#writing practice

365 days  

Hip hip hooray it’s my birthday. 

Or as they all say. 

Even thought those happy feeling have all quite gone astray. 

I don’t feel joy. 

Quite frankly I feel destroyed.  

Forever in a delay. 

Hip hip hooray  it my birthday 

As I start to feel  the cheer 

My days to be sold 

Are turning to gold 

With my mom I hold so dear. 

With my dad too. 

Who is in a mood. 

Turning sour like a stray. 

[not giving away my age] years. 

I now hold dear. 

How I’ve seen the world “mature.”

Three hundred 

Sixty 

Five 

Days.  

The second writing prompts practice I did on TikTok. I would love to thank those that provided the prompts.

The first writing prompts practice I did on TikTok. I would love to thank those that provided the prompts.

Edit: I also made a banner!

You’re wrapped up in a soft bathrobe, lounging on the big hotel couch. Your hair is damp from the shower and your skin is freshly moisturized. Feels good after the long day. Driving to the airport, flying, driving to the hotel. Granted, you didn’t drive (or fly) anything, but still. It takes it out of you. But it was admittedly worth it. Even if this is a work trip. Even if it is with him.

The view out of the window is breathtaking. An endless sprawling city of lights, like the heavens themselves had brought the stars down to the Earth for you.

You hear the click of the lock unlatching and don’t have to look to know who it is. There’s only one person it could be. Maxwell. Your colleague. Sent on the same work trip as you to pitch your companies services to some big business tycoon.

He pads across the carpeted fooor, and the smell of the takeout you’d ordered wafts in. “I thought you were ordering for two, not twelve.” He sounds amused, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s making that stupid face he always makes when he thinks you’ve made a mistake somehow.

You take the bag from him and start laying the spread out on the too-short coffee table. “I did order for two. Some of us want our meals to consist of more than a ground beef bowl with rice and bell peppers.”

“I eat more than that! You only see my meal prep for work, maybe I eat a three course meal for dinner every night.”

“Do you?”

“Not the point.” You roll your eyes and make a plate for of garlic noodles, vegetable stir fry, and a few dumplings.

He sits next to you, closer than he needs to. His knee brushes yours and you resist the urge to knock yours against his. “Y’know, maybe you’d be better at your job if you ate more than bubble. Your brain needs carbs to function.

He makes an offended face that you’re sure is disingenuous and places his hand over his heart. “I am perfectly good at my job. After all this time, how could you possibly imply otherwise Miss?”

“Someone perfectly good at their job wouldn’t’ve fucked up the hotel booking.” The booking was meant to be two rooms, one bed in each. Instead, he booked one room with two beds. This is usually the sort of thing you’d insist doing yourself but he’d managed to convince you to let him (he’d stolen the task from you like a child, doing it before you had the chance).

You bicker back and forth while you finish eating. He disappears into the bathroom to take a shower, and you take the chance to get ready for bed. You pull the curtains, change into pajamas, and crawl into your bed.

As soon as you’ve settled in and shut your eyes, you hear the bathroom door opening and the sound of him climbing into his bed.