Writing Prompt – Annika Perry

I’m not one for following rules! Even more so when reading instruction manuals, the very sight of them causes the same reaction in me as physics classes at school – my cognitive skills freeze!

However, I could not fail to be inspired by a creative writing prompt in my beautiful mslexia Diary & Planner.

This is what my mind saw: Take a favourite sentence. I had just the perfect one in mind:

‘Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated.’ Confucius

I came across these wise words for the first time earlier in the week while reading Khaya Ronkainen’s heartwarming and inspiring newsletter. (Do take a look at her wonderful poetry and blog here .)

Next, I believed I should place the sentence vertically down a page, a letter per line. Then create a poem or short fiction, starting with each letter on each line!

Creative ideas flowing I scribbled away with a satisfying whirl of energy. It became long; longer than I’d expected. Halfway through I returned to the instructions (quite typical for me!) and realised my piece was unravelling before me!

This was an acrostic writing exercise which involved selecting a sentence and listing the 14 words vertically. (Error #1 Mine was only 11 words) One should then make the first letter of each word into 14 new sentences or lines of poetry. (Error#2 I had made each letter of the sentence a new line – hence 50 line-long poem).

Instructions are great, and helpful at times yet they can be abandoned, as inspirations take us to new directions! Just so! Instead of scrapping my piece, I returned to it reinvigorated, daring!

I hope you enjoy my non-acrostic poem below and I wonder have you ever had any experiences where not following the instructions led to something new?

Listen

Listen!
I’m speaking
Fine
Except
I’m not.

Speak to me
Relish the moment 
Experience life
Accept it.

Listen
Lightly let your heart sing.

Yellow
Stains on your shirt
Immersed in fantasy
My imagination
Plays tricks.

Lions, or is it loins,
Enwrapped, enraptured,
Business, only business, you say.
Untruths, lies, fiction
Truth, tantalising close
Warped, twisted, broken
Especially from your mouth.

I sink down onto the chair,
Nestling amongst the blankets
Snug as a bug, as my mother used to say.
Insistent promises; you should become a writer.

Shut up, I whisper
Tornado of words whip
Over the coffee table, behind the TV.

Neither listen.

Me becomes we
Armed with history
Knitted over time.

Incorrigible, you really are, my Dad declared.  Was I? Am I?

Neither of us speak.

Groundhog Day number 63 or is it 541?
I forget.

The 
Clock
Oozes pain.
Mine and yours.

Please
Listen
I’m done
Come to me, though
As always, worn down.

Trust 
Eventually 
Destroyed. 

©Annika Perry, June 2024

hoarding Recently I joined a local Creative Writing Group and the latest piece of ‘homework’ was to write a page or so around the prompt word of ‘Stuff’. Here is what I came up with.

STUFF

You reach for the floor beside the grubby mattress and your hand stops. Paper. Your eyes flicker to the pile of magazines; this section all sports but the top one is askew and from years of practise you ease it back to perfect alignment. A silent satisfied sigh slips between your lips. Lips, thirst, only now do you realise the rasping dry feeling in your throat, you gag, try to cough, to spit. Anything. Just tiny puffs of air that lift the dust from all around, it flutters freely in the gloomy air, some dancing in the shaft of light beaming through the torn curtain. Light, too much light. You need to eradicate the beam, to restore the darkness, to preserve your stuff. Slowly you ease yourself onto your ankles, wincing with pain, time standing still, each movement agony. Don’t need this. Really could do without this hassle. You mutter. To yourself. The left knee gives way and twisted you fall back onto your hideaway. Surrounded by piles of newspapers, magazines, records, memorabilia. It’s all junk, she said as you came back from the car boot sale. Was that the fourth time, or the twelfth? Just because it’s called a car boot sale doesn’t mean you need to fill it, she joked. At first. Beth was sweet, good, kind. She tried to stick with you, with it. You shake your head, the memory of her too much, too distant, another lifetime. The sunlight moves and blinded you lash out, fast, violently. As vicious as your swiped at Beth. You didn’t mean to hurt her, honestly. You did your time and were set free again. But are you? Ever? Again you lash out at the light, striking it back and forth, striking your cave of print material. You feel a gentle pummel first, then a cascade as first one pile wobbles then topples over. Over you. An endless colossal collapse of stuff. Are you free yet? Vincent?

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