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Writers’ Dash Prompts For Week Beginning 21st January, 2013

Published on Monday, January 21, 2013 by


am: birl

pm: filch


am: rivulet

pm: vertex


am: wanderlust

pm: jettison


am: inkhorn

pm: talisman


Friday is now our dedicated dash and drabble (100-word story) day, inspired and encouraged by our good friend Crap Mariner. Crap’s weekly challenge this week is ‘tea‘. Try using both the dash prompt and the 100-word story prompt to create a Dash ‘n’  Drabble. Once you have your 100-word story feel free to add it to the comments section of this blog post as well as to Crap’s site.

am: limpid

pm: acrid

Please feel free to add your dash pieces to the comments section of this blog post below.


I found #dailydash/#writersdash on Twitter, what is it?

The Writers’ Dash (#writersdash or #dailydash on Twitter) is a 15-minute free writing exercise held on Twitter, Facebook and Second Life® every weekday. At 5:30am & 5:30pm PDT we share the word prompt on our social media channels; the live event begins in Second Life® at 6am & 6pm PDT. Write whatever comes to you. Don’t fixate too heavily on what you are writing and disengage your inner editor – the key is for you to get the words on the page first; you can worry about editing later. If you are attending the live event in Second Life® there will be an opportunity for you to show your work to the other participants after the 15 minutes are up. If you are unable to attend the live event you can share your work on our blog. Just look out for the prompt post and leave your dash piece as a comment.

About Virtual Writers, Inc.

Virtual Writers, Inc. is a free online writers’ community first established in 2007 and committed to showcasing established and emerging writers in a range of interactive and immersive environments. Here we learn to experiment with digital, social and virtual world platforms to push the creative envelope and develop a strong, unique voice.

We provide a wealth of opportunities for writers to meet, share resources, access new markets, attend online writing events, workshops and interactive readings, and discover the best writers’ conferences, competitions, colonies and literary organisations.

If you want to become involved in an active writing community then visit us on Second Life® or our social media channels (Twitter, Facebook, Google+, & Goodreads) and get interactive. To learn more about our services please visit the following pages (Premium Services, Free Author Services) or contact us through our online contact form.

Whether you are dashing in Second Life®, on Twitter or Facebook we welcome your dashes in the comments section below.

9 Responses
    • BIRL ~ to spin
      After practicing for the Ice Festival every day for two hours,
      Lori was becoming stronger, faster, and more experimental.
      She’d done all the standard Birls–
      spinning two+ minutes in one place,
      whirling in ever larger/smaller circles,
      birling standing straight or bent at the waist.
      Today Lori and the three best skaters were working hard.
      Each was trying something different,
      something others hadn’t seen her practice.
      It was breath-taking.
      Betty birled east~west across the pond,
      then back to the middle,
      then out and back in other compass directions.
      Charlotte birled in ever-widening circles
      starting from the middle.
      Rhina spun in erratic tight circles,
      leaning this way, then that way,
      with no apparent pattern in mind.
      Lori was trying to stay out of their way
      by birling in a large circle
      about half-way in from the edge of the pond.
      With all this dedicated spinning,
      the girls finally got dizzy, fell,
      and slid to various edges of the pond.
      When their heads finally stopped spinning,
      they stood up, walked up the pond edge a little,
      then turned back and looked at the ice.
      There was a mutual gasp, followed by groans, then silence.
      Eyes transfixed on the ice, not believing what they saw.
      The pattern on the ice
      was more than skate blade scratches.
      It was the faces of the men each loved,
      even though they’d never talked about it.
      Franja Russell 1-21-2013

    • to find, perchance, a little bird
      that found a perch upon my word
      and began to sing..
      To find, perchance, a little bird
      perched upon my every word
      that light upon them sings;
      which calls to everyone he sees
      About the honey that he brings
      To me, his mistress-vine,
      encompassing with perfect wings
      words divine to which he clings
      refined by graceful strings.
      Afore to filch, I fear his folly
      for he sings only which he hears,
      but he is imbued by better birth
      to only sing of that he finds worth
      so I reach for better words
      to please this friend of mine.

    • The Filcher Bird (version II):

      To find, perchance, a little bird
      that found a perch upon my word
      and thus began to sing…
      To find, perchance, a little bird
      perched upon my every word
      that light upon them sings;
      which calls to everyone he sees
      of the honey that he brings
      to me, his mistress-vine,
      encompassing with perfect wings
      words divine to which he clings,
      reposed on graceful strings.
      Afore me to filch, I fear his folly,
      for he sings of that which he harkens,
      and yet even then only copies.
      But he is imbued by better birth
      to only sing wherein he finds worth
      and so I reach for better meaning
      to embrace this friend of mine.
      He listens well, becharming me
      with thoughtful harmonies and fanciful rings
      and splays of beautiful feathers.
      No wonder I thought my attentions were sought
      as he threw himself into song;
      for one so attentive must have some incentive,
      mirth, and clarity of purpose.
      Yet not once yet has he ever dared
      to state outright wherewith he cares,
      or to which flower I can be compared,
      nor what his mother thinks of me.
      My thoughts rest on a little bird
      who must be watched and always heard
      resting on his laurels.
      And yet I’m in awe to have found
      my words have inspired this gift of sound
      and so it leaves me wanting.
      For though he’ll stop and stay a while
      my accomplishments don’t seem to beguile
      and he routinely takes his leave of me.
      And what in a sense would seem to miff
      gives me chance for pause to be reflective,
      for hardly will a little bird sing
      for just anyone, nor would he cling,
      feather his nest there, or be brought to disgrace
      pilfering words that I happen to place there for his perusal.
      And so I will bide my time, choose my words well
      and wait for his chimes.

    • Wanderlust
      Patrick’s last travel took him farther into inhospitable lands, where the line between life and death was barely visible. He had travelled the world all his life, yet the final challenge, he thought, was to go back to that first feeling of triumph, of heroic discovery. As fragile as everything seemed to be, his plans, his trip, his health, he was determined. The flight took many hours, the car ride a handful of tortuous fights against gravity’s merciless determination. The worst was the walk, miles and miles, through tropical jungle, constantly tripping over nature, struggling to overcome feverish thoughts about unreal certainties and long lost recollections. Patrick knew he would succeed. He knew he would reach his goal, and the goal was nothing more and nothing less than to wander about with an apparent plan that in reality was just a broadly defined destination. What caught Patrick off guard was the fact that unknowingly his wanderlust turned into a straight line between his past and his present, a trip to see his lifelong friend Tom who had stayed all these years in the jungle. Patrick, the archeologist, was going back to see Tom. Sometimes home is not where we were born, where we bought a house, where we have lived for ages. Sometimes home is a hug from an old friend.
      ©2013 Lizzie Gudkov

      Wanderlust isn’t just a condition of youth.
      It can be an enjoyment throughout life.
      The source is curiosity.
      I’ve been lucky enough to travel around much of the Earth.
      Everywhere there were lovely landscapes,
      people who wanted me to see what they loved in their land,
      fascinating historical sites and documents,
      places that are like no other anywhere else.
      I’ve walked the ramparts of ancient walled cities,
      wandered trails on mountain ranges,
      soaked in many different styles of artwork,
      stared at the full moon in the Himalayas at midnight,
      watched a snake charmer and was as mesmerized as his snake,
      watch a Maori carving a totem,
      listened to Indians of the Americas sing ancient songs,
      felt the peace of a Buddhist prayer,
      and stared as various political big-wigs made speeches.
      Most experiences were very positive.
      The ones that weren’t were manageable…
      possibly because I was free to leave when I wanted to.
      Now that I’m a “Senior” I have no intention
      of giving up wandering the globe.
      As long as I can walk, see, hear, and think
      I’ll be enjoying this planet and it’s people.
      Franja Russell 1-23-2013

    • Wanderlust

      Restless on my chair I shove
      I decided, no time for love
      I choose, no time to unwind
      I decided to submerge in the science behind

      learned the theory about elementary particles
      those strange and invisible information vehicles
      knew everything about biomolecules
      intriguing mechanisms, life’s tools
      understood the viscous wonderful factor
      of the continuously stirred tank reactor
      my brain-synapses didn’t get stuck in the Mossfet
      felt the rippling instability of Plateau Rayleigh yet
      understood what happened before the big bang theory
      multidimensional tensors didn’t lead into misery
      linearized laplace’s differential equations stuffed in assembler
      to fly through porous media or to mars, I don’t remember
      life was full of theories to discover
      i was a human Hoover

      I lived my life alone
      no time to go home
      no time to participate
      didn’t know love nor hate
      didn’t need people nor party
      i was a natural inert smartie

      now the years have passed
      sitting alone, my last years cast
      I conclude my wanderlust on deaths edge
      I ll finish with a phenomenal knowledge
      that life has no reason what so ever
      if you cannot share it with a human being whoever
      and moreover shortsighted as I was
      with all my talents first in my class
      where was I with my Einstein brain
      sitting on my island blind for worlds pain?

      life is a well-balanced recipe
      it has to be drunk as nectar
      filled with emotion
      and sound devotion
      not more not less


    • wanderlust

      a poem written by Ginger J in 1996 – from her scrapbook:

      Hiking in the grass-strewn, sun-bleached, wind-bitten, sand-laden valley land sun strip
      Snake-hunting, rock climbing
      Hot-faced rock tops, way-giving bleached rock chips.
      Cave forming sand soil, mineral soil, limestone with fungus toil
      Hollowed-out hilltop, moisture-shaded, sun-bladed
      Mostly faded skin shed possibly within.
      Sliding down the red slope, summer-singed petrified heat bin hillside, grip marks, heal-striped earth-scrapes, hand holds, hard globes, grass strands, pebbled land
      Cactus-cast hot wind sage romance
      Dry grass scent blast, air moving dust dance
      Freedom-felt foot lifts, awestruck wonderment
      Not speaking, not needing, seeking medicine wheel
      Path-winding coulée, dry with arid breeze
      Wind-chapped, at-plateau stop
      lungful drunk, eyeful beauty

    • INK HORN
      Mildred pretended not to hear the other Secretaries snickering as she walked to her desk. She pretended not to notice them patting their hair.
      Tomorrow the Town Magistrate was visiting the office where she worked seeking someone to fill the position of First Secretary. Of course the woman he selected would have to be beautiful, young in appearance, as well as very competent.
      Mildred’s beautiful, glossy black hair was beginning to turn white even though she was only 23 years old. This would seriously limit her career opportunities. She’d pondered at length what she could do about the problem.
      Just then, she heard the Boss shout, “He’s coming today! The Town Magistrate is coming today! Ladies you have to look your best. It will bring honor to our Office if one of you is selected.”
      Each woman froze, held their breaths, madly considered what to do about how they looked. There was no time to go home to change clothes or redo their hair.
      Everyone patted their clothes, then ran to the bathroom….except Mildred. She stopped at her desk, grabbed her Ink Horn, and walked toward the closet as if there were no emergency at all.
      Alone in the closet she walked over to the mirror on the wall. Carefully she used the ink pen to apply black ink to each visible white hair. She was careful not to get ink on her skin, hands, or clothes.
      Then she walked back into the Secretary Pool and over to the wood stove. Bending down to put a log into the stove, she made sure the heat dried the ink on her hair.
      When she stood up, the Town Magistrate, the Boss, and all the other Secretaries were standing there.
      “I have a good chance.” she said to herself.
      Franja Russell 1-24-2013

    • Excellent work, Dashers! Hope to see you all this week inworld.

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