Some people are writing long, substantive works using one prompt for each day's installment. Kary Gaul, for example, has what looks like it's going to be an erotic story involving BDSM. If that's the kind of thing you like go check it out. I prefer to find short, punchy vignettes; usually the first thoughts the images bring to mind.
Here's another flash. I may someday finish the sonnet, I may not. I'm not certain that it was really on its way to saying anything.
Picnic Day
Amy always found the best hats. Today was no exception, a cute little woven black number, tight to her head, a halo of embroidered flowers. casually resplendent in polka dots a summer skirt and, even here in the park, heels. Ian watched from across the lawn as she joked, flirted, volleyed a plasteic shuttlecock about with a vintage wooden racket. Ian was always at the edge of the lawn, alone save the notebook. If he loved the Dandys and Flappers Summertime picnic, it was only for the promise that she might be there. For him it was mainy about trying not to get his good clothes too dirty.
He pulled a notebook from his back pocket.
He wrote.
A castoff racket from forgotten years
picnic games of old have left it stained with grass
of breeds and strains not seen since decades passed.
Relic of lawn-bound warriors from days of yore.
So the badminton racket was old. It had history like... her hat. The vintage polka-dot blouse.
Like his suit did not.
Now she was done with the game, had set the racket aside and sat on a low bench. She caught him looking, looked back, smiled.
Ian closed his notebook, tucked it into a back pocket as he crossed the distance with long, quick strides. His starched collar dug into his neck, a vampire bite. He leaned next to her, whispered into her ear, "I have a secret."
She gigglesmiled, pulled bare legs onto the bench, her skirt riding up. Ian slipped his arm around her shoulder, leaned in close, wished he could see just how much of those smooth white legs she was carelessly displaying.
"I wrote you a poem."
He hoped that by the time she asked to see it, it would be the truth.
Here's another flash. I may someday finish the sonnet, I may not. I'm not certain that it was really on its way to saying anything.
Picnic Day
Amy always found the best hats. Today was no exception, a cute little woven black number, tight to her head, a halo of embroidered flowers. casually resplendent in polka dots a summer skirt and, even here in the park, heels. Ian watched from across the lawn as she joked, flirted, volleyed a plasteic shuttlecock about with a vintage wooden racket. Ian was always at the edge of the lawn, alone save the notebook. If he loved the Dandys and Flappers Summertime picnic, it was only for the promise that she might be there. For him it was mainy about trying not to get his good clothes too dirty.
He pulled a notebook from his back pocket.
He wrote.
A castoff racket from forgotten years
picnic games of old have left it stained with grass
of breeds and strains not seen since decades passed.
Relic of lawn-bound warriors from days of yore.
So the badminton racket was old. It had history like... her hat. The vintage polka-dot blouse.
Like his suit did not.
Now she was done with the game, had set the racket aside and sat on a low bench. She caught him looking, looked back, smiled.
Ian closed his notebook, tucked it into a back pocket as he crossed the distance with long, quick strides. His starched collar dug into his neck, a vampire bite. He leaned next to her, whispered into her ear, "I have a secret."
She gigglesmiled, pulled bare legs onto the bench, her skirt riding up. Ian slipped his arm around her shoulder, leaned in close, wished he could see just how much of those smooth white legs she was carelessly displaying.
"I wrote you a poem."
He hoped that by the time she asked to see it, it would be the truth.
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