Writing Prompt

“Sit still!” I scold Caoimhe as she shakes her head disapprovingly, princess curls bouncing up and down.

“You’re no fun when you’re painting Harry, you know?”

“It’s your portrait you’re ruining, Qui.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Have you heard of Dorian Gray?” I raise my brow, dipping my paintbrush into the yellow blob on my palette.

“The Oscar Wilde book?”

She hums. I assume that means yes.

“Well...

“Who are you? Who are you really?”

I’m staring at the face of my painting, but the expression feels flat.

“You know- you really could try to give me some clues. What are you thinking? What was your childhood like? What inspired you growing up? Do you like long walks out in nature- or do you prefer to stay inside?”

I get no answer

Which I guess isn’t unexpected. I’ve had many a conversation with ...

Amidst shades of grey strangers, there was a free-spirited color that rose from a sheer breath at the center of the room.

It could smile and it could see. I hoped it had a heart that beat harder, just like mine did. It casually leaned back in one of the chairs with one hand in the air, saying, “Here,” facing forward while its eyes fixed on mine.

I learned its name. It ended with an e, and it b...

“Where in the hell are you when I need you, you sneaky wench?”  

He paced, he growled, he threw his pen at the wall.  (Yes, he still wrote with a fountain pen.)

“Damn muse,” he muttered.

The muse, a tiny ethereal redhead, set perched on the top of the bookcase and peered down.  She flicked a dismissive hand.  

“And what have you done for me lately? Hmm?”

She continued.  

When was the last ti...

I’ve always known of my two-way mirror. That is why I never step before it. I am not afraid of the phantom that awaits me there. It brings him ecstasy whenever he comes to my room to teach me, and I’ve never been able to bring anyone else in this opera house joy. Not even to Madame Giry no matter how well I perform.

And that is because I was born with a cursed face.

Though he haunts, extorts, ...

“Beautiful, intelligent, inspiring,” his tone aprasing. “But I’m just standing here?” And I was just standing here just as he asked. “So” he spoke as if I was saying the most idiotic thing in the world. “You stand there, yes,” he continued “but the look in your eyes the hope and fear and raging intensity of both extremes, you stand there, but you stand with the confidence of a thousand soliders.” ...

When the reporter asked me what inspired me to write my first number one single I thought back to the night when I realized I liked you and the time we spent together from that night forward. All of these memories came flooding into my mind like a dam had just burst. I thought about the first time we kissed, the first time we said I love you and the last time we ever spoke. Some of my favorite mem...

Do you love me

The muse asks the artist

To which they respond

With a simple yes

The muse seems displeased

With the lack of words uttered

And seems to beg for more

Which frustrates the artist

They set down their brush

And look into the muses eyes

Do you love me

They ask back

The muse looks down to the floor

Unable to answer

When words finally apear

To the lips of the muse

They are not what you w...

“I’m the artist, and you’re my muse,” said John serenely, as if it meant something.

“C’mon, man.” I sighed, slamming my eyes shut for a moment. “You’ve said that to thousands of girls.”

“But I mean it!” He looked over at me, his eyes warming. “I love you, Alice.”

I shook my head. “You‘ve loved every chick who’s dropped acid with you. You’ve loved every hooker who you’ve overpaid. You’ve loved e...

She stood behind a rather large canvas with paint splattered all over her clothes. It was peculiar, honestly. She got more paint on her clothes than on the canvas. I wondered how the painting would turn out. I suppose I didn’t necessarily care, my mother had demanded I get the painting done. The painter happened to be a young girl, around eleven. When I first saw her my mother simply said ‘There i...