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If you have been writing to the prompts regularly, well done. If you haven’t followed any prompts yet and you’re here now, this is what matters. Be brave, give it a go and be present. Write and pour your heart on to the page. Write by hand if you can. When the time is up type it up. Explore a new genre if you wish. Look at today’s theme and write what first comes to your mind. If you are an artist who prefers to draw or create other pieces than writing that’s ok too.
Writing is about what you see and how you see it. Others may not want to see what you have to share. It’s your job to tell the story that’s burning inside, even if the pages get to carry too much. Your job as a writer is to write it.
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Previous prompts are available on the Prompt Station starting page. Give all prompts a chance. While you may be inclined to pick and choose, you may want to look more closely at the ones you’re avoiding. It may be that those prompts can offer you some guidance or discovery as you set out to write. Don’t always go for the safe option. Try new things in your writing. That’s what a prompt is for, to play, explore have fun and be silly or serious without planning.
Today’s prompt is:
Set your timer to 5 minutes. If you feel like writing more after the 5 minutes have passed carry on.
This is a 5 minute exercise in writing in long hand and letting your pen lead your words on the page. No judging, no editing, just a stream of words coming out.
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You posted early! What a surprise to wake & find this prompt awaiting!
The wall breathes pink under the sun, cracked like old skin but alive with color. E' STATO scrawled above like a declaration - it was, or he was, or maybe this moment was. Maradona leans in, that sly smile frozen mid-pass, the Italian flag clutched like a lifeline between worlds. One arm stretches across the blue wave of the bay, the other reaching toward the figure in flowing robes, mythic and human at once. Naples doesn't just remember; it wears its legends.
I imagine walking that gravel path, weeds pushing through like stubborn fans who refuse to leave the stadium. The air smells of sea salt, exhaust, and fresh paint. Every corner here carries echoes...kids kicking a ball against the same wall, old men arguing in dialect about '85, the year the city shook the world. The mural pulls you in because it's not polite. It's loud, imperfect, reaching across time the way Diego reached across the pitch: chaotic, brilliant, impossible to ignore.
What if the painted hand actually moves at dusk?What if the robed figure whispers back in the voice of the city itself - Forza Napoli, sempre. You feel small standing there, but also giant, part of the endless chain of hands passing the ball forward. Grief and glory layered thick as the paint. Suburban estate turned shrine. Tourists snap photos; locals just nod, like yeah, of course he's still here.
The hallway behind the mural stretches long and orange, doors opening into more stories. Laundry hanging, voices spilling out, life refusing to be framed. That's the magic - art isn't behind glass. It's breathing with you, peeling a little at the edges, ready for the next hand to touch it up or add their own tag.
I want to step into the frame. Grab that flag. Run.
Once again I am perplexed
Does this have to do with the next
World Cup that is on the line ?
Or have I messed up big time ?
Is it a Greek God that
Is handing out a win at
SPAIN'S SOCCER PLAYER
Or have I opened up a layer
Of some native story which
Is memorialized by a ditch
In a two- bit town
Sports makes me feel down
I would not pay to see
The madness that sports can be
I will be staying at home
While countries swap players under a dome
Oh Greek Gods shine down on me
And bless my attempt at poetry !
Thank you, Writer Pilgrim !