“The Undiscovered Artist”

Prompt: Choice post

There it was, as it had been for the last eight months. My black, leather bound, and covered in a thick layer of dust; journal. Of course the inside was completely and utterly empty, as i was too nervous to write in it. I was tired of writing my thoughts on loose leaf, and the book looked at me as if it was praying for ideas dressed in ink to be written on its many pages. I picked it up. I picked up my pen. I dusted off my journal, and started writing. Nothing important, nothing special, simply my feelings, thoughts and questions. It felt right, to be writing again.

The book was almost half full, it was bittersweet. I didn’t think much of my accomplishments in the form of stories, paragraphs, and poems, I had no reason to. As the days went on, I was less reluctant to write in it. In fact I picked it up at least twice a day. This book was my escape to all that existed beyond wonderland, oz, narnia, and all worlds in between. The book helped.

Only a couple of pages were left, and i was as hesitant to write as the snow was to finally melt and let in spring. But I wrote; as a survival method of sorts. As I turned to the last page, I couldn’t think of a single word to put down, so I doodled a few flowers. Those turned into drawings of animals, and buildings and people and skies until I had no room left to squeeze in another daisy.

So, I headed downtown to what wasn’t the bookshop but the art supply store, and purchased a journal of a different kind. This one was less bittersweet to start, and much easier to complete.

300 words


“Sooner rather than later”

Prompt: The power of assertiveness

Words are never going to be the same to everybody. This leads to great interpretations of stories, endless trains of thought, and the wonderful retellings of them that can be carried through centuries. This sadly also leads to everything and anything being taken offense to. Everything people say, even if it is in advocacy of a good cause, will be deconstructed and reconstructed over and over until someone has found a way to take offense to it. This leads to endless fights (most of them online) about fundamental human rights. I feel that people need to stop doing everything they can to fight others, and that they must simply come together to support what they believe in.


For example: The long lived women’s rights movement. Women and men alike have been fighting to end sexism for a long time now; but a fair amount of the time it isn’t hard to find girls putting other girls down. By this I mean, using critical terms, shaming other girls, and all in all putting them down. In a time where standing together is dangerously important, seeing people who want equality as their result, fighting each other; greatly saddens me.


The only way to be stronger is to stand together, and as I see it, we aren’t quite there yet. We cannot let anger get in the way of peace, as it has been for all of history. It is easier to yell and fight and argue than it is to join hands and try to understand others views; but it needs to be done. Sooner rather than later, now or never, we need to come together.


274 words

“The Summer Months”

They called her strange, dangerous, and superstitious. She called herself strange, happy and understanding. She lived in a town of like minded, small minded people where everything was just a bit colder than it was in surrounding villages. The brown leaves twirled in the breeze as if they had somewhere to be, and to many this would seem special, but it was the same every morning. In the fall the leaves were rusty; old. Some enjoyed pretending they were orange but truly, they were brown and they were rotting. In the winter they were dead, and the leaves that spun in the wind were exchanged for snowflakes that tiptoed through the frigid air. Spring brought some hope as buds were born from longing tree branches, and finally summer came, and the leaves, green as the emerald city, were finally alive. This was her outlook, that one is only alive for a portion of a lifetime. For her the trees put a story into something physical. Yes she knew that many people reached some sort of life expectancy, but she also knew that everyone had a prime, their golden years, the summer of their lifetime. No one knew how she thought, but they had all decided that the summer of her life was long gone.


She had attended Clearwater High School in the town of Mansfield Massachusetts. Everything was as it should be; until it was not. There was no particular reason for the disturbance that had come about, but people had started talking. She didn’t continue with her friends onto university; she didn’t live at home with her parents anymore; and she certainly didn’t care what anyone thought of her. She had developed her own pond of thoughts, they swam through her mind, but never left her mouth. The townspeople had taken this as the end of her life’s summer, and her descent into fall. Her old friends had decided that she wasn’t normal, and that she was by no means to be accepted. At first it made her feel like she was at a dead end, or even worse– a cliff’s edge.  She felt consumed by the knowledge of what people talked about, so, she left. Within the next year she was moved into the last house on the end of a street that led right out of town, and she had somehow stepped past the cliff’s edge without falling.  People wondered why an entire year, but she decided to keep that to herself.


When fall came she picked a rotting leaf, and pretended it was orange. When winter came she searched for a dead leaf before the first snowfall. When spring came she picked a pale and miniscule leaf off a bent branch. And when summer came, she picked a lush forest leaf, it was new, and it was old, and it was everything that her year was. She kept the four  leaves in a small ornate golden box beside her bed in her new home. Some would call them her good luck charm, but she saw them as 365 days. And as leaves do, when they get picked from trees, they died one by one. The summer leaf was the last to go, and when it did she was settled into her home, she felt strange and content. The four leaves rested in the golden box for many years, unopened, just as her memories of that solemn year stayed untouched in a corner of her mind. She had her own ideas, and just because they were opposing to the ideas of the people she used to know, did not mean they were wrong. They weren’t wrong, nor were they right, but they were her. And at that thought, she started the stroll into her lifetimes summer months with a carefree skip, and a wandering mind.


-643 words-

“The Peoples Song”

Prompt: M.C. Eschers ascending and descending optical illusion.

A world as run down as they come, a world full of sky, clouds and little sun. There are no books, There are are no songs, nothing exists, to pass the days so long. They speak in poems, speak in rhymes, but no one notices, because no one tries. The tower of brick, and wood, and stone, is a place that a few of them dare to go. They have heard the legend, the devastating tale, so they hold on to life as if it’s going stale. The one piece of writing they are allowed to read, speaks of a tower, where sadness is a seed. They plant it there, it grows and grows, until none of it is left to show. The rhyme starts here so listen along, and you too, can hear the people’s wistful song:


The passers by

The alarmed unit

May not get why

The people do it


The people are

The ones who walk

Always there

They never talk


Not a word is

Spoken from them

The words are where

Their sadness stems


From dawn to dusk

From morn to eve

The people walk

Because they grieve


They’ve lost someone

They hoped to keep

The people walk

Until they sleep


The stairs they climb

Do not go up

The stairs they climb

Will never stop


The stairs don’t start

The stairs don’t end

And soon these people’s

Backs will bend


From sun to moon

From light to dark

The people walk

To heal their hearts.


The few th


By: Evi Milanovic

250 words.

“Brains in your head, and feet in your shoes.”

Prompt: Reverence for Books and Reading:

A doctor without a PHD and an abundance of simple yet intricately formed rhymes were the stepping stones of my childhood reading experience. Since birth I was listening to and later on reading these poems, stories and lessons, all told by none other than Dr. Seuss. My list of idols consisted of Thing 1 and 2, the Lorax and Sam I am, as they taught me lessons about life that it seemed like no chapter book could at the time.

At the age of five I had memorized One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue fish and was correcting my parents when they got words wrong. Everything my mind could escape to was just a page turn away, the who’s in whoville, the truffula trees that needed protecting, and the fox in socks. They all had something important to tell me, something it felt like they wanted me to remember and to carry on. It’s almost as if Dr. Seuss needed all of us kids to know that we could do anything no matter how small we were, to speak for those without a voice of their own, and to quote the man himself, “you have brains in our heads and feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose”. He ingrained these morals in our brains through the stories of an elephant, a travelling who and a little Lorax who speaks for the trees, but as we mature we’ve taken these stories with us, unknowingly. They teach us to stand for equality, to try to save the environment, and to help others. To this day I still believe that these little stories have taught us all lessons beyond what any chapter book could.


By: Evi Milanovic

287 words