This month’s writing prompt was Reflections. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted
Reflections prompt: light reflects colors and shapes onto surface. A face distorted by refractions and disillusionments; it’s difficult to tell what is really there. In the glass there’s a mirror image, a doppleganger, something familiar yet not quite how it seems. Glace into puddles and see who stares back. It may be your face, or another.
Moving Like the River
Summer ebbed and the moon-blue river moved slow and dark. The scramble of dog-roses that had stared, wide-eyed all summer on the wild side of the river bank had faded too, giving way to bursts of crimson fruit. Soon, the hedgerow would be a jewelled blaze of red and orange, alight against the wide skies of shorter days. Nothing was still. Reflections – birch, alder, weeping willow – wobbled on the surface of the water.
There was no sign of autumn in Helen’s laundry basket. She rifled through it, pink-cheeked from the walk, tossing crumpled garments – shorts, t-shirts, pants – into piles. Whites. Darks. Colours. All four of her sons were sporty; a gangle of arms and legs and ripening shoulders. A waft of spice cologne that had become her eldest’s signature scent rounded her nostrils as she pushed the last summer load into the drum. Next week she’d be knee-deep in uniform and PE kit.
The sofa cushions were alert, perky, where she’d beat out the slump of her sons. Hers again, the house was quiet save for the moan and churn of the washing machine turning over and over.
The rows had been bitter. Over and over, the same conversation, the same denial. The same fear. All this, and more, reflected back at her on results day when disappointment dimmed his face and eyes. The determined piece of paper limp in his boyish fingers. She could have admonished, let him have it, say she knew she was right. She was right, but now, that didn’t matter. Something about her own self in his eyes held her tongue.
The spin cycle ticked to a stop. Helen clicked the door open and pulled the damp clothes out in a clump. Outside, blue sky, sunshine and a watery haze across the lawn. She shook each item into shape and pinned it to the line. A fresh breeze rippled through it, made her pause, as shadows the shape of her sons wobbled on the grass. Maybe that’s it. Pause, from time to time. Catch your reflection wobbling up ahead. But keep moving. Moving like the river.
by Leanne Simmons (@leannesimmonswriting on Instagram)
Sunlight Can Hardly Reach
Kicking my feet against the water, I would like you to know that it is an act of defiance. I am watching the house we flooded, the house we sank by keeping ourselves afloat. In my dreams, I felt at peace with the green water, with the smell of moss. Then I wake and my lungs are weak. Man in the water, lurking, wade against the depths and reach out. If not, I will sit on the edge and settle for the ripples, smile at the mirage, watching as the water laps against the walls. The house will dry. It always does. I will scoop what was left of the earth and put it in my pockets. And I will leave you to the depths, then walk home with mud on my shoes.
by Chelsea Yanga (@chelsea_yanga on X)
Blossom
She had gazed into the mirror in front of her. She had been sitting at her vanity all morning, wishful thinking of the woman who would one day smile back at her in the mirror. She grew tired of her pale face, dark circles beneath her eyes, her brown hair with split ends, her awkward nose. The other girls at school looked different from her. Curves, fuller bodies, louder confidence. Her mother always told her she was “just a late bloomer” and she had found herself tracing the word “bloom” in her mind as she would lie awake at night. When would she bloom, and how would it all come to be? Would she suddenly sprout like the violets in her grandmother’s garden that she studied when she would visit? Would her features slowly carve into the Greek statues she had drawn in her sketchbook during class? She imagined not only her appearance, but her soul living in the season of spring. New beginnings, warmth, pride, her face no longer dull but sprinkled with dewy spring mornings or the look of being porcelain. Acne washed away by the rain, the shade of her brown eyes sprinkled with touches of gold from the sun. A smile that brought men to their knees perhaps, and she wondered, would the purple dress she loved at the boutique downtown hug her body in a proud embrace? She wanted the power to manifest these thoughts. She wanted to pour positivity into her cup and get drunk on the thought of being beautiful. Not her mothers version of beautiful, not her friend’s version of beautiful, but her own. The thought of blossoming into a strong, beautiful, confident woman. A beautiful that she could find comfort within her own skin. The thought of leaving her old self in the season of winter, where the flowers go to die, and the branches shed their clothing and remain bare. She craved nothing more than to be a flower in someone’s gifted bouquet. She dreamt of growing vines, and rapidly grown roots traveling beneath the ground, traveling within her, striving to flourish and evolve. The reflection in the mirror slowly rippled into what she wanted. A woman sat in front of her with a reassuring smile, a beautiful face painted from a portrait, her cheeks the shade of tulips, she had an aura of warmth surrounding her. They had not exchanged words, but they had both shared a familiar glare. A familiar gaze. The gaze was safe and reassuring, it was welcoming and loving, and the girl took a deep breath before whispering the words, “I am on my way.”
by Jasmyne Labeau (@thejasmynejade on Instagram)
Beneath the Warrior
I shed the layers of my armor as I watch my reflection in the mirror.
Countless hours I have mourned for the girl beneath–
cradling my anxiety, my fears, in my hollow heart;
praying for strength to discover the beauty my mother claims I hold
I wish for the warm embrace of acceptance as I bury the sadness deeper and deeper.
The mountains I have yet to climb await me in the fog–
the journey I follow will be long.
by Jasmyne Labeau (@thejasmynejade on Instagram)
Untitled
I look beyond The woman there stares at me Golden brown hide, unbrushed untamed eyebrows, a pimple emerging around the right inner corner A bony trough on the bridge of her nose A faked smile reveals a glimpse into her asymmetrical face, a dimple only on the left When her hand covers the left side, an almost different woman delves on the right Two of her, three of us She looks like a god in a way she somewhat knows but cannot acknowledge She is me, I am her The woman from a few seconds ago lives only in that mirror The woman after a few more seconds lives completely without it But in this present moment of vanity, we exist together, me and her For no artist can paint their lover this way This crown of obsession and judgement is only worn in tales of reflection
by Tarisha Kaushik (@lafzon_ka_gajra on Instagram)
The Reflection
She had fallen into the lake that day. Gripping the grass in her slender fingers, leaning to observe herself The murky depths were far from inviting, looking as if they hosted darkness, Yet the reflection of her face, shifting in the rippled water, had cast a spell. And her- spellbound- Had tipped slightly, grazed knees sliding easily on the bank, Lips moving, in introduction, as if to greet herself. When she fell it was swift, and Before she could choke the water from her lungs she was staring At the weeds, the drifting plants. She met herself down there, knew herself (in the lake, amongst the creatures and the vines). Intertwined fingers, linked with herself in a way she had not felt in years. For it was not narcissism that drew her in, but her own self, reflected, Calling and beckoning, crying out for connection. A siren song, almost (except a murderess, she was not). Yet of course she did not emerge, instead she Stayed, swam with her reflection Growing dissatisfied with herself eventually. When she recalled that afternoon, She could remember falling and tumbling, But also, the pleasure of that day, alone at the lake. The water had been gleaming, shimmering with a kind of enchantment. And the sun- oh, how she missed the sun- Had warmed her back, curling the ends of her hair. On reflection, she mused, Her reflection Could not be resisted.
by Kitty Carter (@kittysophiec on Instagram)
Mirror
Sitting inside trying to stay dry from the pouring rain outside, I recall a dream that the falling drops, a string of mirrors, reflect back to me. In it there was a nondescript building, though it was painted green all along the inside, perhaps in an attempt to impose nature’s calm on that otherwise concrete edifice. An office, I think it was, for I was walking down a long corridor speaking with strange colleagues about indefinable narratives. In the dream, I enter an empty elevator, the only exit available. It starts to go down and then plummets. I close my eyes and then suddenly awaken. Sitting in bed I can’t shake the feeling that I have perished, so I stumble to the mirror in my bathroom to see what was left of me, if anything. I was surprised to find multiple versions of myself, some looking right back at me and others with their backs turned to me, an endless chain of bodies all standing in the same setting. Flummoxed by the vision, I wondered if I was still sleeping. I locked eyes with one of my many faces, though I could swear that they twinkled differently. In my head, I flipped through the theories about the afterlife. Resurrection among other ideas came to mind, but to me it seemed like my life was playing out in front of me across infinite universes simultaneously. All I could think to do was pray that it wasn’t the best version of me that died that day.
by Gabo Alvarado-Lieber (@windspiel2023 on Instagram)
My Reflection on Twilight
I can't be with you in twilight. Don't forget to bring your warm dress. Carry an umbrella even if it's not raining. I won't be around you to tie your shoelaces. Your reflection never liked me. I don't want to be a burden to you. I want to be better and more capable if you ever need me. We will meet on the best day of your life. Please send me a long list. I will bring everything on your happiest day.
by Inner Monologue (@inner__monologue__ on Instagram)
swim press 