This month’s writing prompt was gossip. Here we showcase our favourite responses.
Gossip prompt: You feel as if you’re always followed by a cloud of murmurs. The talk of the town. Shadows eavesdrop to overhear the gossip, awaiting another scandal. Secrets slip through parted lips to patient ears. Chinese whispers. Stories get muddied by falsehoods, fake news. Everything gets twisted and out of hand. You hear the rumours; but they aren’t true.
“Leisure Cruise”
The way she passes her fingers
through his thicket of curly locks
you would be remiss to see them
for what they truly are, deep down:
a stop motion shipwreck disguised
as an idealized leisure cruise.
Whereas some would show each bruise,
both the full-bodied and pint-sized,
they were never the type to frown,
opting instead to gaze with gleam
while their bows shattered against rocks,
hiding the depths where no love lingers.
Unable to move past the wringers
of every marriage, they sought docks
strange and new that would not condemn
grievances with clear eyes that drown
in dashed dreams of being baptized
by something more than hollow ruse.
by Deron Eckert (@deroneckert Instagram & Twitter)
Sherbet
Her words
burnt
a flare of
fuschia
a colour
party
sting of fine
powder
a forties camera
lightbulb exploding
snapping
starlets
glassing harlots
in its red
carpet stammer
her lips
flush sherbet,
I coveted
anyway
by Emma Conally-Barklem (@emmaliveyoga Instagram)
Gossip of a stranger
We are strangers in the city of joy.
I know her star sign.
Her friends gossip about her.
They haven’t seen her inner divinity.
We pretend to be strangers in the same room.
I know her favourite colour.
Her friends never miss a chance to tittle-tattle on her.
They never tried to comfort her.
We elude eye contact on the same bus.
I know why she can’t sleep at night.
Her friends always talk about her.
But they never tried to understand her.
by Inner Monologue (@Inner__monolgue__ Instagram)
Gossip
The office water cooler of my body is the heart, where all my emotions coalesce
and gossip about me.
Over little paper cups of water that tastes like paper,
they share secrets—
Grief whispering to Anxiety,
Happiness and Hope a clique,
Sadness and Anger argue,
and I think they’re plotting against me
but they’re just as they are
just as I am
by Kath Richards (@kath_richards_writes Instagram & @kath_richards_ Twitter)
Holding onto a New Life
The entirety of my existence consisted of living for other people. My eyes were tainted by the mere idea of making someone feel bad. I heard whispers in the hall that I wasn’t good enough. My wardrobe sucked. The views I held were meant to be disrespected. Hopelessness carried me through each day as I waited for something new. I felt constant apprehension wherever I walked, my days were cloudy, my veins constricted. Maybe it was the lack of water I had consumed when I was a kid, or the harsh words I heard on how crying made me weak at the mere age of six. Either way, my personal responsibility was to make sure nobody felt sadness in my presence. I forbade it.
Fast Forward. Twenty-one. Mere months into the COVID-19 pandemic. Overwhelmed. I feel like life is on a standstill. I cannot leave my house, go to the park. My only worry is accidently running into one of my neighbors as I cautiously walk to the end of the road so I can soak up at least a modicum of sunlight. My worry is still everyone. But, instead, it is amplified. I hear anger in the water streaming down the falls close by. A little kid pointing at my mask and asking their mommy why I was wearing one. Their response, laced with sadness, lacklustre in effort, made me believe that the mother did not want her child to know about the pandemic. Poor kid. You cannot keep a secret like that forever.
Every person on the internet has become a fiend. Ravaging online, hungry for attention, to start controversy at any waking moment. The hate floods in like a monsoon. Photos of racial attacks towards East Asians fill up the social timeline. Slurs are tossed around like beanbags, inciting crowds of approval towards abuse. Roasts are spat at every ethnic group. Flashbacks from childhood start to creep in. The idea of hiding feelings, of being alone with my thoughts, with no one understanding my thought process. Then, more hate comes in. “Black lives do not matter, all lives matter,” headlines embodying this type of language to push the narrative of everlasting torment are plastered all over our screens. For once, generation Z has banded together. No one is posting hate, only links to donate to black organizations and education. This is good. Progress. I develop a sense of power, knowing that my words are helping people. I call out the girls posting bikini pictures amidst the societal mistreatment and recovery for black lives. I write out essays explaining my anger towards racists. There is work being done. I am fixing it all.
Flash forward, two years later. Twenty-three. Pandemic is in recovery. Kind of. I discover emotional harm recovery on social media. Therapy becomes cool in the eyes of young Americans. #Selfcare is trending, people are buying succulents and inviting their partners over for pasta. They’re laughing, toothy smiles wide, glasses of red wine in hand. Essential workers are no longer labelled as such and are back to square one of being the lowest common denominator. Kissing is common again, two people share a peck as I walk amongst the crowded NYC sidewalks, slipping into obscurity. I find solace in exploring my passions. I watch more movies, try new coffee places, attend concerts, and write. Oh, I write pages. The funny thing about self-care is that it is labelled so simply, as if lighting a candle and sitting on the floor to meditate will be the cure to your problems. It is effective; yes, however, it is not a long-term solution.
I am seeing what works and does not work. I have learned to ignore those who harm me mentally and physically, who make me feel small and meek. I talk to a professional, I walk in the cold, I wait for people to reach out first. I am trying. Recovery means something different to everyone, but I know for me that I am reawakened, I am reborn, and holding onto a new life. Hopefully, this serves me well for a while.
by Meghan Dhawan (@meghan_dhawan Instagram)
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