Poetry Prompts Novels & Stories

Meanwhile, Yam, inspired by the unfolding stories around him, began something of his own—a writing circle called Words That Stay. No prompts. No critiques. Just space to write gently, where ink could flow without the weight of expectation. Ren joined, bringing pages tinged with the scent of rain-soaked mornings. Maris arrived with a notebook filled with margins doodled in quiet rebellion. Drew brought silence first, then words that cracked open like seeds finding light. And a guest who’d never written publicly before whispered, “I wrote about my mother once. It felt like peeling.” Yam smiled, offering them a simple rule:

With each stroke of my pen, I breathe life into characters who dance across the pages, their stories unfolding before my very eyes. The anticipation builds, like a crescendo in a symphony, as I eagerly await the moment when Professor Steven's prompt will be revealed. Will it be a challenge to create a fantastical world filled with mythical creatures? Or perhaps a prompt that delves into the depths of human emotions, exploring the complexities of the human psyche? Whatever it may be, I am ready to embrace it wholeheartedly, to immerse myself in the depths of my imagination and let the words flow freely.

FL (The sentences with quotation marks are examples of the scene, you don’t have to follow them strictly) : She’s a senior year high school student. Being an invisible girl at school doesn’t bother her, because she knows her soulmate somewhere can appreciate her true self, the answer has been written on her wrist. “ Is it thy will, thy image should keep open my heavy eyelids to the weary night?”(the line is optional, you can devise your own) it says. She imagined her soulmate being helplessly old-fashioned romantic. They complement each other, she thought, because she never had much interest in art or literature. The first day of the new term, a handsome new teacher began his literature clas

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.

You know, I’d like to brush your hair when things go ugly, as in when a tsunami hits the seawall and there’s no one to fix your hair out of fear. I will celebrate your eyes’ uncalculated blink as it might change the season from tinder-parched mornings to being 84 and still writing you poems. You know, I’d like to see you cry, laugh at people off to work, because you’re edged to clear the skies of jinx and throat-clogged pretensions. The paddling mallards, oh, I want to count

Not a greeting. A promise.

Ok class... today, ill be sharing something i wrote with you all. It's a poetry piece. Read carefully. I'll be asking questions later... Oh, my Morning Glory The bright morning sun shoots shafts of light and dark through the blinds, laying bars of mystery down the length of your arching back, creating halos and hollows in your hair.

The poem went this way, 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, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.

The Promise- The Toy Craig is huffing as he run as fast as he could. He's late and who knows what would happen if he doesn't enter the gate before seven o'clock. He woke up late and it's all thanks to his horny neighbors. Ah fuck! Not there Craig! Remembering what he heard last night still makes his cheeks burn. If only he's not out of budget hell immediately find a new place to stay but unfortunately, he's broke and asking for money to his father is never an option.

Napatingin ako sa bintana ng lumakas ang hangin. Sobrang tahimik ng gabi at tanging ito lamang ang maririnig. Nagtagal doon ang paningin ko bago ako napabuntong-hininga at ibinalik ang tingin sa papel. Hinayaan ko na kusang gumalaw ang mga kamay ko. Kybelle the poet, was just blown by the wind. Kung noon tuwing gabi ay nagsusulat ako ng mga poetry, now I'm writing an article.