Creative Prompt, 10.5.22
Creative Prompt, 10.5.22
Open when you're ready for a burst of creativity.
Hello from the void,
As always, the below prompt is entirely open to your interpretation — you can follow it as closely or as loosely as you want, using your creative medium of choice. Read more about How to Respond to a Creative Prompt here.
You can set a timer to keep the stakes low (I recommend fifteen minutes to an hour), or work for as long as you’d like. If you’re struggling to get started, check out these Tips for Lowering the Stakes.
Scroll down for the prompt (I suggest waiting until you’re ready to create — the less time to overthink it, the better).
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It’s just below here, time to head into Airplane Mode…
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That first thought or image that came to your mind… that’s your starting point!
Once you’re done, share your work in the comments of the post using the below button. You can also (of course) share it directly with friends, or keep it to yourself.
I’d love to hear from you, so feel free to drop me a line.
Until next time,
Jasper
https://photos.app.goo.gl/HZssf4XQg96rnqW46
(15 min)
It’s monsoon season in the Bay of Bengal, and the rains have swept in. Torrential storms pour drops so heavy they smack like warm hail. It never stops raining, not really. Just let’s up enough so the puddles in the cratered streets look like ponds jostled by a gentle breeze and not the swells of a raging sea.
The paddy fields have flooded their banks, miles long clay walkways that neatly divide plots now submerged under feet of dark, muddy water. Massive mango and date palm trees look like neatly trimmed hedges with just their top most branches above the surface. In just forty days, the landscape has transformed.
During winter all you can see is an expanse of lush green dotted with massive brick kilns belching pitch black soot. The kilns are now silent, their smokestacks filled with water. A country of rivers is now, for the next three months, a single ocean, with boats the only method of transport.
The monsoon used to bring life. It was celebrated with special dishes ammu only made when the rain hammered down on the tin roof so loud and for so long that it washed away the sound of the horns and jackhammers and buzz saws. The only thing that could pierce waves of white noise was the laughter of my little sister and the melancholy chorus of the call to prayer.
The monsoon used to bring life. Now, we’re not so sure.