Poem Prompts Mga Nobela at Kwento

I could still feel it under my skin—like a signature, like a promise, like the moment a match thinks about being struck and decides it wants to be fire. “Paper,” I said softly, the word leaving a temporary fog on the window. “Promises.” And because I refused, on principle, to be the first to look away, I stood and let the city look back until dawn found us both.

BOOK THREE: When Shakespeare meets Maya Angelou I found the next group quite interesting and even wanted to participate, though later, I didn't. We had to leave because Osmosis did not find it interesting like I did. Hillary and Emeka, the art classmate of mine that I told about was there. In fact, Emeka was the organiser. They were in the middle of a picture prompt game when we came. Emeka would show them a picture from his phone and would give five to seven minutes for people interested to write a poem on that picture. Since the time was short, most people wrote short poems.

Encouraging them to keep the faith in God and also in family. After that, it was time for me to give the speech I'd spent hours preparing. I once again climbed the pulpit and started with a poem by Chinonso Chime titled "Immortal"; Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush,

But even more people were gauging the Black family's reactions, mocking me and waiting to see what I would do. I had no idea who was pulling the strings, but the paparazzi's articles were all belittling me, painting me as overconfident. I looked at the notifications on my phone and swiped them away without expression. I didn't expect to receive a call from Clara. "Sebastian, stop fooling around. Starting a company isn't a game, and your money won't last more than a few days. I haven't taken your position at the company away from you, so come back," she said.

Not a greeting. A promise.

“Today’s going to be slower. Softer. We’ve cleared the afternoon of all group sessions—it’s yours, except for the couples, who have to be at the couple track program. But before that, we invite you to begin this last day in quiet reflection. Head over to the pavilion when you’re ready—we’ve set up cushions and journals in a shaded space for our Personal Journaling Ceremony. It’s mandatory, as it’s a sacred part of closing this journey.” She reached into her satchel and placed four small, pieces of paper on each table, one for each of them. “These are yours to keep. The prompts are written on it, things to guide you if you’re not sure where to begin.” She tapped the paper gently. “Prompts lik