Esther Chilton

Your prompt word this week is

FIGURE

This week’s word has so many possibilities – we talk about pear-shaped figures and apple-shaped figures, for example. We figure things out – or try to. A figure can be a symbol or a number. There are central figures and key figures in relation to important people. What does this week’s prompt 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 LABEL.

Frank Hubeny:

How Not To Label Stuff

I label stuff so I can’t see
more clearly what that stuff might be.
I run my mouth. It runs from me.
My heart goes on display.

Sillyfrog’s Blog:

Just Do You

Seems people oft describe others labeled.
But their creation is an image most fabled.
The views they comprise,
Through their narrow eyes,
Have little to do with the YOU that’s wholly enabled.

The Limerick Guy:

Calling Me Like I See Me

Her promiscuity touched a nerve
And she has a label that she’d well deserve.
You can call her a “ho,”
But she’s happy to know…
She’s above average and a head of the curve!

Life Lessons:

Label Machine

Pure rayon or crepe de chine?
Trust the labelling machine.
It for sure will have it right
and easily can solve your plight
when you have that puzzling quandary
over what to call your laundry.
It’s easy.  You are simply able
to look inside and read the label.

With people, it is not the same.
Labelling may unfairly blame
someone of a certain hue
for something they would never do.
You may as well class cleft of chin
as a mark of sloth or sin
as to choose one’s place of birth
as a determiner of their worth.

It’s clear we’ve failed our populace
when we see how many of us
trust bigotry and generalization
to determine policies of  nation.
“Give us your tired and your poor”
has been swept right out the door.
The symbol of what’s free and fair
now stands forlorn with empty stare.

Behold: the Statue of Liberty—
a symbol of hypocrisy.

Cathy Cade:

What’s In A Name?

I have been writing poems and short stories since retirement but have yet to find my genre. Genre seems to me another word for label. Why do I need one?

Apparently, agents like them; it gives readers some idea what they are about to read. I’m not looking for an agent either, so I’ve put genre-fitting on the back burner.

Back in my college days, the term “librarian” was something of a derogatory label, to the extent that a rival to the Library Association was founded in 1958 and called itself the Institute of Information Scientists.

I had no ambition to be a librarian. Our headmistress – horrified at my decision not to take up a university place – contacted the Borough Librarian whose prospective trainee for that year had failed to gain good enough A-level results to take up the opportunity.

I did want to be a Librarian, didn’t I?

The Library Association (LA) merged with the Institute of Information Scientists in 2002 to become the Chartered Institute of Library and Information Sciences – doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue, does it? Instead of an ALA, I became an MCLIP.

Somewhere along the line since then, the librarian label has regained credibility, although I’m not sure if Terry Pratchett or Buffy the Vampire Slayer can claim responsibility. Unexpectedly, the coming of computers did nothing to reverse this new trend, as it was school and college libraries that held the computers, and library staff who showed pupils – and teachers – how to use them to find books and online information.

Few qualified librarians are now employed by UK public library authorities, but the species thrives in academia and research institutions. Universities, being slow to change in such matters, tend to bestow grander labels such as Learning Resources Manager, but I am content these days to admit I am a retired librarian.

Fandango:

My Newest Label

All anyone has to do is look at me and a handful of labels can be applied to my package: old, white, male, Baby Boomer, disabled (the cane is a dead giveaway).

I received an email the other day from DirecTV that contained an invitation to take an online survey, with the incentive that those who complete the survey will be entered to win a lifetime subscription to DirecTV. The email said the survey would take about ten minutes. I was eating breakfast at the time, so I figured what the hell, I’ll take the ten-minute survey.

I tapped on the “Click Here to Take Survey” button on my iPhone and it took me to some survey site that I guess DirecTV had engaged to conduct the survey on its behalf. On the first page were demographic questions with check boxes:

• Gender: I check the box that was labeled “Male”
• Ethnicity/Race: I checked the box that was labeled “Non-Hispanic White”
• Marital Status: I check the box that was labeled “Married”
• Education: I checked the box that was labeled “Master’s Degree.”
• Age: I checked the box that was labeled “74 and above”

After checking that last box, the screen switched pages to one that said:

Thank you for participating in the survey.

Ten minute survey? That took about 30 seconds.

Then I realized that by checking the “74 and above” box, I earned a brand new label:

IRRELEVANT

michnavs:

Villain

i take the blame.

label me as the villain
in your story.

let me go
without a word.
some wounds
need no explanation
especially
to the one who inflicted them.

there is no point
explaining
how you hurt me,
or how deeply
your cruelty carved itself into me

some people
will never
hold themselves
accountable.

so i let you be.
the universe
keeps a quiet ledger.

every lie.
every betrayal.
every act of cruelty.
nothing
goes unpaid forever.

i don’t need
revenge.

time
has a way
of making people
meet themselves.

and there is
a quiet satisfaction
in watching someone
crumble beneath
the weight
of their own actions

while i never
had to lift
a finger.

poetisinta:

old price tag on coat

still warms the shivering man –

winter keeps no scrore

Aptivi’s Joyful Corner:

From Shy to Social

While I was a middle school student, I was a person who didn’t speak as much as my other classmates. If I ever spoke, I would only speak twice per day, because I was really afraid of people telling me that I was wrong.

There was a “no talking” rule in my school, but we were allowed to talk to friends during breaks between class times. However, I must have taken the rule too literally as to mean “no talking at all.”

As a result, my teachers would label me as a shy person. However, my school friends would label me as a very kind person, because I loved sitting with them and sharing my laughter with them, even if I didn’t speak anything.

Now, I’m a person who has become more social than before. I worked on it since I was high school. I enjoy talking to my friends and meeting new people everywhere, online or not. People would label me as a social person, even if I’m still working on it. I’m really grateful that I have become a more social person than before.

Graeme Sandford:

“Not suitable for freezing”

I’d been thinking about Cryogenics –

until…

… I found a little label upon my soul

which stated,

“Not suitable for freezing”

That was not particularly pleasing,

as it made me think…

and ‘thinking’ hurts my brain.

So, even whilst my thinking

about Cryogenics was painful,

finding out I wasn’t a freezer candidate

hurt me more.

Was I being frozen out?

Without a doubt.

It also said on the little label,

“Best before 1994”

which was just the icing

on my ice cake. 

The Afterlove Voice:

A label can tell you what something is.

Or it can tell you what someone else thinks it is.

We spend much of our lives surrounded by labels. Names on jars. Tags on clothes. Categories on forms.

Some labels are useful.

Others become cages.

When I saw this week’s prompt, my first thought wasn’t about sticky labels or name tags.

It was about music.

As an independent artist, I don’t have a traditional record deal. Instead, I work with a distributor, Ditto Music, which allows me to release my songs while keeping my independence.

For me, that freedom is worth more than a famous label.

I can write the music I want to write. Tell the stories that matter to me. Create from the heart instead of chasing trends.

That doesn’t mean the journey is always easy.

Being independent means wearing many hats— writer, artist, promoter, and manager all at once.

But almost every song carries my own voice.

No one tells me what to sing, how to sound, or what message to share.

Perhaps that’s the best kind of label to have.

Not one chosen by someone else…

But one you create for yourself.

Because, in the end, the labels that matter most are not the ones printed on an album cover.

They are the ones we earn through authenticity, creativity, and staying true to who we are.

And that is a label I will always be proud to wear.

John W. Howell:

“While you are up my dear, could I have another Johnny Walker Black Label, please.”

Jules Pens Some Gems:

Unclear Labeling

I picked up a bag of Spaetzle egg noodles
The dried Swabian pasta made with wheat Semolina.
The product came in a clear cello bag.
The name decorations were bold enough,
The first time I used them I treated them like oyster crackers
Or like hard chow mein that would absorb soup –
They were not … I have since found the cooking instructions
Which are barely one by two inches in thin black ink.
I have since cooked the Spaetzle –
They are like pappardelle – a thick spaghetti
Unlike the Spaetzle that is more like a dumpling.

foiled by design
positive thin printed ink,
on negative space

Pensitivity101:

I have had weight issues practically all my life, and after finally getting to grips with food groups, combinations, less of this and more of that, I’ve managed to keep my weight stable for around four years. I’m heavier than I’d like, but at least it’s not going up and I try to eat healthily, with plenty of fruit and now that we have our crop of tomatoes, onions and spuds coming in, our own veg makes a difference to salads, curries, and other meals where I’d be reaching for something tinned.

Food labelling is everywhere, and we now have a traffic lights system on many, showing green for the good stuff, yellow/orange for the not so good, and red for what should be avoided.

Sometimes I wonder if eating the label would be more nutritious than the product it presents.

Blind Wilderness:

I have never been a one for looking for a label on clothing or anything else for that matter. As a child, my mother brought me up to get things like clothing as cheaply as possible. The result was that much of it was not really very becoming. She mostly bought out of sales, which is fine if you are careful what you buy. It is possible to purchase things that have a particular well known label on them at a cheaper price. I wouldn’t actually have known what were considered “good” labels until I was much older.

I once met a man who went in for labels in a big way. Even his socks had labels on them, and the labels were on the outside of the socks so that you could see them. It made me feel queer for some reason that someone would even have to have socks with a label on them.

However, a strange thing happened with my mother as she grew older. I don’t remember how old she was, but probably in about her seventies, but one time we took her for a day out to a town which we all liked. There were some Sales on, and she suddenly said that she would have a Jaeger coat on her back before she died if it killed her! I think she did achieve that, and in fact a few more labels.

For myself, now, I don’t care if things have labels on them or not as long as they are serviceable and look nice.

Therapy Bits:

The Weight of a Word

They saw a name before my face,
A single word they chose to trace.
A label stitched with hurried thread,
Before they heard the things unsaid.

They whispered, “Broken,” “Strange,” “Untrue,”
As though they somehow always knew.
But minds can bloom in different ways,
Forged through storms and shadowed days.

Within these walls, more voices sing,
Each carrying a different spring.
Some hold laughter, some hold pain,
Some remember endless rain.

We’re not a puzzle needing blame,
Nor chapters torn without a name.
We’re every piece that learned to cope,
A constellation built from hope.

So if you see us, look again.
Don’t measure us by fear or pen.
The soul is never just a file—
Or one diagnosis on a pile.

I am not the label you read.
I am every heart that helped me breathe.
A life still growing, brave and able—
Always more than any label.

Susan Batten:

Not Wanted on Voyage

In the world of writing, we are plunged straightaway into the mysteries of “genre”. Now, there’s a snare to catch snarks. The word isn’t even English. It’s hard to spell and difficult to pronounce. Why not call these categories – categories?

I won’t offer examples – ‘you know who you are’ – but the genre or label soon becomes the enemy. It’s intended to define our work for practical purposes but instead it hedges us in when we writers are only following the path of freedom.

You’ve written a Gothic horror story – but what about the integral love affair? You’ve written a lyrical piece of prose about an island – travel guide or free verse?

It is said that the English, if no-one else is waiting at the bus stop, will make a queue of one. I have the same feeling about genres: if our work doesn’t conform to the standard, we will simply invent a new one.

Rall:

beware

the angels know

they fear to tread o’er there

label AI a threat to all

of us

our species will be wiped out and

we wont exist anymore

it will be our

demise

The Dog Lady’s Den:

Label me quirky
Label me odd
Tell me I'm strange
And I'll give you a nod

Label me different
Label me wild
Tell me I'm stubborn
Like a recalcitrant child

Better to be 
One of a kind
Than follow along
Like somebody blind

Suzette B's Blog:

Post-it Notes

growing as they please

garden roses label trellises art,

blossoms; post-it notes

Dawgy Daddy Responds:

In Coyote California the band “The Lemonade Therapist” was preforming at the Backstroke bar on Saturday night. As Suzie finished running the vacuum in the lobby she noticed the t shirt vendor’s label . Was she reading this right or was it misspelled? After a short debate with herself she shrugged it off and went backstage to get ready for the show. She came onstage wearing neon Lycra leggings and a top made of bubblewrap, she rocked it.

Boomcha:

The label in my shirt scratched all morning. I kept tugging at it, hoping it would settle down, but it never did. It wanted attention. Most labels do. They announce themselves long before we’re ready, quiet or stubborn or soft or sharp depending on the day. People hand them out like party favors and forget they ever said the words. I didn’t forget mine. I carried them until they felt sewn in. Today I cut the one in my shirt, and it felt good. The fabric eased. Maybe that’s how it starts. A small snip, the fabric easing, the scratch fading. In that bit of relief, I remember I’m allowed to choose what stays.

The Elephant's Trunk:

Tight Squeeze

The label whispered “hand wash cold,”
a gentle plea, both clear and bold.
I laughed, tossed in with towels and jeans
now my pink sweater is aquamarine!

The dryer hummed a cheerful song
while cotton shrank both wide and long.
My favorite shirt, once XL grand,
now barely fits my husband’s hand!

So heed the tiny symbols there ….
that triangle’s not just for flair.
Bleach it, boil it, learn too late:
your wardrobe met a shrinking fate.

Robbie's Inspiration:

The Label

It was during my family’s two year period in a small town in the Western Cape called George, that I first came across the label ‘rooinek’. This town was dominated by Afrikaners and at that time, there was still hostility between English and Afrikaans speaking South Africans due to the Second Anglo Boer War. At the age of ten, I didn’t know anything about the terrible treatment handed out by the British soldiers to the Boer women and children in the concentration camps during that war and I was unfamiliar with this sharp insult. ‘Rooinek’ translates to ‘red neck’ in English so the word was puzzling to me. I could tell from the tone used by the Afrikaans kids dishing out the slur that it was not a compliment.

My mother was from England, served tea in a teapot, added the milk to the teacup first, and used sugar lumps in a delicate China sugar bowl. She referred to the stove as a ‘cooker’ and a jersey as a ‘jumper’. There was no way our family could identify as anything but English from the United Kingdom. I learned to ignore the word and anyone using it with reference to my mother and sisters. Strangely, I never felt angry towards the children who hurled this insult at us and I never retaliated with any of the rude counter insults English-speakers used to describe Afrikaners. I just took my sisters by the hands and walked passed them, dragging my sisters with me.

Years later, an Afrikaans colleague at work called me ‘rooinek’ in a friendly, joking manner. The Boer War is sufficiently historical now for the younger generations not to hold the same bitter grudge against English speakers. In 2021 I published A Ghost and His Gold, a novel set during the Second Anglo Boer War and I used the label ‘rooinek’ as an insulting reference by the Boers when referring to the British soldiers. The term came about because the fair skinned British soldiers easily got sunburned necks marching or riding under the hot African sun.

unkind

defamation

grudges born for decades

handed down from parents to kids

pointless

Thru Violet's Lentz:

Young Turks

The heat is brutal enough to feel personal, the kind of Florida blaze that makes the pavement shimmer and the horizon wobble. Out on the patio at The Button, the crowd looks like it’s drifting in slow motion- sunburned shoulders, tangled hair, denim cutoffs, all of them moving like they’re wading through warm water.

You’re leaning against the railing, peeling the label off a long‑neck. The paper comes off in strips, sticking to your fingers. Sweat slides down the bottle like it’s trying to escape.

Across from you, Tommy and Jill are laughing at something only they understand- that wild, just‑turned‑eighteen kind of laughter, the kind that says they’re already halfway out of this town. They’ve got that restless shine in their eyes, the same one they’ve had since they started talking about heading west, or north, or anywhere that isn’t Florida.

Tommy’s got a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a sunburn across his nose. Jill’s wearing a tank top with a faded surf logo and looks like she hasn’t slept in two days, but in a good way- the way kids look when they’re running on adrenaline and possibility.

You watch a group of people drift past, slow and syrupy in the heat.

“Man,” you say, holding up your half‑stripped bottle, “it’s so hot it looks like people are moving in slow motion- like maybe their skin’s too heavy or something.”

Your buddy Blake grins, pushing his hair back off his forehead. “Or maybe you’re just hammered.”

You laugh- because he’s probably right- and because everything feels loose and bright and slightly unreal. The music spills out of the speakers, something fast, something that makes you feel like you should be doing something reckless.

Tommy nudges Jill. “We should go,” he says. “Not like… home. I mean go.”

She looks at him, and there’s that sparkle in her eye- the one that says they’re  already gone.

***