This month’s writing prompt was Ornaments. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.
Ornaments prompt: Baubles and garlands and small shiny things. Jewellery that shimmers, new piercings and tattoos. Or even dustings of edible glitter and frosting atop a cake. Tell us about the ways you embellish your life, or the ways in which the quest for beauty has destroyed you.
On your wedding day
for Moumita Dutta
My poetry and muse,
In another universe,
We’d reside in the same city.
My house beside yours,
We’d grow up together.
I’d invite you to play in my backyard;
I’d be your favourite friend.
We’d attend the same school,
I’d be your deskmate.
Sharing notes and water bottles,
And lunches too,
I’d even surprise you with birthday presents,
Fixing your messy hair,
And tying your shoelaces
Would be my best moment.
As we walk home, candy floss and ice cream in our hands,
I’d cross you the road without any fear and worry in your eyes.
After ages when we’ll meet on your wedding day,
I’ll buy you a platinum ornament,
And I’ll always be your favourite friend.
by Inner Monologue (@inner__monologue__ Instagram)
“Trimming Our Tree”
Each bulb holds story
told in pieces as we hang
tree of a life lived
by M. A. Dubbs (@madubbspoetry Instagram)
Angel
Look at me
Sitting in my clean, white dress
Adorned in glitter and gold
Smiling, always smiling.
Look at me
The image of perfection
With shiny hair
And painted nails.
Look at me
Grace, beauty, elegance in my poise.
She wishes to be me.
The angel atop the tree.
Look at me, I say
Though I never wanted to be looked upon at all.
by Lucy O’Neill (@turningthepage08 Instagram)
Some promises are kept
This is an ode to unmelted wax seals on letters that were almost written
with glamourous words and luxurious syllables,
like shiny trinkets saved from past loves
I wish to decorate the maple tree outside my window
Red London leaves descend to the pavement as hibiscus tea leaves violently brew
for a minute too many and now the tea tastes bitter,
like the sound of an untuned guitar to a musician’s ear
The maple’s branches exposed to a faded sense of chilled numbness
While the hollow holds the warmth of a white orb that never smelt of chamomile
A scent that remained unfamiliar till the end of its significance but discovered anew in the calm of folds
Rain-fed rivers of music ebb treacherously, mirroring the rhythm of an anxious heart with love that cannot be delivered
These nearly forgotten memories are the piles of old newspaper, that were daily habits until they weren’t
These bits of paper we can fold into ornaments to be adorned by outside trees
In these delicate folds lie the rediscoveries of a reluctant red, the sweetness of chamomile and a hinted flavour of hibiscus
That coolness on your fingertips when you touch a freshwater stream, like your body knows but fails to agree
and wishes to warm a frigid creek
Warmth will find its way to the coldest earths and belong
Like fallen flowers woven in an empty braid, like old newspaper ornaments on an outside tree
by Tarisha Kaushik (@lafzon_ka_gajra Instagram)
The Ballerina’s Waltz
The symphony welcomes me with a waltz written centuries ago — one still haunting every department store in town. Crimson curtains are about to be torn open. Empty space nearly erased by a gaudy crowd neglecting winter’s touch. The lights will be deafening — much like the ones that studied me that night at Macy’s.
Aisle five, third shelf on the left. There she waited: with so much artificial glitter, it flattered obnoxiousness. So gently pink no one would notice her satin mask. A dress glazed with snow that must have been sewn to serve her. A pirouette Ms. Harmon would not be forced to waste midnight rehearsals on. A stage presence that must taste like a sudden strike of gold.
Up, down, up, down...my sweat wrinkles the fake snow before the show has even begun. Each clap will signal another spin that will never win me the leading part. Every cheer, a realization the world sees through the layers of powder and bandages soothing my steps.
The night I spotted her, I begged Mother to let me take her home. The perfect addition to our pine tree with the bargain of just three dollars spent.
Before I stand naked before opening night’s audience, I think about my little perfect ballerina back home. The awkward feathers on my corset try to make me sneeze. I wonder if this will finally be the year she cracks and falls.
by Paloma Corzo Torres (@palomafilmms Instagram)
The Voices In My Father’s Study
I was sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the fire playing with some toy soldiers when I heard the voices for the first time. I wasn’t scared, but I was curious as they weren’t voices I had heard before. I
thought maybe my mother had visitors in the lounge, however when I passed her to go to the bathroom, she was sat doing her needlework with nobody with her but Winston, our old cat.
When I returned to the study, I paused by the doorway and looked at my father – well, I say I looked at my father, he was always hidden by The Times in the evenings. It was a comical sight, like the newspaper had its own pair of tailored trousers and shiny brown shoes, with puffs of cigar smoke occasionally rising from behind.
I made my way back to the fire where my toy soldiers stood to attention at the mantlepiece, when I heard the voices again. They weren’t clear enough for me to make out what they were saying, they sounded more like they were mumbling – similar to the collective sound of a crowd of passengers talking in small groups on a railway platform.
Placing my hands on my hips, I surveyed the room trying to find a logical explanation. Ah, the radio! I thought maybe it had been left on a low volume. I ran over and inspected it but found it wasn’t turned on.“What are you doing over there?” My father’s deep voice boomed from across the room, though his head never moved from behind the newspaper. “Nothing, just checking something!” I squeaked. Even as a boy, I knew hearing voices was not a good thing, so I didn’t dare tell anyone.
Feeling defeated, I returned to the rug and carried on playing, but the voices never went away and after some time I realised several things; one; that only I could hear the voices, and two; that the voices were coming from inside my head. The voices became clearer as time went on and my mind would conjure up images of what these people looked like.
“Who were they?” Elizabeth whispered, wide-eyed in wonder. They were the characters of my stories, I told her, cradling her on my knee, her blonde ringlets tumbled clumsily over her little shoulders. You see, characters such as these do not come to just anyone, they come to those who will listen and will tell their stories through words on a page, give them adventures and lives that only you could create.
We sat under a blanket on my father’s armchair by the fire in his study, where he had always sat. I stared at the large glass cabinet of books opposite us. It reached from one end of the room to the other and filled the whole space from floor to ceiling. It was full of expensive leather-bound books that I was never allowed to touch as a boy. My own collection lay on the mantlepiece, for fear my father would object to them being worthy enough to be in his glass cabinet – even long after he had died.
“So, you would write stories about them, the people in your head?” she asked, pulling me away from my train of thought; painful memories of disapproval and humiliation. I would write in secret, I told her. My father disapproved of me writing what he called ‘silly fables’, so I would write my stories when I was hidden from his view, usually staying up past my bedtime, scribbling away in the moonlight by my bedroom window. My mother quietly supported what I loved, though she didn’t show this enthusiasm in front of my father.
Elizabeth thought about this for a while. “Was he a bad man?” she asked cautiously. “No,” I shook my head. “My father, your great-grandfather, wasn’t a bad man, he simply didn’t appreciate the creative arts and instead filled his head with business matters and politics.” She played with my beard as I spoke. “He didn’t have the time for my stories of children’s tales, and he thought I should have been using my brain for more grown-up things, things he said were useful and sensible. Of course, he didn’t realise at the time how popular my stories would be to other children and I would go on to make a good living out of it.”
“I like to write stories too, papa. I draw pictures to go with them too,” Elizabeth’s eyes grow in size at the excitement of a shared love of writing stories. “An artist as well as a writer?” I gasp in exaggerated awe.
“Well, you do sound very talented. I would very much like to read those stories.” Elizabeth beams in delight in my interest, something I never had myself, not from my family anyway.
“What happens to the voices once you have written the stories, papa?” she queried, her brows furrowed with concern. “They never leave you;” I reassure her. “They may become quieter as new ones come along, but they will always be a part of you, and you will never be truly alone. You’ll have hundreds, if not thousands of them by the time you’re my age and they aren’t always people either, I have had many animals too.”
Elizabeth grins then turns to the glass cabinet. “What books are in there?” she asks. “I don’t know, I tell her, I’ve never been in it. I wasn’t allowed, remember?” “But you’re not a little boy anymore,” she points out. I think about this for a moment, and I smile at her maturity for such a young girl. That’s right, I’m not a little boy anymore. We clambered out of the large, old leather armchair and she clasped my hand and took me over to the cabinet. I was still intimidated by it, even now.
There must have been hundreds if not a thousand large, thick books, mainly on economics, world maps and scientific essays of botany and medicines of other sorts. There was no fiction, unsurprisingly. “What’s in there?” Elizabeth’s little hand pointed to a locked compartment on the top shelf of the cabinet.
“Elizabeth, pass me that stool,” I asked. I stood tall and reached my arm over the top of the cabinet, sweeping my fingers through dust before they brushed onto something small and metal. The key was dirty and had obviously been untouched for decades. I blew on it then rubbed it on my jumper.
Mine and Elizabeth’s eyes met before I inserted the key into the lock to find it was a perfect fit. We held our breaths as I turned the key until we heard a click. The wooden panel swung open easily and in there was a large handmade box made of reddish wood with a beautiful design of flowers and birds intricately carved into it. I pulled the box out of the cabinet and placed it down on the rug by the fireplace, my hands shaking slightly.
“Shall I open it, papa?” Elizabeth asked, placing her hand on my arm. I nodded in approval, and she proceeded to open the box ever so delicately. “A treasure box!” Elizabeth exclaimed. It was a treasure
box; inside was my mother’s wedding ring, a collection of photographs of my parents when they were young and a handful of letters they wrote to each other when he was away during the war. I put the letters to one side to read another time when I noticed a large, dusty envelope at the base of the box. I opened one end and pulled out around twenty sheets of paper with my boyish scribbles covering both sides.
“My stories!” I whispered, dumbfounded. “He must have liked your stories if he kept them in his treasure box,” Elizabeth proclaimed so innocently and so sure of herself. I wiped away a few tears from my
cheeks, and she hugged me tight. “I’m ok, they are happy tears,” I reassured her.
She looked through the photographs one by one. Suddenly, she lifted her head and looked around the room. “Who is that?” she asked. “They are pictures of your great-grandparents when they were courting,” I pointed to the black and white photographs. This was probably the first time she had seen pictures of her great-grandparents. “No, who was that talking?” she scrunched up her face.
“Ah, I think you’ve just met the characters for your next story!” I chuckled, memories of my own experiences flooding back through my mind, as if I was watching myself in a strange out-of-body
experience. “I’ll go and fetch you some paper and pencils,” I said, heaving myself off the floor. I paused as I got to the large oak door of the study and smiled to myself as I watched Elizabeth play on the rug in front of the fireplace just as I did so many years ago.
by Sarah Robin (@SRobinWriter Twitter)
ornamental
taking this guttural glitter to dust on my face
just so you’ll look at me
just catch a glimpse of me
while I spin around you
is nothing compared to the way
I hang on your arms like branches
ready to snap at the slightest weight
of a desire too big for one person to carry
but too small to be expressed
without presenting something to you
in arms reaching up
and over
and down
towards your cheek
making sure to take a glance
at this shining shimmering splendour of a face
by Madeleine Chan (@madeleinelyc Instagram, @madeleinechan Twitter)
swim press 