Writing+Prompt+-+April+7

= __//**Writing Prompt of the Week:**// Windows__= Write a story/poem/whatever revolving around a window. It doesn't have to be literal - any way you want to interpret the prompt is absolutely fine! Just have fun with it =]

__**Eyes**__
//Megan Plein//

Upon looking into a person’s eyes, you can discover a window into their soul. There are many things you can tell about a person, by paying attention to their eyes and body language. By maintaining eye contact when speaking with someone, it’s a great way to make a good impression. It shows that you’re alert and interested, in what the person is saying. Eyes can be very pretty to look at, if the person is happy. They can also look scary, if the person is angry. There are many different colors, emerald green, chocolate brown, golden hazel, and ocean blue.

EVAN QUADE The window is a time warp. This scene is self cloned. The dimensions of time and the world where you reside are not the same. Self is your current expanse of space. The reflection is like your ghostly self; it follows whatever action you take. Every ghostly expression searches you out. It would come to your location, but you won’t distinguish wherever the reflection stalks. The other side of the window is always the interior and the exterior. The interior of a school, a brick house, an office, etc. The exterior of a meadow of a bright green, a tall tree, etc. Your self clone is there. I remember the first time I met this clone of mine as we treaded at the same measure to each other. I was 5. I didn’t realize that hallway was actually that long a way. I came to him while the outside was werewolf darkness. I stared at him, my little pale hand leisurely rising to a hello wave. “Hi, uh, I didn’t realize you—” I gasped at the clone as it mouthed the following words. I backed away, turned, and took off dashing back to where the family crowd was having a blah-blah conversation. It wasn’t till years later when I learned about the reflection. My reflection will sleep, travel, and soon, die with me. Whenever I see it or don’t see it. But what could the spirit on the other side be doing when I’m not near a window?
 * The Spirit on the Other Side**

The Hole in the Wall By Sally Priest

I met you through the glass Filling the hole in my wall Since then we’ve grown And been through it all The stories, The laughter, The smiles, And happily ever after The hard times The tears The rough spots Throughout the years We were like sisters You promised you’d stay But then that window Started fading grey Day after day We had it made But month after month The window began to fade We left it alone And walked our separate ways But both of walked into Some crazy maze A maze filled with darkness With long dark halls Because there were no windows On the blank, black walls We grew lonely and tired We were both afraid We regretted leaving If only we had stayed We began to cry With cold, hard, tears Trying to wash away Our feelings of fear We leaned against the wall And let our tears run away Down the wall When it began to fade As our tears fell on the wall The black turned white We stood with amazement Admiring the sight We wiped the walls Making the white show And as we worked We found our old window We worked and worked Our goal was near And after a while Our window was clear Through the hole in the wall We gave each other a smile That window won’t turn black. Not for a long, long while.

On the Other Side of the Glass Meg Bradley

Someone once told me that eyes were the windows to the soul, but I thought they had it all backwards. Eyes weren’t the windows, but rather, windows were the eyes, the peepholes to the rest of the world. A world that wasn’t mine, but all the same, I could look at, through the glass. When I was little, my mom said I spent almost all my time at the windows. “My little window-watcher Katy," she’d say, shaking her head slowly and smiling. I’ve learned that faces, faces are a whole grammar of words we can’t say. Conversations held in blinks of the eye, tilts of the head; monologues in the raising and lowering of a #|single eyebrow. I like to think I can speak this language, but the truth is, I’m just #|learning. I used to speak other #|languages; when we’re younger, everyone can speak a whole language full of question marks. Why is the sky blue? Can you fall off the edge of the earth? What happens after you die? But slowly, as we grow older, the questions seem to fall away, shed like an unnecessary layer of skin.

** The Window ** By Froggy

//Boom…… boom……boom……boom………//The dull bells rang slowing in the dust, seeming to take hours to settle to their long awaited silence again. The dust now swirled around like dancers in pirouettes, about to take their bows to the mighty crowd that cheered and ahhh-ed them on. //Boom…// The last gonging died, slowly, louder then the rest. The dust poomph-ed away, breaking their swirls and slamming them, along with their gusting partners, against the glass that sat in the wall. It was the only thing that allowed in the light, the light that the dances limply gathered and bowed in, taking their exits. The glass was old, older then the bells that had tolled from the ancient times. It was cracked, yellowed, dirty, wavy and small. The light that did manage to duck into it seemed weak, and shivering from the desolate emptiness that covered the high tower. The dust dancers loved the window, but had not gathered the strength in a thousand years to cleanse the small but happy life giver. It seemed to glow when Sun Rays entered it, and when the dust danced in it’s sight it always cheerfully applauded them on with it’s soul. The dust, however, saw it a different way. They saw, with every last boom, the true sadness of the glass. It couldn’t dance like them and the wind, it couldn’t run along the breezes like the birds that sand past it in the mornings, sometimes perching on it’s side and singing some more. It could not cry, like the two leggers that laughed and sobbed below him. The dust dancers saw it all, and gathered once in the darkest corner on the tower. Seeming to whisper together, they flew up the next morning. //Boom…boom… boom…//The ringer, far, far below pulling on the thick cord, suddenly sneezed. “I’ll have to clean that place up again” He grumpily climbed the tight stairs, carrying a broom and a cloth. First me swept out the corners, setting the dust gaily whirling again, exstatic that their plan had worked. Last the man came to the small window. “You are so dirty” He swipped the glass with the cloth; once, twice, over and over until the surface shone like none other. The window gleamed, letting happy sunlight through and making the dust spiral downward, content once again.

The above is for a child’s book, around the years 8-11.

**That Girl** //Sir Calibur//

Though her walk could be described as nothing short of arrogantly flaunting her chest at everything possessing two eyes and a brain, her expression was unreadable. While not a smile in any sense, neither could it be described as a frown. She floated through the halls with her unreadable face, catching the eye of student and teacher alike. Her skirt left little to the imagination and her shirt bordered on obscene, but no one pulled her aside for a lecture. Her indifference was her shield.

To touch her was a crime worthy of banishment from society. Brush up against her and you were untouchable. If a strand of her golden hair so much as glanced your shoulder as sh passed, social death was inevitable. She bore no obvious reaction to such penalties, but she took advantage of them. Her hand would wander to the arm of an upperclassman, only to pull his books from his arms. With sniff and a sudden twist of her head, she would press her heel firmly on the open cover of his textbook before departing.

Marking him for all to see.


 * __Regret heals nothing.__**

Well you found the window, opening so slow, the one I can't close feeling so cold.

Well thank you its what you do, looked so long for one i knew and you said you were too

you saw me, weighed me, judged me, played me. and now you hate //me//? all i have is pity

on this world, vile and curled.

//Innocent// girl? you make me hurl.

now you've broke the glass and it hurt so bad everything that had grown is now soaked and sad.