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Day 19 - Write about the end
Welcome to The Daily Aftershock Writing Prompt—a daily invitation to write from the edges of aftermath, memory, rupture, and repair.
Each day, you'll receive a short, charged prompt designed to crack something open. There are no rules, only resonance. Use these however you need: to begin a poem, to open your diary, to find your voice again.
The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Think about endings. What do you they mean? What do we see? What about endings that start new beginnings? Or bring old feelings back? What about doorways, thresholds, opening wounds and closing pasts?
Tesco and the End of Light
by The Max Stacks - by Max Wallis
You’ve heard it for years—the tick-tick flicker
of Tesco bulbs buzzing your skull.
No one else did. Not until someone dies,
and the whole shop starts to hum.
Can they hear them? Receipts reel at the till.
They fold like you. No sunglasses, so eyes peel
like tangerines. You are paper dust and wet cardboard.
Cetirizine doesn’t help, but you can’t know if it does,
because the day you don’t take antihistamines
is the day you’ll cry buying bin bags.
In the freezer aisle strangers announce: Tonight, Matthew,
I am electric and vapour.
The Supermarket Sweep is Mario Kart with no assist.
A dud wheel and drift.
Your bank card bent, unsigned,
and what’s your pin, anyway?
No jackpot. Just desperation.
But you’ve wailed enough. Today,
you are no-frills, but always trying.
Choice is barcoded: gummy frogs. Condoms.
You clutch a handbag of lemons.
The baby aisle cries.
You’ve stuck a fiver back together with sellotape and a prayer,
curling in your hand, thinking of Jackie, of me, of us.
But the till won’t stop laughing. KERCHING.
You say, It’s a lot. And you mean more than
the price of lemons. Bagpuss is missing.
There are no trumpets. But the world vibrates.
Outside, pigeons scatter
from the red stage name above.
One vowel could be yours.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe
Thanks for reading The Aftershock Review! This post is public so feel free to share it.
The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe
View all episodes
By Max Wallis' Daily Aftershock Writing Prompts (The Aftershock Review)Welcome to The Daily Aftershock Writing Prompt—a daily invitation to write from the edges of aftermath, memory, rupture, and repair.
Each day, you'll receive a short, charged prompt designed to crack something open. There are no rules, only resonance. Use these however you need: to begin a poem, to open your diary, to find your voice again.
The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
Think about endings. What do you they mean? What do we see? What about endings that start new beginnings? Or bring old feelings back? What about doorways, thresholds, opening wounds and closing pasts?
Tesco and the End of Light
by The Max Stacks - by Max Wallis
You’ve heard it for years—the tick-tick flicker
of Tesco bulbs buzzing your skull.
No one else did. Not until someone dies,
and the whole shop starts to hum.
Can they hear them? Receipts reel at the till.
They fold like you. No sunglasses, so eyes peel
like tangerines. You are paper dust and wet cardboard.
Cetirizine doesn’t help, but you can’t know if it does,
because the day you don’t take antihistamines
is the day you’ll cry buying bin bags.
In the freezer aisle strangers announce: Tonight, Matthew,
I am electric and vapour.
The Supermarket Sweep is Mario Kart with no assist.
A dud wheel and drift.
Your bank card bent, unsigned,
and what’s your pin, anyway?
No jackpot. Just desperation.
But you’ve wailed enough. Today,
you are no-frills, but always trying.
Choice is barcoded: gummy frogs. Condoms.
You clutch a handbag of lemons.
The baby aisle cries.
You’ve stuck a fiver back together with sellotape and a prayer,
curling in your hand, thinking of Jackie, of me, of us.
But the till won’t stop laughing. KERCHING.
You say, It’s a lot. And you mean more than
the price of lemons. Bagpuss is missing.
There are no trumpets. But the world vibrates.
Outside, pigeons scatter
from the red stage name above.
One vowel could be yours.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe
Thanks for reading The Aftershock Review! This post is public so feel free to share it.
The Aftershock Review is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit aftershockpoetry.substack.com/subscribe