into a beautiful golden-lit meadow. Green and heavenly and infinite. The kind of place where even our greatest fears dare not disturb.

She stood peacefully, her back facing me with her auburn hair brushed by the wind. I couldn’t quite decipher that longing gaze she held towards the aureate horizon. But I should have left then. Let her explore the peace in solitude. But I didn’t.

I stayed.

And then that one fated night, she turned to me. She saw me.

The mortals don’t know we exist. To humans, dreams are their subconcious. And it is, primarily—which is exactly why we’re not supposed to interfere. I was not supposed to interfere.

But my soul reaches for her.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whispered, my voice gliding like silk, softer than my spirit. I wasn’t quite sure who I was warning—her, or myself.

Nothing gold can stay, in the golden night

The moon shines with beauty that not even the best poet could capture. It’s white light shines with a luminous glow as it glistens in the sapphire sky making everything around it seem so pure.

The stars twinkling beams shine along with the moon capturing the beauty of the trees in the forest while giving every thing a beautiful golden light.

The trees seem to shine golden, they stand tall as leaves slowly drift to the ground.

It is a golden night, so rare and so pure. But, as _Robert Frost _had once said, “Nothing gold can stay”. And that was true.

When the sun rises and the birds singing replaces to chirp of the crickets and the hoots of the owls, the golden night goes away to make way for a golden day.

He puts a towel over my head. It’s dry and coarse. It smells, but I can’t pinpoint what it smells like…and maybe that’s for the best.

I can’t see him, but Glasses starts screaming at me. I can feel his spittle across my neck. It’s warm in the cold, and in a strange way welcome.

Someone wheels me toward the faucet. My first guess is Glasses, but the arms are wheeling me from the left. Glasses is to the right. I can feel the bristle of arm hair on my forearms. The arm hair, just like the towel, is dry, so my guess is it’s Beard. He grunts something, and I can’t tell if they’re words or not.

I can see the indentation of the faucet. It’s blots out a portion of the rusted-over light that hangs above. Glasses continues to scream and shout, and with it comes more spit. How the man hasn’t reached levels of dehydration is beyond me.

Beard turns the faucet. It’s rusted, I can hear the strain. The faucet groans, like a beast awaking from a winter slumber. And then it belches water. Warm for a handful of seconds and then it’s ice cold.

Damn fools. Stupid enough to think that they can drown me. The one and only. Captain Sponge. The water floods through the towel, and I consume and consume. Glasses is still screaming, and it’s hard to hear over the water, but he sounds panicked.

He should be.

I expand and expand. I can feel my fingers broaden. My joints growing fat with water. My torso gets wider and wider. Fulfilled is the first term that comes to mind. Beard is screaming too. Or just grunting in fear.

I am fully absorbed. I rip through the feeble restraints, the chair tornados into the wall. The towel falls from my face and slops to the floor. Glasses goes for his pistol, but I stop him before he can manage a grip. I extend my hand and launch a surge of water at him. There’s so much water that I can’t even see him, but I somehow can hear his scream. As well as his body colliding with the wall. I think I can hear his bones crack.

Beard grabs me from behind, his hairy arm wrapped around my throat. I tighten every muscle, jets of water shooting upward from my legs, lifting Beard high into the sky, slamming him into the ceiling.

I stop and assess the damage I’d done. Glasses doesn’t have a face anymore, can’t call him Glasses anymore. There are, however, shards of glass protruding around his eyes. Beard’s a mess too, and he also lost his title. Hard to call a man Beard when he doesn’t have a face. I’m glad they understood the power of Captain Sponge in their final moments.

I can hear the stampeding down the stairs. The shouts and screams. They’ll be through the door at any moment.

I am ready.

Captain Sponge is always ready.

It’s quiet at this time of day Silence greets me And it brings warmth along with it It smells of pastry and black coffee It’s stirring of memories But I have to finish writing I have to finish this article I need my job or else I can’t afford to have this coffee Black. Reminds me of the worry creeping in. Steeping in, like the tea in that pot.

Growing up was constantly Swimming With no gills In a pool of ice water Always moving Pursuing The label of Your perfect daughter You love me, you applaud me You know that I’m smart But what happens when Miss perfect Stops playing her part? Will you still adore me If about me You can no longer brag? If I start speaking my mind? Waving a more colorful flag? If I center my values Instead of padding your pride? Would you say it’s fine But then subtly Toss me aside? I know you like us To lay low Avoid making a racket But now your little girl Is trapped In the tightest straitjacket Your expectations linger Unsaid Like trash in the sea So I don’t know if it’s you Maybe it’s just me But a pressure unsaid Doesn’t make it unfelt So no matter the source I must untangle The knot I’ve been dealt   You love me Unconditionally   I think   But I wish You would say it   Overtly   I need proof How hard is it? Come on please set me free!   Say that you’ll love me the same If you can’t brag about me