Weekend Writing Prompt #236 – Blue

A word prompt to get your creativity flowing this weekend.  How you use the prompt is up to you.  Write a piece of flash fiction, a poem, a chapter for your novel…anything you like.  Or take the challenge below – there are no prizes – it’s not a competition but rather a fun writing exercise. […]

Weekend Writing Prompt #236 – Blue

with you, yellows filled my days
there weren’t any grays
that was years ‘fore i was red
after you died, alone i bled
took all the hues i ever knew
and now with him i’m black and blue


This was a prompt that said to write about any object in your room and make a story about them having feelings. This is my 2nd work for this prompt. Can you guess what the object is? Would also appreciate feedbacks as I am only starting my writing journey.

You have been with the family for years, decades even. You cradle both mother and child every night, as well as in the lazy mornings and sleepy afternoons. You were so used to the weight of the two combined that you don’t immediately take note of the gradual lightening of your load. You didn’t until one day, you started only carrying the mother, occasionally joined by her daughter at some days. The ‘good days’ is what you called it. This went on for months, nearing to a year until no one was there to be carried all throughout the day. You waited. And waited. And waited.

A creak is what you let out at first. You were unfamiliar with who you were carrying until you noticed it was the daughter, now in the beginnings of adulthood. You thought nothing of what has happened, just happy that someone has come back for your comforts, that you have not been forgotten by this family. But you realized something was wrong right away, right at the same night that you have began to be slept on again. You know you were only cradling the daughter, but the weight felt heavier. You were not aware that carrying a person with unprocessed grief, sadness, loneliness, anxiety, with guilt would be heavier than both mother and child.

You did not know that the absence of the mother would be so much more to carry than having them both.

You did not know.

You wish you never did.


A mother and child were out on a night stroll, arms linked and conversing softly.

“Ma, do you think I’m meant to be great like how people expected me to be?” asked the girl.

“I think you are meant to be you, and that in itself is greatness enough,” came the reply.

“Well, you’re meant to say that. You’re my mother,” the child acquiesced.

A few seconds of silence passed as they walked through the streets that were used to be teeming with life even at night but are now still and vacated except for the two.

The girl, fully aware of what this walk was, continued to ask with the curiosity of the child she once was. “Ma, how come the stars are the brightest I’ve ever seen them today? Is it because you’re here?”

“Hmm. That maybe so,” the mother replied calmly.

The girl, now at the edge of adulthood, was about to let it go when the mother spoke again. “Sometimes, when you are at war with yourself, when you fail to see why things have happened, why this has happened, the universe allows you a moment of peace. It comes in many forms, and for you, it is a last walk with me.”

The girl kept quiet, afraid that the moment will be taken from her as quick as her mother was by her illness. The mother then continued, “But you also need to accept it. I am gone, and I offer you nothing but this walk to remember me by. To remember that it has brought you peace, this tranquility you crave but cannot achieve because you refuse to accept what has happened.”

The girl, taking the statement as a goodbye, refused to meet the conversation halfway. “But how? The universe doesn’t know how I feel, or what I am. That’s not how it works.”

A gentle smile came from the mother. “Nobody knows how, but it is a gift you need to accept.” They are nearing the end of their walk, the girl knows. She is aware of the sun coming up, and of the tone of farewell from her mother’s voice.

“I may not have seen you grow into the age you are today, but I know you will be you. Nothing else matters. And when you are lost, or craves the warmth of a mother, remember this walk, this moment of peace, of the quiet you seek.”

And as the two took the last few steps, the girl wakes from her dream with the bittersweet feeling of meeting a loved one again just to say goodbye. But she also wakes with peace, and the hope that the gift given to her will lead towards acceptance.


This was a prompt that said to write about any object in your room and make a story about them having feelings. Can you guess what mine is?

Nighttime from before used to be my favorite part of the day. It is when the cold wind outside the window feels perfect for sleeping, or when everything is quiet and all I can hear are the soft snores from the humans around me. The atmosphere was calming, just the way I like it.

But now, it is a rain of tears on my side. It is a hug so hard I nearly burst because no one else is around to be hugged by her. Or maybe to hug her, I am not sure. It is now a secret untold to anyone but me, secrets that are too heavy to share with another so she gives it to something that will not feel pain no matter the weight of what is to be carried. It is a battle she has no hope of winning, and, it seems, she has no plan of trying to at all. It is the loneliness seeping out of her skin, left out freely because there is no need for pretense with her alone. It is now sadness with her mother gone beside her, and it is now sadness I absorb as I try to provide her the comfort she craves but is too afraid to ask for.

All these are gone when the sun rises and the calm is shattered by the day starting. She wakes, and we both pretend I am not tear-streaked just a few hours ago. She makes the bed, and leaves.

And then nighttime comes again.