May’s writing prompt was Play. Here we showcase all the responses that were submitted.
Play writing prompt: Children racing across the lawn. A chess piece slide into place. Pressing play on an old video.
Remember Play
Remember rain-soaked Sundays in the park,
Running home,
A damp hand drabbling sound
Against the railings.
And the grassy banks we rolled down –
impossibly green –
Staring at a stretch of sky while
listening to the quiet trees.
Remember seaside sandy tears and tired toes,
Scrabbling across the backseat,
For the moon-watch home.
Then age comes
To the lucky ones,
Slow as evening.
As sure as sunset,
Or the promise of rain.
Each line, each wrinkle
each passing pain,
tells stories of a heart
rooted deep in tender days.
by Leanne Simmons
First Whispers of Friendship and Flame
There was once a time when I truly wondered if the sun cast its soft late afternoon glow just
to cheer me up as I sat alone in the schoolyard.
She was a quiet girl who always seemed to feel unseen, her eyes filled with questions she
was never brave enough to ask.
I wanted her to know that I had always wished to befriend everyone.
Her face carried the loneliness of someone who would do anything for a true friend.
What did it feel like to have someone you could trust with your secrets?
Words we could never tell our parents, yet we whispered them into the warm breeze as we
curled up behind the classroom curtains.
It was our little headquarters.
We left our bags on the bench and ran toward the backfield, the side garden, the narrow
footpath beside the fish pond, before finally stopping behind the canteen, where she told
me she had found a four-leaf clover.
It was rare, but somehow, having a friend felt even rarer.
She had always dreamed of having someone she could show it to.
Only a faint trace of sunlight remained.
By then, we had unfolded endless stories to each other.
Perhaps we forgot about the bench where we had left our bags when a group of senior boys
wandered into the yard, some of them riding bicycles, circling the school with loud laughter
drifting through the air.
I picked up the clover and placed it into a handmade pot crafted from a plastic bottle.
Then I tucked it deep beneath an old wooden desk, hoping no one would notice it there.
That was the first time someone softly greeted me.
A voice so tender, barely there, melting into the dusk air, coming from one of the boys on
the bicycles.
He circled the yard once more before saying hi again.
Something inside me shifted, a feeling I didn’t yet understand.
But my innocence pulled me away from the moment.
Love felt too new.
Too intimidating.
I was afraid.
I told my friend, “Let’s pack our bags and go home now!”
And that is how memories linger.
A sweet moment shared with my friend, and with someone whose name I never learned.
Yet they remain carved deep within my mind.
An archive I refuse to let fade.
by Bonniela (@archiveoftheundone Insta)
Playing Dressup
Back then, we were unaware of what wearing grownup clothes really meant. We’d raid our parents’ closet and combine anything with everything. Like the world, the clothes were too big for us, but it didn’t matter. Costume beads swinging from our necks, we stumbled as we tried to run in those oversized clown shoes. As we hit the round we laughed without worry of consequences, without knowing it was better not to run towards the adult future so quickly.
Standing in front of the closet now, it’s a different game of choices we play. The things inside are made for our adult size, curated to our taste but limited by our humble means. Chosen to appease others we can’t fully cast off. We yearn for when the decisions had lower stakes and adulthood was a far-off fantasy land. When fantasy was just as good as real. The shoes fit now, but still we falter and crumble to the ground from expectations. We could still laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.
by Katharine Mussellam
swim press 