Your writing prompt this week is
GLASS
This week’s word first came to mind when I picked up my glass of water and beautiful, iridescent colours twinkled through it. You might think of a mirror, a vase or glasses that you wear instead. But other meanings or associations may come to mind. 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 EDGE.
The Edge
Moving between the edges of my life, I have rallied against not knowing how long the journey between them might be
At three,
I rebelled against naps,
craving the daylight adventures
lost to them.
At seventy-eight,
I fight off sleep in the wee hours,
hoping to gain a little bit more time
in a life whose furthest rim I am approaching.
I needed my naps more than the other girls,
my mother always professed,
not knowing all the long nights I stayed awake even then,
trying to win back the time lost to them.
Frank Hubeny:
The Edge
My mind would wander to the edge
of what it understands
then turn around without a sound
forget where it had once been bound
to wander safer lands.
On the edge of a cliff
There she is standing
Looking at her gold ring
While he plays guitar riff
And the dog on his sniff
On this bright day spring
As they view the ocean
From the cliff it’s brilliant
Their passion so fervent
Like having love potion
With a singing robin
Living at this moment
Such wonderful feeling
When two lovers buzzing
Remember the old soap opera the Edge of Night? I barely do, but. Know I watched it with Mom.
Lately, I feel on the edge of sanity as the world tilts even more upside-down. Trying to manage chronic pain at the same time will really try your patience and make you seek alternate methods of coping. Setting my teeth on edge just makes me have sore muscles. I pray for relaxation.
Rall:
leaders on the edge of time
i’m living now in your tomorrow
does that make me an alien?
nah
we still eat cornflakes for breakfast
Unraveling
The hum of the fluorescent lights seems to crawl inside your skull. It’s been three days since sleep came natural. Four since the walls stopped standing still.
You check the locks again. Deadbolt. Chain. Knob. The sequence matters, miss one and the pattern breaks, and if the pattern breaks, they know you’ve noticed. Noticed the unmarked sedan three blocks down. Noticed how your coffee tastes faintly metallic. Noticed the way strangers’ eyes are watching.
The mirror shows a face you almost recognize. Gaunt. Hollow eyed. The beard’s gotten away from you, but grooming is how they collect DNA now. Stay sharp. Stay ahead.
Your phone buzzes, just another message from your brother. Call me back. We’re worried.
We. Plural. They’re working together now.
The notebook’s almost full. Connections mapped in red ink across forty pages. It all fits together once you understand the pattern. The numbers. The numbers are everything.
Your hand shakes as you add another line. Connect another dot. The pattern’s emerging, finally, after all these sleepless nights of work. You’re close. So close to proving…
The pencil breaks.
You stare at the broken pieces in your palm. At the scarlet lattice of paranoia bleeding across forty pages. At your reflection in the darkened window: hollow-eyed, unshowered, alone.
For just one crystalline moment, you see yourself as others must.
Then the moment passes.
You pick up another pencil and keep drawing. The pattern’s real. It has to be.
Because if it isn’t, what’s left besides falling off the edge back into the blackness of your mind.
Living life to its Fullest Takes Courage and a Joyful Heart (sense of humor)
Shuttling between hope and dread, I find myself constantly on edge.
As a member of the snap, crackle, and pop age group, I have fears.
But courtesy of my faith and beliefs, I rise to meet each day head-on,
Determined to overcome the appearance of old age with much cheer.
I walk with confidence that each day will bring a reason to smile.
I pray in anticipation that my cries and petitions are being heard.
I seek new opportunities to live my life to its fullest potential and ability,
Attempting to live each moment in ways that allow my joy to be stirred.
“I see you are a little on edge.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are pointing that gun at me.”
“Oh this? It is harmless unless you don’t do as I say.”
whispers through shadows the veil thins like morning mist hearts beat on the edge My Mind Mappings:
Over the Edge
Sam sat at the kitchen table long after his coffee had grown cold, the morning headlines glaring up at him like a personal accusation. Another scandal in Washington. Another stock market dip. Another reminder that the world was wobbling off its axis. His doctor had warned him about his blood pressure, told him to “reduce stress.” As if stress were a switch he could turn off.
He rubbed his temples, feeling on edge like he’d never felt before. He thought about the stack of bills on his desk. The electric company’s notice lay on top, bright orange, like a flare signaling distress. He’d planned to call them yesterday, but yesterday had dissolved into a blur of anxious pacing and half-watched news segments about inflation, unrest, and uncertainty. In
Sleep had become an unpredictable visitor. When it came, it was shallow and uneasy, filled with restless dreams of collapsing buildings and missed deadlines. The mornings brought a tightness in his chest that he tried to dismiss as nerves, but deep down he knew it wasn’t just that.
Lately, Sam found himself walking around the empty apartment, mumbling questions no one could answer. “What’s happening to us?” he whispered, the TV casting blue light over his lined face. He didn’t mean just to the country. He meant to himself, too.
In the quiet that followed, the refrigerator hummed and the city beyond his window buzzed with indifferent life. Sam sat perfectly still, feeling the world spin faster than he could hold on, and he wondered how much longer he could keep pretending everything was fine, that he was fine.
Then Sam remembered his friend who brought over a mushroom that his friend claimed was a “magic mushroom” with hallucinogenic properties. Sam had been reluctant to try it because the guy who gave him the mushroom was a bit of a flake. But at this point, Sam was down with trying anything that he could do to keep him from going over the edge.
Best case scenario, his friend was right and Sam could escape the harsh realities of the real world for a few hours on a mind-bending head trip. Worst-case scenario, the mushroom was poisonous, and ingesting it would be the last thing he ever did.
Either way, Sam thought, would bring relief.
Bashō style haiku; edge
brittle
leaf edge
hoar frost
~
afternoon
long shadow edges
of trees
~
dead uneven
edge of broken
various branches
Feeling a little edgy,
Getting closer every day
Knock three times
Spooks come out to play
It’s all in fun until you fall
Down deep, so far away
So be forewarned, step lightly as you go
The edge is closer than you think
‘Cause darkness won’t delay
We are the Ones
we are the ones that dwell within
watching and waiting for the end
in the dark we witness your sin
we are the ones that dwell within
that burn you feel under your skin
the edge of madness at the bend
we are the ones that dwell within
watching and waiting for the end
I’ve never been one to live on the edge, I get anxious enough without inviting it into my life all the time.
Standing on the edge of a cliff or high building is likely to increase said anxiety as I have no head for heights, and even climbing a ladder is difficult for me.
I do like the scalloped edge of the cards I use though. They give the finished product a nice ‘edge’ compared to something that would otherwise be quite plain.
Cathy Cade:
Over the Top?
It’s been an edgy sort of week
before the festive seasons switch.
Will you be garbed as ghoul or ghost?
spook or werewolf? warlock? witch?
With treats and sweets and celebration
our revels honour evil’s cusp.
Its banishment on All Saints Day,
is generally ignored by us.
Soon enough, anticipation
builds to the next chocolate-fest.
Christmas, at the year’s edge, beckons.
A spritual? or commercial crest?
***
On the horizon
sky’s orange glow descending:
the edge of darkness.
At the edge of sleep,
bird song in the grey half-light
awakens morning.
iMartist:
An Imaginary Conversation Between Two Irishmen
Paul: I don’t think this is a good idea…
David: I’ve been featured on others, and there didn’t seem to be a problem then !
Paul: Mate I’m just sayin’ this is even weird for us…
David: Trust me, it will be quirky enough…that the people will enjoy it.
Paul: I suppose we could release it first..but let’s release it as a video.
David: Mate, it’s gonna chart it is going to be a massive hit.
David: Ok, it bombed but I still like it.
The preceding was an imaginary conversation between Paul ‘Bono” Hewson & David “The Edge” Evans in regard to the song Numb by U2.
At the Edge of Love
i’m at the edge of
truly giving in
to the call of love—
despite the doubts,
the countless what-ifs,
and the endless could-have-beens.
even the mountains,
and the vast seas between us,
stand as boundaries,
yet still,
if you are not meant for me,
then why—
why do i smile
at the mere thought of you
from a distance?
your presence, a lighthouse
guiding me through the storm;
my heart, a compass,
lost in the pull of your shore.
Undead: A Pioneer Poem
Rooms with locked windows
Tombs for the undead
Cats hiss on the fence
Rats fall off the edge
Bell tolls in the wind
Hell welcomes the doomed
Owls hooting in trees
Howls rise to the skies
Ghosts dance ’round the graves
Hosts of ghouls suck blood
Bones rattle and shake
Moans tell woeful tales
Screaming in the night
Teeming black waters
Full moon’s ghostly light
Pull demons from souls
Tombs for the undead
Rooms with locked windows
–
People seem to go missing around Halloween, vanishing into thin air in broad daylight, leaving no trace behind. One moment they are present, the next they are gone. Panic spreads like wildfire. People are in disbelief. No one knows how this could happen, and fear hangs heavy in the air. The authorities are baffled, unable to explain the mystifying disappearance. Some whisper of supernatural forces at work while others suspect foul play. As the sun sets on another day, anxious families remain on edge, haunted by long sleepless nights. It’s a case of “now you see them, now you don’t”.
Shawnee National Forest
When my husband was feeling good, we went to a beautiful place to camp, the Shawnee National Forest in southern Illinois. It was five years ago almost to the day. Billy was post stem cell transplant, and was strong enough to do some hiking.
He said something so funny when we were hiking across those gigantic rock formations, walking up to the very edge, one at a time, to look down. He said, “We have to be careful, or this will turn into a Dateline episode!” We laughed so much. It was a little cold for camping, but Billy always tried so hard to make me comfortable. He brought wood and chopped it into kindling, and I could see his effort, but he was so happy. We sat by the fire he made and cooked a simple meal on the camp stove. We slept in a bed he built a few years back that fit across the back of the van. We lay our sleeping bags on that bed that was covered with several thick, quilted moving blankets and topped with a 4 inch memory foam mattress cover. It wasn’t the Hilton, but we survived. And we had a Little Buddy propane heater at night to keep us toasty warm.
It was a wonderful trip. It was great to be in a beautiful place out in nature.
On the edge of the galaxy, in The streaming snow of stars, a snake like creature swims the dust lanes.
Pure energy, it feeds on supernova and quasars.
Many thousands of years old, it has started to glow. Corruscating colours flowing along it’s length.
What is this Edge creature? Totally alien, made of quantum fluctuations, entangled electrons. Perhaps when it ripens the galaxy will twist like a newly lit Catherine wheel on bonfire night.
The Edge of the Observable Universe is 46.5 billion Light Years Away
That sounds impossible at first. The age of the universe is 13.8 billion years. How can we see something that is farther away than 13.8 billion light-years if that’s how long the light had to travel. The reason it works is that space itself has been expanding the entire time that the light has been traveling toward us. The light we see today from the most distant regions of the universe was emitted 13.8 billion years ago, but the space between us and the origin of that light has stretched enormously. You can say that the light hitched a ride on the expanding space.
As mentioned, the edge of the observable universe is now about 46.5 billion light-years away in every direction, which means that the observable universe is about 93 billion light-years across (46.5 billion light years times 2) vastly larger than what you’d expect if you just multiplied the age of the universe by the speed of light. Beyond that observable edge there may be much more—possibly an infinite Universe, but it is forever hidden from us because light hasn’t had time to reach us yet and will never reach us.
To read more, click here
On the Edge of Sanity
some mornings
i wake up already gone—
the body here,
the mind lagging behind like a ghost
that forgot where it’s supposed to haunt.
the mirror speaks a foreign language,
the hands aren’t mine,
and the name i answer to
feels borrowed,
like a coat left on someone else’s chair.
days stack up
like gray stones on gray stones—
no difference,
just weight.
every sound echoes,
every silence rings.
sometimes i stand at the edge
of something—
not a cliff,
not a thought,
but that thin invisible seam
where real and not real
trade places.
there is a version of me
who still believes in sunlight,
who remembers laughter
without flinching.
i reach for them,
but my arms fall through air.
the world hums on without me—
cars, voices,
the ordinary courage of people buying bread.
and i—
i am just trying to stay.
to breathe.
to anchor myself
to this trembling body,
to this minute,
to this half-forgotten name.
some days
that’s enough.
some days
that’s all the miracle i have.
The Accidental Acrobat
I live perpetually on the edge. Not metaphorically, literally. My apartment balcony leans a suspicious degree out over the street. Every morning when I sip my coffee, I flirt with gravity. It’s exhilarating, terrifying, and an excellent way to remind myself that insurance policies are not life plans.
Philosophers talk about standing at the edge of understanding. I stand at the edge of rent control and expensive enlightenment. Last week my neighbor said he found peace in minimalism. This week, he’s also missing a couch. I told him enlightenment is easier when your back sinks into cushions. He said I missed the point. I told him he missed upholstery.
But edges are important. Without them, nothing would have shape. Life would be one big, uncut potato of chaos. Mountains wouldn’t end, oceans couldn’t crash, pizzas would be infinite. You ever try to share an infinite pizza? You can’t. Someone always wants just “a little more edge.”
And isn’t that all of us? Teetering between sense and nonsense, between the wise and the wildly dumb, balancing our lives like overfilled mugs of coffee at 8 a.m. hoping not to spill over the edge. It’s terrifying. It’s hilarious. And sometimes, it’s exactly where the best stories begin.
Sometimes I wonder if the edge is sentient. Maybe it sighs every time someone like me tiptoes too close, muttering, “Here we go again.” Maybe it rolls its invisible eyes when I drop another spoon over the railing.
If there’s an Edge Department somewhere in the universe, I’m probably on their watchlist. My file will read – “Serial boundary flirt. Prefers risk with caffeine.” Imagine celestial bureaucrats stamping “REPEATED WARNINGSISSUED” every time my balcony creaks.
The funny thing is, once you start noticing edges, you can’t stop. The edge of your toast, the edge of a deadline, the edge of sanity during a Zoom call that could’ve been an email. Even the edge of your patience when your Wi-Fi drops exactly as you reach a life revelation. The universe has a sense of humor, and apparently it enjoys pushing us right to the edge just to see how ridiculous we’ll look trying to stay balanced.
So maybe living on the edge just means pretending you meant to wobble. Grace is overrated; style points go to those who trip with conviction. Life’s too short to aim for perfect balance anyway, that’s what tightrope walkers and tax accountants are for.
If I ever do slip, I hope I land in a cloud of marshmallows, or at least on my neighbor’s minimalist carpet (the one that used to be a couch). Until then, I’ll keep sipping coffee over the abyss, flirting shamelessly with gravity, that clingy ex who still thinks I’ll fall for them again.
Because honestly? The view from the edge isn’t just breathtaking. It’s laughing its head off, and I’m laughing right back.
what hides in silence–
entire worlds beyond words–
deeper energies
windsongs swimming through
the mirror of mind–
melodies that float
boundless, pure–currents
from a distant hazy shore–
a glittered stillness
sailing the setting
sun like a boat on becalmed
enchanted waters
nothing exists on the edge
of meaning but fate, drifting
Let’s make pain a part of memories
Let’s fold and keep it in a corner
And unfold it when the night deepens
Till it’s edges get frayed and prints light
Edging through the curvy paths of life
Edging past the landmarks and milestones
Let’s make it an edge-of-the-seat drive
A process to know oneself , one’s tenacity,
Resilience and the indomitable spirit to rise
Let’s make pain a close friend for life
With whom you can share your plight
Weep in delight or in shame or in slight
Let’s make pain a second name to soul
To make you rough at the edges or a whole
Let’s endear and embrace it so tight
So that it can neither leave nor be put aside
Let’s make pain our very own mirror of mirth
Let’s let it rule , rebel , rouse and come forth
Let’s make pain a part of our sentient being
So as neither let it hurt , break or make us vain
Whispers of the Haze
I hear the whispers of the haze
As faint as an apparition
On the edge of my awareness
Almost like a premonition
It calls to me
It speaks my name
Reminds me how I ought to live
Not in black and white, but shades of grey
Remembering always to forgive
In the eternal scheme of things
We are all fading ephemeral beings
Remember she whispers
This voice of the mist
Your brothers and sisters
Who with you coexist
In the end we all fade
Are lost and forgotten
For so much more we were made
For more we’re begotten
So heed her words, the mystery explained
Live out the purpose for which you were ordained
Mining for Clay
When I was nine, my family moved to George in the Western Cape for the first time. It was supposed to be a permanent move, but my father hated the year-round rain, so we only stayed in this town for six weeks before moving on to Cape Town. Mom was due to give birth to our youngest sister, Laura, so Cath, Hayley and I were sent ahead to live with our grandparents. Granddad Jack came to fetch us three girls in his old hatchback, but I don’t remember anything about the journey.
When we arrived, Granny Joan was entirely consumed with looking after Hayley who was only thirteen-months old. She was a difficult toddler and refused to eat, a terrible problem for Granny who believed in stuffing children with food all day long. Good food was necessary for children to grow up strong and able to fight off illness and diseases. Cath and I were happy as we got to run wild and get up to whatever mischief I thought up.
One of my grand ideas was to mine for clay in the ditches that ran along the edges of all the dirt roads leading out of the town. Granny and Granddad’s home was reached by one of these dirt roads at that time because they lived close to the start of the forest.
On the afternoon of the great clay mining, Cath and I spent the entire afternoon digging clay out of the ditches with sharp sticks. We stored it in a plastic shopping bag I’d ‘borrowed’ for this purpose. We had to be home by 5pm and when we arrived, Granny took one look at us and started shouting. We were filthy. We had clay all over our dresses, in our hair, and all over our arms legs and faces. Fortunately, I’d seen fit to climb into the ditches shoeless, so our shoes were not full of mud. We were instructed to go to the bottom of the garden and wash ourselves, our clothes and our hair with cold water from the hosepipe. I’ll never forget, five-year-old, Cath, shrieking with displeasure at being squirted down with cold water.
Despite being in trouble over letting my little sister get so dirty and wet, I was thrilled with the clay we had gathered. Cath and I, with Granny’s permission and Granddad’s supervision, spent every afternoon for the next few weeks creating an assortment of ‘ceramic’ goods from this clay. We made baskets filled with fruit, plates, cups, a teapot, and several other interesting figures and creations. Granddad told us to line our artworks up on the step so they could dry in the sun. Once dried, he provided us with some paints and paintbrushes so we could decorate them in vivid colours.
I think Granny was pleased to have us gainfully occupied in the backyard for this time and not running amok ‘looking for trouble’.
young artists
creating artworks from clay
gleefully mined
from ditches
poor Granny had her hands full
looking after us
Possum Kingdom
He was Denny Nolan. The guy all the other guys wanted to be just like. The guy every girl dreamed would fall in love with her. And for some unbelievable reason, he had chosen her.
It had started small. A comment about something she had said in class. Then that smile every time he passed her in the hall. He started waiting for her at her locker after 5th period. It wasn’t long before he was saving her a seat in the assembly hall and meeting up with her at the cafeteria after lunch.
So, when he offered her a ride home, she didn’t hesitate. She climbed into the car, fully anticipating what it was going to be like to kiss him- to be alone with him.
“Wadda ya say we just drive around for a bit, so we can talk a little longer,” he said, voice low, confident, careful.
They drove and talked and laughed. Eventually as they reached the edge of town where the road narrowed and the farmland took over where the cityscape used to be, he pulled to a stop on the side of a narrow dirt road. He smiled and invited her to move closer to him.
He held her face in his hands and kissed her gently. Her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids and finally his lips found her mouth.
His kisses became more ardent- yet, even then, he would pause briefly just to tell her how beautiful she was, how long he had wanted to hold her, to kiss her- before diving back into her as if he just could not get enough.
He slid her gently out the driver side door, and graciously ushered her into the backseat. She followed- still unable to believe- this wasn’t a dream.
His touch was slow, gentle but deliberate. He never asked her if it was ok to undress her, to feed his hunger for her, to savor the most intimate places her body had to offer, but if he had, she would have said “Yes- oh, yes.”
That night, she couldn’t stop replaying every moment of their love making it in her mind. The warmth, the closeness, the way it felt to really be wanted.
The next morning, however, everything had shifted.
Denny wasn’t waiting for her in any of the usual places- and when she did see him after lunch- he saw her- but instead of smiling like he always did- he hurriedly turned and headed in the opposite direction- he wouldn’t even look at her.
But his friends did. They looked, they laughed, they nudged, they whispered.
Had she been the punchline of some cruel joke everyone seemed to think was funny but her? Had every tender moment between them, every whispered word…
Her face began to feel as if it was on fire. She ran past them, stomach hollow, tears stinging her eyes, until the bathroom at the end of the hall swallowed her up. She ran past the mirror. She didn’t look. She couldn’t. She couldn’t look that girl in the eye- the girl who had wanted so badly to be loved- that she let herself become the brunt of what was now, a cruel high school joke.
***
Credit: Pinterest
Esther Chilton 
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