Objective: Write a poem or piece of prose in exactly 87 words
The story repeats in predictable fashion. A hopeful soul blazes through the pristine wilderness, searching for his breakthrough discovery. With luck, his reward is exotic birds, diverse species of rare orchids, and unique animals. Excited, he shares the wonder.
Tiny frontier towns sprout in the hinterland to provide the curious with accommodations while they conduct their research. A steady stream marks the beginning of an erosion that culminates in a deluge. In time, they conserve the endangered and priceless treasures in an isolated park of utopian hell.
Prompt: Write a story to show what it is to protect nature around us.
Word count: 99 words
Stefano lifted the heavy portfolio in his hand and swiped his forearm across his sweaty brow. A city bus whooshing past momentarily offered a welcome breeze followed by the acrid aftertaste of hot exhaust. Concrete, glass, and steel, absorbed, intensified, and reflected the summer heat.
As a child, Nonna told him tales of long-ago country summers. Tree leaves danced in gentle breezes, birds sang, and the earth cradled soft blue skies.
He featured urban forestation and nature in his architectural designs. Trees, shrubs, and perennials festooned every design, and he proudly wore the title of The Baron in the Trees.
Be wary, my dear creative friend, when you say you wish to explore the seductive call of the arts. If your conviction is not solid, if your resolve is not resolute, if your ethics are not steadfast, clear, and true, then my advice to you is to run. Run, before it is too late.
Once you dip your brush, your pen, your sword, your soul is forever colored, consumed, altered.
Oblivion lurks at the bottom of a paint can, time becomes malleable, and insignificant thoughts recede.
Art has left me desperate and my car keys have been missing for weeks.
I never thought I would be here, really living the dream. Released from Corporate America’s draining demands, I no longer wake before the crack of a sparrow’s fart, to fight rush hour traffic, to log long stressful hours.
My day begins with a gentle stretch, a hot cup of coffee, and a healthy dose of gratitude. Characters whisper in my ear, my desk beckons, and my muse smiles as I set to work. Ephemeral emotions coalesce, transformed into epic tales. My desire to create links me to the past and ties me to the future, as I write about today.
The retreat center advertised a magical, bucolic setting guaranteed to unplug the writer from an overconnected world. For hours, Catherine stared at the typewriter, her fingers mindlessly caressing the black keys. She sighed, rising, she stepped outside to tread the marshy moor.
The door clicked shut, and the stapler clacked his jaws.
“Is it good?”
Paper wiggled from under paperweights, wedged themselves into the roller, while the typewriter’s keys pounded words into existence.
“Any plot issues?” the hole punch asked as she perused the first paragraphs.