This week’s writing prompt is:
OUTSIDE
There are lots of meanings to the word outside. Does it mean outside as in outdoors? It can mean that you’re left out of something – for example, you’re on the outside looking in, while everyone else knows what’s going on. You could add an ‘r’ to the end and take it to mean an outsider, someone who’s new. Or maybe you think of it as the outside of something physical, such as a book or building. What does the word mean to you?
Fact or fiction, prose or poetry, I would love to read your thoughts on this week’s prompt, but there’s no obligation to share your writing. Here is the work you shared on the last prompt BLUE.
Tony:
Declensions of a Blue
Like a promise whispered in the hollow of the soul,
A subtle ink where my silences drown.
Blue night, when your gaze unsettles the space
And may my thoughts wander at the edge of your voice.
Sky blue,
What remains of childhood when you laugh —
A pure glow, an air crystal,
A shiver resting on the morning shoulder.
Navy blue,
Your mysteries that attract me like the wide,
A world to explore without map, without compass,
Just the skin, the breaths, and this desire that navigates.
Royal blue,
Your sovereign spirit who challenges the constellations,
Bright like a comet that never falls.
You speak, and the words bow.
Electric blue,
The lightning that you leave in my veins
When your intelligence flares up,
Mixing sensuality and vertigo.
Pastel blue,
Your tender silences, your hushed absences,
When you become an inner landscape,
A watercolor where I slowly lose myself.
Cobalt blue,
The cold fire of your presence,
That unalterable je-ne-sais-quoi,
Who leaves me half-alive every evening.
Blue oil,
When you walk and the night follows you,
Sculpted in the elegance of puzzles —
You are the nuance that no word captures.
Just plain blue,
The one I offer you without armor, without detour,
Blue like a caress that hesitates,
A sigh that seeks you
And a letter never posted.
This is from a poetry writing challenge in 2015.
Today for writing a poem, we were given the suggestion to think of our favorite color, or a memory of a color, that has meaning for you. Mine is sky blue. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved looking up at the sky, in all it’s wonderful shades of color. From midnight’s inky darkness, with moon and stars shining, to fabulous sunrises and sunsets, painting the sky with flames, of orange, and red, all are fascinating to me. I take pictures…lots of pictures of the sky. Each one is different…each time you look at the sky, it is changing, from moment to moment.
Here are a trio of Haiku poems, honoring the sky…
SKY BLUE
Enchantress of space
Gaze into the sky of blue
Universal Peace
***
Incandescent sun
As above you burn sky blue
Breathe…refresh your soul
***
Ever-changing sky
Blue azure sea above us
Ever-lasting love
With roses red and violets blue,
I wanted to change colors, too.
I’ll stick with green. And so will you?!
I’m glad! We both agree.
I love the color blue! It can represent so many things, including deeply spiritual concepts.
The blue smoke rises to the ceiling.
“What have you done?”
“What I’m trained to do. You have a problem with that?”
“Yes I do. grilling should be done outside”
“That’s your problem.”
Blue Summer
Blue is the color of summer. At least, at my house, and to me it is. Blue skies, blue water, our blue ski boat, and our blue pontoon boat join together to make summer seem a very blue affair.
Summer has a sound, too. It is the sound of the ski boat motor growling on the water, a sound I would recognize in much the same way I would recognize the sound of my children’s voices. It is grandchildren screaming with delight and laughing, the sound echoing across the water. Its the sound of birds singing and hawks calling to each other in my yard. At night, it is the sound of the owl’s call and the overwhelmingly loud sound of the cicadas in the trees.
Summer is a time of remembrance, too. We remember the man who made all our summers wonderful and fun, my sweet husband, Billy. We remember how hard he worked to make our land look like a park, how he always managed to keep the boats running and gas in the garage, how he loved water skiing. How he loved summer. How he loved all of us.
Green is my favourite colour, but blue does hold a certain memory for me.
Some of my readers may be familiar with Hubby’s little cartoons of SWMBO (aka me) and he did this one in October 2016 after I’d had my lumpectomy.
The Smurfette colouring was due to a blue dye they injected before I went into surgery so that they could follow the trail and know which lymph nodes to take.
I was also told that my pee would be blue for a couple of days, but not to worry about it!
He also did this one (note the band aid)
A Shade Called Blue
It comes
not with thunder,
but like a whisper you forgot to answer.
A quiet weight behind the ribs,
settling in like fog at dusk.
I do not cry.
There is no drama,
only the hum of fluorescent lights
and a cup of coffee that tastes like silence.
Blue,
not the sky,
but the kind that lingers in the seams
of yesterday’s sweater—
the one you never meant to wear again,
but did.
It’s in the mirror’s glaze,
the hush between songs,
the question you meant to ask
but swallowed like a stone.
I go on,
because that’s what days do.
But some part of me
sits at the bottom of the ocean,
watching light break
and never quite reach.
Blue wears no mask today. He sits quietly in the corner of the room, head bowed, faceless, waiting for the right expression to fit.
Blue is the shadow that does not move, the hush before choosing which smile to wear. Blue is less of a color than a reflection of what is left of the inner self.
Blue is the bruise of unspoken things, the breath before truth, the sky’s oldest secret, and the sense of the stillness of waiting.
Blue is the hand that no longer reaches out, that is busy writing letters never sent, that sleeps unheld in the silence after saying goodbye.
Blue pools in the shadow beneath its soul, where memory gathers like cold water. Blue stains the horizon where yesterday faded, and lingers in the hollow eyes of someone departed.
Blue is all that is left, watching the light spill across the floor like something lost, leaving no warmth, just the echo of gestures no longer meant, the pause before laughter no longer felt.
Blue wears no mask today, no bright false faces grinning in the dim. It is not sadness. Blue feels the exhaustion of pretending otherwise since you left him.
Sanny M:
An interesting word in today’s prompt,
It could be some music or a sexy romp.
We may think of the sky, the azure scenes,
Or maybe the royals blue blood in their genes?
It may make you sad on a bad day,
In fact on this subject there’s a lot to say.
Izzy awoke with a start and quietly laid very still in the pre dawn morning of July 3rd. This weekend was supposed to be a fun filled affair for the club and but she had a eery feeling “Blue” wouldn’t have the bike ready to roll in time to meet everyone at the clubhouse.
Blue had been up all night working on the old panhead adjusting the valves and adding pannier brackets for the new trunk he was putting on top of the side bags. His struggle felt real as everytime he thought it was squared away another problem would present itself. Around 7:45 Blue made his way into the kitchen and his first sight of Izzy brought an unexpected plot to his tired mind.
With red and puffy eyes all Blue could see was the beauty of the woman he had fell in love with nearly twenty years ago. The emotions that were flooding through him at this moment over rode any rule or regulations the club had for this weekends run, leaving him confused and anxious.
Blue rang the clubhouse and asked to talk to the road captain “Bummer Bob” who was in charge of the road trip run for this weekend. BB was usually a good vibes kinda of person and Blue thought he would understand the idea he had hatched to stay home instead of going on the run, he had business with Izzy that couldn’t wait.
After agreeing to a hefty fine for missing the yearly event Blue felt estatic as he hung up the phone and went in search of his lovely bride. After looking all over the house he stepped out into the garage to find Izzy had stuffed both saddle bags and the trunk with all the essentials needed for the weekend and stood there grinning a smile that melted Blue’s heart. The run over rode his desires and they soon roared out of the driveway.
Deaths
i feel so blue,
like the sky before it rains,
whenever someone goes.
i’ve mourned the deaths
of those i dearly loved,
but it’s the ones who slip away
while still breathing
that darken my soul—
their ghosts haunting me
long before the grave.
i mourn them
like fading autumn leaves,
once vibrant, now brittle,
crushed beneath the weight
of their betrayal.
they hurt me—
stabbed with words
that left scars like ink,
their lies like cold winds
that steal the warmth
from every memory.
i loved them,
and now i bury them
each time they turn away.
they die in pieces,
and i,
left with the fragments
of a love that was never whole.
Part II of the Spiral Series
The wind hadn’t stopped.
It moved differently now—slow and strange, like the exhale of something buried deep beneath the ground. It pulled at the corners of her tent, lifting canvas in little fits and snaps, always seeming to tuck itself into cracks where it didn’t belong.
That was what woke her. Not sound, not light. Just pressure.
And then, the artifact cracked again.
Carla snapped upright, breath caught in her throat, the sound sharp and final like a neck breaking in the dark. Her hand flew to her satchel. The clasp was ice-cold. She fumbled it open, fingers stiff with sleep or fear—she couldn’t tell which.
Inside, the artifact pulsed softly. Not glowing, exactly. Breathing. The black stone was veined with dim silver, like capillaries beneath bruised skin. It was cold. It shouldn’t have been. It had gone silent days ago, after the lightning storm and the screaming.
But now, it pulsed.
She stared too long. Her jaw ached. Something inside the artifact wanted her to touch it again. To grip it the way she had before.
Wind scraped across the broken plain, carrying ash and the copper tang of blood. The sky above never returned to its blue hue. It hung overhead like a wound that refused to scab, pulsing faintly in red and violet. Birds no longer came near. Their calls had been replaced by clicking sounds, sharp and unnatural, like someone cracking knuckles in rhythm.
She stepped outside.
The land where the fortress once stood remained warped—trees curved inward like giant hooks, soil blistered like molten glass. Some places she avoided instinctively, though she didn’t remember why. Her body knew what her mind refused: something still lived here.
And it was moving.
On the ridge, something gleamed—symbols etched into a rock face that hadn’t existed a day ago. She climbed toward it. The air thickened with every step, heavy as steam, vibrating with low pressure in her ears.
The glyphs weren’t carved. They were pinned. Slivers of hide, nailed into the stone with bones. Symbols like those from the tomb, but bent, broken, misremembered—like a child trying to copy a nightmare. They wept a thin, translucent fluid. Fresh.
She reached out. The surface twitched.
A breath behind her.
A footstep.
She turned.
A figure limped into view. Hooded. Shifting. Its form shimmered like heat off scorched pavement. The voice came in pieces, static and rust:
“You… turned the key… wrong.”
Carla stepped back, clutching the artifact.
“I sealed it,” she said, though her voice betrayed her.
The figure tilted its head. The hood slipped just enough to reveal a hint of a face—misplaced features, teeth where they shouldn’t be, eyes stitched halfway shut.
“You sealed one. But they were never meant to be alone.”
A chill ran up her spine.
There are more.
The artifact pulsed again. A new groove had appeared—smaller, deeper, purposeful. Not a fracture. A design. It was evolving.
Above, the sky flickered again. Not lightning cracks. Fractures like glass under pressure, thin and spreading. The heavens are trying and failing to hold their shape.
The creature she sealed had not been alone.
The world was a vault. Each seal is a cell. Each twist of the artifact, a new calculation. Her choice had shifted the weight. Something else was pressing through.
Her grip tightened around the artifact, the edges biting into her palm. She was breathing hard, chest aching. Her thoughts raced: Where was the next seal? How many were left? Could she fix what she had started?
She was lost again, not just in the land, but in her role. She had thought herself a savior. Now she feared she had only shuffled the locks.
And she wasn’t alone.
Others would feel the pulse.
Some would fight.
Others would cower.
And a few… would answer the call.
When Mike went back to the piece of wall art, this time on his own, there was something different about it.
There was still the blue sky and some fluffy white clouds, with a young man looking up at the sky through the V-shaped gap that had appeared in a stone-cold grey wall. The ground around the young man was strewn with rocks and parts of the wall that had fallen away, revealing the blue sky.
It didn’t take him long to realise what was different. Somebody had added a pair of blue wings to the V-shape where the wall met. It was the message he’d been waiting for.
Three minutes later, after gazing at the blue sky, with butterflies fluttering in his stomach, Mike stood on the precipice of his life, his blue eyes fixed on the future. He refused to look down, for fear of being trapped in his past. All he craved was the promise of what lay ahead.
With both arms outstretched, Mike positioned them at shoulder height. As the sun emerged from behind a cloud, making his blue eyes shine, a silent affirmation of his chosen path, he took a step forward. He flapped his arms, now transformed into wings, a symbol of his journey to his true love, David.
It wasn’t just the butterflies that soared; his final journey to reunite with David carried him through the artwork towards the blue sky. On the other side, he was greeted by a serene landscape, a testament to the peace and acceptance he had found.
With open arms, his first love, David, and the endless blue skies welcomed him.
A Blue Moment
When I was a little girl of seven, my cousin received a plaster of paris moulding set for a birthday gift. The set was a Disney theme and included moulds of various popular characters including Mickey and Minnie Mouse, Goofy, Pluto, and Donald and Daisy Duck. The kit included plaster of paris power and water-based paints with two paint brushes.
One look at that kit and I was envious. I wanted a kit like it, but my birthday had passed, and Christmas was months away. I persuaded my cousin to let me make two characters. He agreed to Minnie Mouse and, under duress, Goofy. He wanted me to make Daisy as at ten years old, he wasn’t keen on anything perceived as girly.
I carefully mixed the plaster of paris and moulded the characters. It was a hot day and they dried quickly so I was able to paint them. Goofy had blue trousers and a yellow jersery and Minnie had a pink dress with flowers on it. I was a good painter for my age and the characters look great. It was at this point that the day went wrong for me. Ian suggested I put the characters in a submarine made from an old HTH bottle. Back then, HTH came in large white cylinder shaped bottles with screw on lids. He had cut a door in the bottle to serve as a hatch. He would contribute his Action Man to the adventure and wanted me to contribute my two characters. I didn’t want to but he talked me in to contributing Minnie.
The great journey along the lines of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne commenced. Unfortunately, the submarine flipped over to the door side, took on copious water, and sank. Ian rescued it from the pool and inside we found his Action Man covered in a soggy mess of melted plaster paris and paint. It was a great tragedy for me.
I gave the surviving Goofy character to Granny Joan, and she kept it on her dressing table until she passed away when I was eleven. I remember seeing it when my parents took me to my grandparents’ house to help Granddad Jack pack up her clothes and other personal items. I wanted to take it, but didn’t as it felt like stealing. In retrospect, I’s sure it was thrown out and I wish I had taken it.
artistic success
destroyed by misguided faith
second chance passed up
***
Image credit: Pinterest
Esther Chilton 
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