20 Day Challenge #15

This is prompt #17: Describe a first.

It was the first time I went to see her. She looked different, deflated, like someone had punctured a hole in her skin and drained out the energy I was so used to seeing. Her skin sagged over the hollows left behind. Everything I remembered came back to me then: the first trip we took to Florida, the way her eyes sparkled in the sunlight and her laughter flowed as easily as the wine. We were so young then, a tangle of long, tanned limbs and loudly stated ideals.We'd thought we would conquer the world together, but the world conquered us; the distance our travels drove between us was stronger than the vows we'd made to each other. Now, this brought us back together. The diagnosis, the surgery, the treatment. I don't know how long it took her to build up the courage to call me, but when she called I came. I owed her that much. But seeing here there, seeing the toll that time and illness had taken on her, I knew this trip would be my last.

20 Day Challenge #14

This is prompt #2: this I believe. I think this was originally intended to be sort of like a short essay, but this is what it turned into instead. I don't really like this one, but it's what I wrote for the prompt so it's going up. I started this with a particular intent but it just rambled a bit and didn't quite make the point I thought I was going to make in the first place.

This I believe.
This is all we have,
every second, every minute, every hour,
ticking down to the end.
No more.
The things we fill our lives with don't matter then.
It's easy to put aside the hard things,
every long shot, every practice, every pipe dream,
easy to fill our lives with wasted time.
Every second, every minute, every hour,
ticking away with the click of the keyboard,
with the office jobs we hate,
with the tasks we never really wanted to do.
Time means nothing until it's running out.
We waste our youths on what our parents want for us
(or running away from what they want for us)
and by the time we figure out what we really want
the best parts have passed us by.
Things always get put off for the future,
but the future starts now,
and the longer we wait the harder it gets,
and the future never comes;
we just find ourselves in the present again.
There's nothing that will make us happier
by putting it off.
But we're too scared to take the chance.
Every second, every minute, every hour,
slipping into days.
Into years.
And our heads are still buried in the sand,
so we can't see it slide down the hourglass,
can't see the things we missed
while we whittled away the minutes,
shaped our lives into something different than what we imagined.
In the end, we're all we have to show for ourselves,
and we don't always like what we see.
Maybe, if we had just done things differently -
but we didn't.
And if we had another chance,
we'd do it just the same.
This I believe.

20 Day Challenge #13

Due to some family drama and a dance show yesterday, I wasn't able to get a piece done, but the challenge continues today. This is prompt #20 Create a still-life in a room that implies a dramatic moment (ie. furniture overturned).

          It was a still day. The small brick bungalo at the end of the lane was as tidy as ever, the front lawn filled with neatly cut grass and trees trimmed to perfection. The windows had been recently cleaned and the house numbers shone in the light of the setting sun. A step inside the front door revealed a small foyer decorated tastefully. The small oak side table held organizers for keys and mail, and a neat line of boots rested next to the hall closet. Reflected in the mirror above the side table was a family portrait, slightly skewed, with a crack running down its length. Around the corner, the living room was in a state of quiet chaos: the living room table, laid bare, with a smear of blood on the corner; the shatters of china next to it on the floor, a small handle visible among the pile of shards; the damp stain of tea on the white carpet below. The ornate mirror on the mantlepiece was also cracked, cutting the reflection of the sofa in two. One side was the same as always: white and pristine, with a pile of decorative pillows and a brown throw draped over one arm. The other was covered in small droplets of tea and the pillows were strewn next to it on the floor. The favoured heirloom, a brown leather wingback chair, lay on its side in the corner of the room. A small face peered over the back, testing the stillness for permanence.

The Colour Yellow

Another poem not based on personal experience, just a feeling I had that started turning into ideas. Interestingly, I knew basically how I wanted this to go, but had difficulty writing it on the computer. Once I switched to pen and paper the words flowed much more easily.

I used to love the colour yellow.
You remembered that,
and you always brought me daffodils instead of roses.
Your praise fell on my ears like the soft summer rains that were falling when we first kissed,
and with your love
the flowers won't the only thing that bloomed.
It had been so long since I felt wanted.
I climbed so willingly onto the pedestal you built for me,
and I came to love the colour white
because it featured in all of my fantasies.
I could see myself walking down the aisle with you,
dreamed of white chiffon cakes and thick vanilla frosting
and the moment I said I do.
When that moment finally came
it felt unreal, as though I was only borrowing this happiness.
And when that veil finally lifted,
I saw what you never showed before,
and that's when I stopped loving the colour blue
because the first thing you destroyed was my favourite blue dress,
the one that showed off my figure.
You didn't want anyone else to look at me;
you wanted me covered up.
And you did some of that yourself
by covering me in bruises.
I didn't need that dress anymore to see blue against my skin.
In the end, I came to love red,
the colour of the heart that let you down
and left you gasping for breath.
The colour that finally drained from your face as I made the call,
knowing it was already to late.
And now I love the colour black,
the bag that zipped over your face
and set me free.
The black I wore to your funeral,
that kept everyone from seeing
I finally had colour in my life again.

20 Day Challenge #12

This is prompt #8: write about love. This isn't based on personal experience, but rather the feeling I got after reading a poem written by an old friend (I took a very different approach than he did, but just ran with the emotion I felt after reading). I was worried that this prompt would turn out cheesy or sappy, so I'm glad I managed to come up with something a little more sorrowful.

You took me with you when you left.

You took me with you and you never looked back,

thought you left me where my body is,

too scared to move, too timid to follow.

I am frozen, rooted to the spot,

but my mind and soul are free to soar,

to go with you,

see the life we could have had.

You took the best parts of me,

the ones that laugh easily,

that forgive quickly,

that make a house a home.

You stayed here just long enough to let me know what that feels like,

but you grew restless,

felt the longing for someplace new,

and you knew I would not follow you,

so you left before you felt trapped.

You wanted to take only the good with you,

thought it was better to leave before love turned to hate.

But you left a hollow in my heart,

filled it with a longing I have never known

and now my home is a cage.

The door is unlocked, but I've shut myself in.

I can picture the life we would have together,

I dream of the places I've never been,

the places I could find with you.

Maybe if I hadn't been so scared,

I could be finding them right now,

but when I realized I had to choose between your love and this life,

I couldn't bear to give up what I had.

And time has created more distance between us than the miles ever could.

While it lasted, we lived in harmony,

but now I'm singing out unmatched melodies,

hoping that somewhere deep inside you can feel them.

And I dream about the things that could have been,

and the life I could have had with you,

while I live mine out alone.

20 Day Challenge #11

This is prompt#16: Write a story with only dialogue. If there's one thing I've learned today, it's that dialogue is a terrible way to tell an entire story.

          "Did you see that?"
          "See what? It's pitch black in here."
          "I definitely saw something move. Tell me you didn't see something move."
          "Sarah, I didn't see anything move. I can barely see my hand in front of my face."
          "There's definitely something in here."
          "Will you calm down? We were alone when we came in. I don't think the battery dying suddenly conjured up a bunch of monsters in the dark."
          "Shh!"
          "What now?"
          "Did you hear that?"
          "Sarah, there is nothing here. Jesus Christ, I shouldn't have brought you here."
          "You're the one who invited me. You said it would be fun."
          "I only invited you because you insisted. If you weren't so needy we could have just seen a movie next weekend."
          "Are you kidding me? You - ok, Matt, I really think I heard something this time."
          "You are such a wuss. Look, follow me, we can still use the wall as a guide. I think the exit is this way."
          "I'm not moving. It was your stupid idea to go caving, you find the way out."
          "Fine, whatever. Just quit whining, ok?"
          "I am not whining. I'd say if there was ever a time to get upset, it would be now. You know when I proposed a couple's weekend, I thought you might change your plans. I didn't think you'd actually drag me out here."
          "You knew I was planning this for weeks. Sometimes, it's not all about you, Sarah."
          "See? This is exactly what I've been trying to tell you. You never make time for me, but you spent weeks planning this little solo camping trip. I'm just asking for you to put a bit more effort into this relationship."
          "Fuck, Sarah, not this again."
          "Yes, this again. We're talking about this. You can't just brush me off every time I bring this up."
          "Actually, I can. You're so full of shit. Remember your birthday? Our anniversary?"
          "Yeah, ok, that was nice and all, but I told you I wanted a surprise party. And that was not the necklace I showed you."
          "Well I'm sorry I can't afford a thousand dollars worth of jewellery. You're just proving my point. I do a lot for you, you just can't see it."
          "That is such a lie. You've been spending less and less time with me. It's almost like you aren't invested in this relationship anymore!"
          "Maybe I'm not!"
          "What?"
          "Look, I'm going to find the way out of here, then we're done. This is more than I signed up for."
          "You can't break up with me! This is your fault!"
          "How is this my fault?"
          "If you'd just done what I wanted, I'd be happy right now. You're the one who doesn't care enough to get things right. That has nothing to do with me."
          "Huh."
          "Matt, don't do this, ok? Please talk to me... Matt? Where are you? Did you find the way out? Come on, Matt, this isn't funny... Matt?"

20 Day Challenge #10

Halfway through the 20 Day Challenge! This is prompt #3: Six Sentence Story. Since it's a short one I wrote three. None of these is my best work, but I prefer the first one.

She wore her hair in a tight updo, with thick eyeliner and bright red lips. Her skintight black dress clung to her curves and she emphasized the effect by swaying her hips as she walked. Heads turned as she strutted down the street, and her mouth curved into a small smile. She met with her first client - a tall, balding man in his late thirties - in an upscale hotel restaurant. Later that evening, when she arrived home, she paid the sitter then made her way upstairs. She changed and scrubbed every trace of makeup off her face before she went to kiss her daughter goodnight.

When he came over for dinner he wore his hat at the table, a cheap black bowler that gave him the look of a leprechaun.  Despite this quirk, he was a favourite dinner guest to many. Laughter came easily, emanating from deep within his belly, and he made everyone - even the hosts - feel at home. He wore his smile like a mask, and kept it on so long that it began to feel as real to him as it appeared to others. But when he went home, he took off his hat and frowned at himself in the mirror, rubbing his bald head sheepishly. The energy he gained from the dinner guests faded quickly, and he dropped his smile as he prepared for another lonely night.

His breathing came hard and his feet pounded on the ground as he tore through the woods. He could hear the sounds of his pursuers, not far behind. Branches whipped his face, opening up a cut along his nose, but he could not focus on the pain. With one last burst of speed, he threw himself through a stream and on to the flat rocks beyond. Soon, his pursuers grew quiet; the hounds paced in circles, sniffing the ground but finding no scent. Ahead,there was a swish of red tail, then he was gone.

20 Day Challenge #9

This is prompt #5: write about a stranger you see on the street. This is me trying to describe in as much detail as possible a guy that I saw while walking my dog this morning. This is more of a short character sketch; I've had a pretty busy day, so this is a rushed description based on memory.

          Though it was minus fifteen with windchill, he wore only a light orange windbreaker and a pair of khaki pants. He wore a pair of old running shoes and left his hands and head bare, as though the cold wind didn't affect him. A leash was wrapped around one wrist, and at the other end there was a large, shaggy dog of some indeterminable mix. He walked in slow, measured steps, his shoulders hunched as though settled there through years spent at a desk. Smiling absentmindedly, he ran a hand through greying hair and nodded to a passing dog owner, but spoke very little, though they paused a few moments to chat. When he continued on his way, his movements were slow, but he walked with a quiet contentment and an air of the relaxation of someone sinking into a familiar routine.

20 Day Challenge #8

This is prompt #6: The haunted house is sentient, and you are stuck inside.      

          It knows I am here. I think it knew before I entered the door, felt me on the steps outside, saw me peering through the dust-covered windows. The door creaked open as I stood in front of it, a perfect cliche. It should have been a warning, but curiosity got the better of me. It always does. As soon as I stepped inside, the door locked behind me, and I tried frantically to unlock it, but the lock wouldn't move. The house has locked every window and every door, turned off every light. I am trapped.
          I am rooted to the spot, trying not to make a sound, but my breathing is too loud and I can't slow it down. There are whispers in the room next to me and a banging sound coming from upstairs. I think I can see a pair of eyes staring at me through the crack in the hallway closet. The noises grow louder, building to a crescendo; next to me, the voices begin screaming at each other at inhuman pitches.
          This is my opportunity. Using the noise to shield the sound of my actions, I tiptoe to the front window and turn my back to it, then begin kicking at it with the heel of my boot. The voices continue to scream, and upstairs the banging has started to shake the floor. I hope the house can't feel me with everything else that is happening.
          The window shatters, and for an instant my heart soars, but then I realize that the house has gone silent and the crack of the glass could be heard throughout the house. There is a pause, and then the house screams, and I am inside its mouth and the sound is reverberating inside my head. The walls shudder and I am pelted with the remaining glass from the window. I scream in pain and cover my head as my arms and back are sliced by a hundred slivers of glass. As I turn to dive out the window, I can see creatures moving in - the glow of eyes, the swish of limbs scuttling across the floor. My hands scrabble for something - anything - to hold on to. As I latch on to the mailbox, I feel something grab hold of my leg, then a burning pain as a set of teeth sink deep into my calf. I try to shake it off and pull myself out, but I can feel more of them take hold, the grip of claws and the catch of teeth.
          My arms give out, and I am pulled back inside.

20 Day Challenge #7

This is prompt 7: Open a book and pick a random sentence. Use this sentence to start your story. This sentence is from A Confederacy of Dunces, by John Kenney Toole, which I just started reading. The sentence is in bold at the start of this prompt. I cheated a bit because I didn't choose this at random; I was reading and decided I liked this sentence and could use it to start better than a random sentence I had chosen earlier. This one is a bit heavy and kind of depressing, and I have no idea if I got the mindset of this character right, but this is where my brain went as I wrote.

          Neon signs flashed off and on, reflecting in the streets dampened by the light mist that had been falling steadily for some time.The light filtered through the windows of his second-story apartment, bathing his face in green and red light. He sat in his office, hands frozen on the keyboard. Writing had always come easily to him, the words flowing from his fingers so quickly he could hardly get them written down in time. But this was different. This was the summation of years of pain, the justification of his actions, the small apology for grievances too large to overcome. There were too many things to say, and no way to say them properly. He couldn't use a few words - or even pages full of them - to make up for his absence, for the way he had acted. He'd let so many things get in the way, had thought that being a tortured artist was a means to an end, the way to produce the kind of work that would really make people feel something. Writing became an excuse, failure a justification. Every night that he reached for the bottle he always told them it was the last time. The next one would get picked up, he'd make it big - but now he needed that comfort to get him through another day. He'd cut through his family ties, his pen as sharp a weapon as a knife. Now only his sister still spoke with him, in weekly phone calls full of pauses heavy with obligation.
          With a sigh, he closed his laptop and reached up to ran a finger along the side of the picture frame that held the photograph of his sons. He remembered when it was taken, three years ago, when they still both had blonde hair and large gaps of missing teeth. The last time he saw them was amongst a tangle of legs on the soccer field. He'd tried to make them out from across the street, but they'd changed so much it was hard for him to make them out amongst the crowd of teammates. A letter would do them no good, he knew, but he felt the need to leave something for them, to let them know he was thinking about them, even now.
          It felt right to do it on paper, he thought. If the words wouldn't come from the keyboard, maybe he could make it happen with his pen. It would be more personal that way. But when he had the paper and pen in front of him, nothing came out. After several more agonizing minutes, he realized that for once in his life he truly had no words. Maybe that was for the best. Writing had been the end of his life; he'd begun writing his final words as soon as he first picked up a pen. Now he didn't need any more words to protect him from his life.
          He got up and walked over to the closet where he'd tied up the rope. The rest was pain. Then a final twitch, and all was still. Outside, the mists turned to rain, and the neon signs flashed off and on.

20 Day Challenge #6

This is prompt #9: Write about hate. Only got a first verse out today but I will try to revisit this.

Like Midas, with his golden touch
you've hid yourself away.
You've transformed everything you love;
turned not to gold, but hate.

20 Day Challenge #5

This is  prompt #10: An alcoholic middle-aged woman and a teenage girl are driving across the country in a truck together. Why? Another lackluster day on the creativity front, but I managed to get something out. I think the dialogue needs some tweaking for realism, and the story doesn't feel complete. While writing, it seemed like the right place to end, but I was hoping to get out more information about the characters and couldn't seem to do it without it all being done through dialogue and personal admissions by the two characters, which seemed a bit forced.

           She called herself Clementine and wore her hair down to hide the scars on her face. Annette knew who she was - she'd seen the pictures on the news - but the girl paid her way with Vodka and Scotch so Annette let her ride along. Clementine was barely seventeen, lanky and lean, with a face that was almost pretty. She barely spoke at first, except to ask if it was alright if she smoked. Annette said yes. Not another word was spoken for fifty miles, when Dolly Parton came on the radio and Clementine rolled her eyes and muttered under her breath about the kind of music only old people would listen to. Annette grinned and began to sing along, hitting the high notes off tune. She gave Clementine a sideways glance, as though challenging her to say something. To her surprise, Clementine joined in.

            "Not just for old ladies, huh?"

            Clementine focused on her hands for a moment, sliding a cigarette out of the pack and lighting it. "My mom was a fan."

            "Was?"

            "Yeah." Clementine blew a stream of smoke through pouted lips and turned away to look out the window.

            There was a pause. "Smoking kills, you know."

            "Whatever." Clementine rolled her eyes, then stared pointedly at the empty bottles filling the space in front of her feet. "You're one to talk."
            Annette acted like she hadn't heard and focused back on the road. Catching sight of a sign for a rest stop, she said, "How about we both set aside our vices for one night and kill ourselves with heart disease? I could use a burger right now."
            Clementine nodded, and Annette pulled on to the off ramp. The rest stop comprised a gas station and a diner that looked like it belonged in the fifties. A glance through the door showed metallic tables and bright turquoise seats. Before exiting the cab, Clementine slipped on a hat and a pair of sunglasses.
            They slid into a booth in the back corner. The waitress - a thirtysomething woman with unruly curly brown hair and a voluptuous figure - introduced herself as Barb. Annette ordered a burger with fries; Clementine went for the all-day breakfast and ordered pancakes. When Annette raised her eyebrows, Clementine mumbled something about her mom making pancakes for dinner when she was a kid.She seemed jittery, glancing around at the other patrons and shifting her hair further over her face.
          Annette waited until their food arrived before she spoke. "You never did tell me where you want to go. I can take you as far as New Jersey, but that's as far as I'm going."
          "New Jersey is fine. I just need to get out of the state."
          Her face softening, Annette reached out a hand, but let it fall to the table. "Are you alright?"
          "No." Clementine's answer was immediate, with that hint of guilt that comes out when someone is too quick to jump to a lie.
          "I've seen the news, Jenna. I know your father is looking for you."
          Clementine jumped on hearing her new name.Her face contorted in anger and she launched herself out of her chair. "What are you gonna do, call the cops on me? Have you just been driving me around so you can get some kind of reward? Fuck you."
          Annette stood and rested her hand on Clementine's shoulder. "Relax. I'm sure you've got your good reasons. I just don't feel good about leaving you on your own."
          "I can handle myself."
          " I don't doubt that. Look, let's just eat. Forget I brought it up."
          Clementine sat, but her eyes showed her distrust. She ate her pancakes in stubborn silence. Then, as they waited for the bill -
          "He's not a good man."
          "Sorry?"
          "My father. If you've seen the news, you've seen the bullshit about how much he misses me." Clementine touched the scars on her face, an unconscious reflex. "Don't send me back to him."
          Their bills arrived, and Clementine dug through her purse for her wallet. Annette placed a few bills on the counter and stood up, gently pushing Clementine's arm away. "Honey, this one's on me. Now come on, we've still got a long way to go."
         

20 Day Challenge #4

I was feeling a bit stuck creatively today, so I went with prompt #1: one sentence story. I tried my hand at a few, since it's such a short prompt. Today isn't feeling like a great day in terms of creative inspiration, so I'm not as happy with these, but the goal was to write every day, and I know it would be a lot to expect to be producing something I'm really happy with every day.

Her eyes were swollen with tears, but his were dry.

I should have listened to my mother when she told me not to talk to strangers.

It's been five years, and it's still hard to say no without feeling afraid.

She used to laugh at all his jokes and he loved her cooking, but now her smiles are rare and they eat their meals in silence as he picks around the burnt bits.

Gentle as a Knife

This started with me singing along to a song on the radio, then part way through I just started making up my own words. That produced the first verse, so I just ran with it from there. I like verses 1 and 2 a lot better than verse 3, which seems a little clunky comparatively.

Gentle as a knife tearing through your flesh,
she fought with her words and a sharp-edged caress,
appeared as an angel in a fall from grace.
Couldn't act like she loved you, but she'd always say it.

You stayed by her side, through better and worse,
thought being in love meant you were bound to get hurt.
She took you for a fool and you played the part,
always built her up as she tore you apart.

Hard as the truth that finally hit,
you began to see her for what she really is.
You saw the abyss when you looked in her eyes;
but now you can see that there's nothing inside.

20 Day Challenge #3

This is prompt #19: Write a 26-sentence long story, starting each sentence with the associated letter of the alphabet. This one was quite challenging, as it really limited where I felt I could go with the story, and it ended up more as a 'slice of life' piece (a look into the everyday life of a character), rather than a plot-driven piece. Every time I wanted to say something, I had to rework it to fit the prompt, and some of the letters were rather difficult - X was saved by the discovery of the Xeranthemum, which is a type of flower. Otherwise it feels a bit forced in places, especially in the V sentence - I wrote from W to Z before finishing O to V, so I had to use that sentence as the transition between the two halves.

            As she walked along her sloping property, she surveyed the damage. Birch trees lay on the grass, still wet from last night's pouring rain. Cold winds tugged at her hair as she stepped over the branches, collecting what sticks she could to dry for kindling. Dark clouds still hung overhead, so she moved quickly. Every step sent a shooting pain up the back of her leg, the price of a competitive nature in her youth. Four surgeries had allowed her to walk, but the pain remained.

            Geraniums had once made a colourful display in this corner of her property, but the cold weather and her aches and pains had left the area unattended to, filled with weeds and tall grasses. Her consolation was in the potted plants that her daughter brought on every visit, dotting the house with bursts of colour. It was a small gesture, but it made all the difference.

            Just before she entered her house, she paused in front of a small metal pot that sat just outside, flanked by two potted lemon trees. Kneeling, she brushed a small cobweb off the top, letting her fingers linger on the engraving along the lid. Lichen had begun to grow across the top, softening the edges of the letters.

            Moving slowly, she stood up and entered the house, stepping carefully as her two cats came to wind themselves around her ankles. Nero and Zoom were her closest companions these days, though this was the extent to which they showed affection for her. Often, they could be found curled up on the living room furniture, or sprawled along the tile floor of the solarium on a sunny day.

            Placing her bundle of sticks down next to the fireplace, she began to bustle around the kitchen, setting a kettle to boil and tidying here and there while she waited. Quiet afternoons like these had become her favourite part of the day, far from the flurry of activity she had enjoyed in her youth. Reaching into the cupboard for her teabag, she poured herself a cup, slipped in two sugar cubes, though she knew she was supposed to be cutting back.

            She came back into the living room, gathered what dry wood she had on hand and lit a fire, smiling at the delicate smoky scent and crackling light that filled the room. Tea in hand, she settled herself on the couch and sifted through the clutter that always seemed to build up on the coffee table, despite repeated cleaning. Underneath the stack of bills and newspaper was an old dog-eared book of poetry, the one she and her husband used to read to each other when they were young. Verses had been marked as they read together, marking their favourites; she flipped to one and read it out loud to the empty room, then sat back in a moment of silence, her gaze falling on the bay window and the sky beyond. Xeranthemums, brought in by her daughter a month ago, sat along the sill, adding colour to the grey backsplash of the clouds behind them.Yesterday had been stormy and dark, but now the clouds began to clear and a sliver of blue sky could be seen. Zoom curled up next to her on the couch and purred.

20 Day Challenge #2

This is prompt #14: Tell a story backwards. This ended up a little sadder than I intended at first, but that happened when I made the decision to bookend this story with a matching first and last sentence; I ended up going for a story about disappointment rather than a straight tale of someone's life.

          This is how it ends. Not with a flash of memory or a rush of emotion, but with the resigned acceptance of someone who has lived too long.
          You see your frail hands, the soft, translucent skin. The swollen joints and shaking fingers that once were your livelihood. You remember the days of retirement spent metalworking, the projects you sold because you were asked, not because you needed the money. After years working construction, you found it difficult to be still.
          This was never how you thought your life would go. Your parents raised you on ideas, but you worked better with the world in front of your eyes. Their disappointment seeped into every lull in conversation, though they tried to hide it by flooding the pauses with meaningless words. They never hid it well, not  when you were young and boisterous and quick to anger. Their tempers were too even to understand your outbursts.
          When you were born, they were full of hope and expectation. This is how it always begins.

20 Day Challenge #1

Starting off right away! Couldn't wait until tomorrow to start out on prompt #18: Create a story using only single syllable words. (ex. start prompt: "from the back of the truck..."). I don't think I fully got the meaning across on this one; every time I tried to write something a bit more direct, I got caught using a bunch of 2+ syllable words, but I like the overall feel. Spoiler alert: I was going for someone who has been tied up and is being taken out to get murdered & buried in the middle of nowhere. But getting that across without 2+ syllable words proved to be more difficult than I had anticipated.

           From the back of the truck she could see the bright moon and the side of his face; the hook nose, low brow, thin mouth. The light made her squint but she did not close her eyes. She could not miss one bit of the trip, one bit of his face. One small thing could save her life.

          Bare trees shook on both sides of the dirt road that snaked through steep hill and low marsh. They saw no cars, no homes. She did not know where she was, but still she searched the trees as though they could give her a clue. Deep down, she knew the truth, but hope was all she had left.

          The tape around her legs and wrists chafed and her hands grew numb as they drove on.

20 Day Challenge

After an exciting start in July & August, my writing has tapered because I've gotten busy and the original excitement of having started this blog wore off more quickly than I thought it would. In an attempt to get myself back to writing more often, I am giving myself a 20 day challenge. I found 20 writing prompts and am going to complete one a day (not necessarily in this order). I'll come back and strike through items in this post as I complete them.

The aim is to post my writing for all of these. They may be raw first drafts, or something that I edited throughout the day. At the end of the 20 days I will look through my pieces and find something that I want to post again, then it will be edited and reworked as needed and posted hopefully before the end of the month.

Here are the prompts:

1. One sentence story

2. This I believe (350-500 words)

3. Six sentence story

4. Picture writing prompt

5. Write about a stranger you see on the street.

6. The haunted house is sentient, and you're stuck inside.

7. Open a book and pick a random sentence. Use this sentence to start your story.

8. Write about love.

9. Write about hate.

10. An alcoholic middle-aged woman and a teenage girl are driving across the country in a truck together. Why?

11. Write a character sketch.

12. Find a building and describe it in as much detail as possible.

13. Two characters are having an argument. Make it clear what this argument is about without mentioning the topic of contention directly.

14. Tell a story backwards.

15. Write a story with no dialogue.

16. Write a story with only dialogue.

17. Describe a first.

18. Create a story using only single syllable words. (ex. start prompt: "from the back of the truck...")

19. Write a 26-sentence long story, starting each sentence with the associated letter of the alphabet.

20. Create a still-life in a room that implies a dramatic moment (ie. furniture overturned)

Universe

This one is a bit weird, written while rather sleepy on a train. I'm also posting this on Typetrigger (check me out: www.typetrigger.com/ailsabecker/). I'm not sure how consistently I'll post on Typetrigger but if there's anything I come up with that's either longer than their 300 word limit or if it's something I'm particularly fond of, it will also get posted here.

          He held a universe in the palm of his hand, stars slipping though his fingers like fine grains of sand. Calluses scratched canals into planets as an asteroid belt settled into his lifeline. He held lives in the balance with a snap of his fingers, altered the course of galaxies in the flick of his wrist. Creation was a dice roll, chaos and collisions inside a cupped palm. Each day, a new roll, a new world. He left all to chance.