Grasping to the sides of dreams for life

desperately trying to avoid sliding into days

that blend together.

Sudden bursts of moods

like the bloom of a flower sped up.

Heaves of emotion to cry

(when is it ever the opposite?

Like, why can’t I have huge bursts of emotion to laugh spontaneously?).

Then calm.

Clouds moving across the sky.

Like what happens to thirst after water.

Today’s prompt is from a writing class I started yesterday.

It’s about my main character, on her “Road of Trials”, a kid trying to puff herself up.


MC’s eyes shot open. It was still dark.

She blinked, hard, as if trying to prove her eyes were actually opened.

The air in the house was still thick with what happened last night. In the dark her eyes adjusted so she was able to recognize the shapes and objects in her room.

It all seemed so stupid now in light of what was said.

The bed she was sleeping on. Would she have to take it with her? And where would she go with it?

“It will have to stay,” she whispered to the dark.

Without moving her body, she scanned the whole room.

Desk: built for a child, a homework station where years ago she and Mauree had played office.

Stuffed animals: names now forgotten. When was the last time she had picked any of them up?

“I’ll take one of those…” she thought, a hot tear made its way to her pillow. Living with her parents-turned-enemy, she would now have to do all her crying in private.

Back to the room scan, the task of having to live on her own was too serious for moments of weakness. Through tears at the bottom of her eyelids, she looked at the knick knacks and toys piled up on either side of her bedroom door, still firmly closed as if to keep the tension out.

Dirty clothes bin that was full, the wheel from a bike she found in the street. Her back pack. A small smile spread across her face as she remembered what was in it.

She and Mauree had found a bunch of little gourds and pumpkins from school yesterday and for some reason, they started stuffing them into their bags.

Mauree wanted to hide somewhere in the alleyway the next day and throw them at the boys from their school. MC just liked how cute they were, like mini pumpkins for a mini family on a mini Halloween. She thought she would set them up on her desk at home, like in one of Verna’s magazines.

She kicked the sheets off her body with the thought of Verna crossing her mind. How crazy it was — what a few hours could do to your life.

The house was silent now, but only because Verna and Darius had turned off all electronics that could receive some kind of signal or were connected to wifi.

MC flicked the light on, fighting the sting in her eyes and forcing herself to survey the room for whatever she needed. Her eyes briefly landed on the square of dust made by where her computer sat. All the wires still up on the desk, pointing, looking for a computer to connect to. But she was prepared to leave it, even though it was taken away.

She would have to be prepared to leave everything.

In her closet she dug up and out any bags she could find that seemed big enough and strong enough.

Then the packing started.

Everything went in to every bag. Books were packed with dresses, underwear with the chosen stuffed animal, hairspray and a half-empty bottle of coke.

She imagined there would be school to look after, once she found a new place to live. How she would explain this to her friends would come never. And at some point, she would have to deal with Orlando.

Bent over the bottom drawer of her dresser, the thought crashed her mind: no friends, no family. She would have to go far enough away so she could start new. But would that be possible?

Today’s prompt is from a writing class I started yesterday.

Our instructor gave us a piece of paper with different fonts on it (see the post image!) and told us to write about the font we would choose for our (potential) novels. I chose Blackout. Then I wrote this


Blackout. The ‘O’ in this font is completely dark, like it’s covering up something. That’s why I picked it. It seems more serious than the other fonts, a little modern, the other letters to have this cover-up. They’re naked somehow, maybe more willing to be exposed.

But the O is hiding something, and I know what it is. The past. I’m not sure I know what in my novel will happen or be defined in the past, but no — oh wait. It’s not just hiding something in the past.

There’s always something hiding just behind the O, there’s definitely something behind there someone doesn’t want you to see. If it were text, many lines would be greyed out, like in a government document, or some file with Top Secret written on it.

The ‘L’ seems cut short, now that I take a closer look. I would think that the bottom stroke would match the ‘E’, but it doesn’t. Would the cover-up go over that as well? Is that a shortcoming that the font-designer missed?

And the ‘V’. It seems far away from the ‘O’, almost as if to say: ‘I’m the one that’s open, I’m not like the ‘O’ at all. I’ll tell you everything, nothing to hide over here.’

Meanwhile the ‘N’ and the ‘O’, are super-close, denying access to whatever is behind that damned ‘O’.

‘THE’ has none of these issues and hang-ups. ‘THE’ had a nice upbringing with solidly middle-class values and parents that made a little bit more money than the other parents. ‘THE’ went to the cottage on long weekends and knows all the songs the other kids know, can ski and skate and will go away for college.

‘THE’ doesn’t get ‘NO VEL’, and what’s going on over there. Sure ‘NO VEL’ has some talent, but it’s just so… troubled. One day at school, ‘THE’ saw ‘NO VEL’ sharing lunch out of one plastic Wal-Mart bag. ‘NO’ saw that ‘THE’ saw and after school, tried to talk to ‘THE’ and explain away what ‘THE’ saw. ‘THE’ just smiled and nodded, ‘THE’ wanted to get away as fast as possible.

Today’s prompt says:
Write a scene that uses the following: a bracelet, a jump, and the word “frugal.”

I actually following the rules this time and wrote this using pen and paper. Following the rules is overrated. Typing it out again I realized I started writing about one thing and finished writing about another. It was also really, really hard not editing it.


I could feel the nervous start in my belly on the bus ride home. I know what I’m waking into, but what does my body know? What happened in the seconds before the nervousness hit? Why just then?? Why am I nervous now?

Last night I decided it was time to dump Merlene. She had made a scene during our last date, a whole dramatic performance (and she was a business major – go figure) just because I gave her a charm bracelet.

Every time we spoke she mentioned it. How it looks in different lighting, the different charms and trinkets she would get for it, how she paired it with her outfit. A week ago I didn’t know you could coordinate jewellry. I now wish I could go back to that time.

There were hundreds of times – multiple times per day when I could imagine I could imagine shutting her up if I said where the bracelet was from (ex-girlfriend, I was in love with, she committed). But I didn’t. I won’t.

Some people would say I’m the ultimate cheap bastard. I prefer the term “frugal”. It sounds respectable, unassuming.

No one called “frugal” is every suspected of anything.

The dumping would be more entertaining that way, actually, I thought. I felt my tongue against the front of my teeth, a nervous tic from my ortho days. I could tell her where the bracelet’s from and she would probably dump me.

It might be worth it for the entertainment alone, and I wouldn’t have to do anything but make a jump and tell the truth.

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Today’s prompt says:
Write a list titled, “Other people’s kitchens,” and write one or two sentences that give some details about each item on the list.

Other People’s Kitchens.

  • Precious handed-down items. In other people’s kitchens, there are things handed down. Recipes, dishes, silverware and storage. Some people have more than others.
  • Gifts from the wedding. In other people’s kitchens, there are fancy items from the wedding. Mixers, toasters, coffee makers, espresso makers, nearly everything that was on the registry for the kitchen is in other people’s kitchens.
  • Utensils the kids used to use. In other people’s kitchens, there are the utensils the kids used to use when they were little. No one wants to get rid of them just yet. They’re proof that the kids were little at one point. And they’re useful on some occasions.
  • Things from the 90s. In other people’s kitchens, there are utensils and tools that were purchased when they were single, things from the 90s that still work! They might be a little rusty, but they work. And if it ain’t broke.
  • Flowers. In other people’s kitchens, there are fresh flowers. Bought on Friday on the way home from work, they brighten up the room, lend some freshness to the air and put a little hope in the day.
  • That old sponge. In other people’s kitchens, there’s an old sponge somewhere. Maybe it’s on the counter, maybe it’s hidden somewhere under the counter. It shouldn’t be kicking around still after all this time. It’s got bits of food in it, and a long piece of hair for some reason.
  • Teas that no one drinks. In other people’s kitchens, it seems there are hundreds of types of teas. Buried in the back of the cupboards, in drawers and on the counter, in fancy tins, storage jars, and individual baggies. Teas every where that are barely brewed and never sipped.

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Today’s prompt says:
Write a scene using the following words: twig, fool, corrupt.

So I didn’t write this in 10 minutes. I wrote it in 15, maybe twenty. And over a few days.


In the morning is when the pain is the worst. I don’t wake up from sleep, I’m more choked out of a sleepy state. Like a man gasping for his life, I get up in fits and starts. Frantically reaching for my phone to see if I’ve overslept.

I breathe a little when the fog clears and I can see that I’m on time, it’s okay. Sure I feel like a fool for thrashing around in the bed just so I can get a couple more minutes of rest, but it’s nearly unavoidable, considering the lead pull of sleep weighing me down.

I love the morning when I don’t have any hurry. No “gotta be at work”, no interviews. That’s what made the whole daily event corrupt – the world of work. Scratch that. Not the world of work, the world of Doing a Job You Don’t Want To Do So You Can Pay Bills and Have Good Credit.

On these mornings, I move extra slowly, almost daring time to pass me by. Playing some sort of game with the whole concept of being at work on time. It’s my animosity towards the whole concept, really. My way of saying a little ‘fuck you’ to these unwanted constraints on my time.

And how dare they, really. What is all this, all this fake shit we’ve built our lives around anyway. The fake ideas that there are bills to pay. What if we lived in a world where everyone just supported each other?

Or rather, what if I lived the way I really wanted to live? What if I went to work as a writer full-time? What if I just picked up a pen instead of a bus pass, and started writing instead of dealing with a 1.5 hour commute to a place I don’t really want to be?


How long have I been standing here? I completely zoned out. The clock says I have 20 minutes. I have plenty of time.

And so I start again – see how easy that was? Moving around my room, looking for the other sock to go with the one that’s in my hand. There’s fresh snow outside. I take a minute to just look out the window – I can afford a minute.

You can barely see anything on the ground, in the yard, one twig is laying almost in the middle of all white. Everything is so slow in the winter. At this moment I can’t even feel the anticipation of warmer weather. That’s what keeps me afloat, that’s what keeps me positive over these months: the anticipation of warmer weather.

And the dream. The dream keeps me going to. I keep going because I have faith that {1:11} some day, at some point, all this will be different. I’ll live where I want to live, work doing something that I actually love and won’t have to deal with the rest of the shit.

Backed away from the window. I wonder what that would have looked like from someone outside? A woman at the window, perfectly still for one minute until the blind closes and she goes back into the inside of the house, maybe down some stairs, maybe in some bathroom.

My work clothes feel stiff. I don’t wear a uniform to work or anything, it’s just the clothes I have to wear to work. I wouldn’t actually choose to wear these clothes if I didn’t want to. But this is Professional Me, like some sort of malformed barbie in a box, sold in the bin marked ‘imperfect’.

I’ve established a routine to make all of this a little easier. And the first bit of satisfaction I feel this morning is at the realization that everything is in place. I just need to pour milk in a bowl full of dry cereal, pour the same milk in coffee that’s already brewed, and take my lunch and put it in a container.


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Today’s prompt says:
Write three scenes, each from a different POV – but each scene must involve the same ballpoint pen.

Matthew picked up the pen from behind the couch. It was dusty, covered with hair and bunnies from months of collection.

“Found it!”

He yelled above the television noise. I looked over at him angrily. That was my pen.


He ran into the kitchen from the family room. I could smell farts in the air. God damn.

“HA HA!” He laughed like Nelson from the Simpsons.

“You want it, you gotta run through my farts, motherfucker!”

In any other household, no one would care about the pen. But we don’t have a lot of pens in this house. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to write any stories. My heart started to beat faster.

“Just give me the goddamn pen, Matthew. I’m not kidding around!”

He laughed again and ran away further. I could hear the floorboards creaking under his weight and the quick movements of his footsteps.

Well at least he was burning some calories.


I saw a glimmer of something behind the couch when I went into the room. I knew it was Melissa’s pen, but didn’t say anything. Just in case she started to harass me, I figured I would find the pen and that would teach her to mess with me.

And then it started. Her talking over the television, saying things to get under my skin. She’d been looking for that thing for months and now I had the power because I knew where it was.

“Look at all that fatty foods. If America eats any more, this country will throw the earth off it’s axis!”

That was one dig.

“Hey Matty. Have the kids at school started calling you Fatty Matty yet?”

That was another, it came a few minutes later than the first.

“Look at all that Popeye’s Chicken. Do you think it ever occurred to them to put a vegetable in one of those boxed grease-meals? Oh wait. Of course. That would never occur to you.”

That was it. I reached behind the couch and picked up her dusty pen.

This will teach this dusty bitch.


It was nice there, under the darkness of the family couch. Of course, Ballpoint Pen didn’t know where it was, didn’t know it was being searched for, or what the circumstances were around what was about to happen.

But under the couch, it was cool. Protected from hurling insults and petty brother-sister fights. This place behind a couch was a good spot to rest. Nevermind the collecting dust, long and short strands of hair and bits of food collected late at night.

Ballpoint Pen could rest from the feverish hands of its owner, writing foul, vile words across the pages of her diary.

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Today’s prompt says:
Write a scene that starts with a bag of fingerling potatoes and ends with a yellow sports car.

I wrote this one on a computer, not on my phone during a commute, like I usually do. Not sure I like it… Also, is a Mustang a sports car?

Jenine stuck her hand in the bag of fingerling potatoes, feeling around until she couldn’t fit any more in her hand.

“I’m not sure what to tell you,” her husband was saying behind her back. “I’m sorry, but I just won’t be able to make it.”

He was talking about Jenine’s cousin’s wedding (would it have been different if it were a funeral?), which wasn’t a new event. This would be the third time the cousin would be getting married.

“So maybe he could miss this one,” Jenine thought.

What was new about this was him not going. What Jenine didn’t know was that this would be the first of many events her husband wouldn’t want to, or couldn’t attend.

She stood in front of him until he moved away from the sink, not sure if she should act angry or be okay with it.

“Ok, whatevs,” she decided to be ok with it. “I’m sure whatever you have to do is more important than Marcia’s third wedding.”

He laughed out loud, which made Jenine immediately suspicious.

The joke wasn’t that funny. Why did she get the feeling he was trying to cover up something? To be secretive?

A loud bang came from the floor directly above them.

“PATRICIA!” Jenine yelled, looking up at the ceiling as if she could see her step-daughter through the wood and carpet.


“What the hell is she doing up there.” Jenine asked while washing the potatoes. Her husband knew better than to answer.

In the extended silence that followed, his heart started to beat faster. This would be the first time, he realized (he’s a little slow, Jenine’s husband). The first of many excuses I’m going to have to make.

Of course, the thoughts of all his excuses brought up images of Janine. Not Jenine, Janine. The woman he was having an affair with. It was extremely convenient (and maybe kind of not) that his mistress and his wife shared almost the same name. He was never a talker while doing the deed, but he figured it could come in handy if he did ever decide to speak up during sex.

He imagined if he did say someone’s name, neither of them would be able to tell which name he was saying.

Then he heard it. For someone not-so-smart, Jenine’s husband (Mark) had very good hearing.

Janine’s car coming down the street. They didn’t live in a particularly quiet neighbourhood, but her car made a distinct sound.



It was at this point that Mark should have done something – gone upstairs to be a parent to his daughter, started to help Jenine out with dinner, set the table, see what their son was doing, something. Instead he just stood there. Listening to the yellow sports car getting closer and closer to the family home.

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Today’s prompt says:
Write about this character: Winston refuses to eat eggs unless they’re served on a blue plate. Why?

Winston’s mother shot him a frightened look.

“I’m sorry miss, are you sure?”

She started to sound like she was pleading. Winston hated it when she started to plead.

“White or brown,” the waitress replied, not responding at all to the lady’s unspoken cry for help.

“That’s all we got.” She said while refilling Winston’s mother’s coffee cup.

“Bu-” Mrs. Portridge started to say something but the waitress had walked away, pretending not to hear.

“Excuse m!” But the place was too loud. Well it wasn’t loud at all, it was just the words getting choked in Mrs. Portridge’s throat.

She turned the worried look back to Winston.

He knew exactly what was going on, but he wasn’t going to say anything.

He also knew his mother was going to try and make it better. She was going through torture and he knew it-slash-didn’t care.

On the surface this might seem like a mother and her little boy getting ready to enjoy breakfast.

But look a little closer and you’ll see a woman scared shitless and a little boy who seems almost too happy.

“Winston, they don’t have any blue plates here,” she said.


Mrs. Portridge’s blood pressure went up one point, if that’s a thing.

“If I don’t have my eggs on a blue plate, the day is not going to go well, mother.”

What Winston meant by “not going to go well” could have been a number of things. Thrown tables, blood and tears were all more or less guaranteed.

He wasn’t the typical tantrum thrower. He actually hated what he called “wasted tantrums”; arms in the air, yelling, a thrown plate.

Whenever he saw one of those kids behaving like that, (his mother jealous at such generic bursts from the other kids – those she could handle) he scoffed. Those other kids were amateurs.

When he got started everyone went still and silent.

The problem that was going to start this tantrum was the eggs on a blue plate issue. Winston had seen a little boy on his favourite TV show eating eggs on a blue plate, and he wanted to be like that little boy.

Something about the way the boy commanded everyone’s attention, looked so happy and satisfied. Winston wanted that. He would even waste a tantrum on it.

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Today’s prompt says:
Write a scene that uses the words “ripe” and “follow.”

In the middle of where Jarvis and Brominide Streets crossed, there was a windmill building. It was the windmill to stop all other windmills – so big, it gathered all of the debris from the area and swept it up into a mini-tornado. It stopped conversations, slowed down traffic, and made people clutch their loved ones (whether animal or human) a little closer.

Fromus had fun creating this little piece of mischief in a big city. S/he was delighted at the way they could make the thing grow and shrink, make it spin faster as it got bigger, or slower as it got smaller.

Fromus was one of six semi-God wizards that had control of the city. As a group they were unseen, unknown, unrecognized, but they were there. Lurking in the background, standing in the corners and alleyways where people would turn to look at something they thought they saw, only to see nothing though their eyes were pointed directly at Fromus or one of Fromus’ friends.

The semi-God wizards were supposed to do good. They were supposed to help the angels, guides and other spirit-helpers assigned to the city’s citizens. But Fromus was never good at following job descriptions – alive or dead, human or semi-God wizard, it made no difference.

But there were reasons semi-God wizards weren’t supposed to just do whatever they wanted. One of those reasons was the effect they could have on the people of the city.

[“Yea, Fromus! What about the PEOPLE?!”]

Fromus cared not. S/he especially cared not, that the windmill created made winds much bigger than s/he saw. Didn’t care about the people walking behind the man who looked good on the outside, but hadn’t taken a shower in a year. Fromus gave “no shits”, as people say, at the discomfort of the people walking behind the man. Cared not that the man smelled, as the people who had the misfortune of having to follow him thought, “ripe”.

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Today’s prompt says:
Write a scene that involves birthday cake.

Inspired by the man in front of me at the Etobicoke Metro last night.


Suhit pulled out his phone to show the sales clerk a coupon for Freshco’s sale on goldfish.

“I have a coupon – I think these are cheaper…” the sentence trailed off. He felt the eyes of everyone in the line behind him start to glare.

It was 1130 at night and this was the only open grocery store in the area. He had been searching for an open grocery store for 15 minutes now, going from area to area of the city, looking for one damned-open grocery store so he could do this. So he could buy a bag of goldfish crackers.

It wouldn’t have been so difficult if the stores would just turn their lights off when they were closed. But more than once, he saw a store in the distance that seemed to be, was hopefully, just might be? open? So he made his way, his eyes going from the road to the store, looking for signs of life, tossing back and forth in his mind the answer to were they open?! It wasn’t until he turned into the lot and got close up to the store did he find out.

His excitement at finally finding this store was replaced with frustration at realizing he was entering a colossally cold, confusing structure. Nothing was where it was supposed to be: the fruits and vegetables were all the way on the other side of the store, not that he was looking for that, but it was weird. When he first came in he was greeted by the bakery section, all the cakes for every occasion lined up to entice him to buy.

His eyes landed on one brightly coloured cake with “Happy Birthday Abby!” written on it in obnoxious script.

“I wonder if they would know how to spell Lenmana,” he thought. He could see the scene already. His voice was already low so he would have project a little to start with. But the person behind the counter would ask him to repeat the name, and no doubt he would be asked to spell it. “Better to just write it beforehand on a piece of paper. Or spell it on my phone and show it to them.”

Eventually he found his way to the Salty Snacks section, and selected two different brands of Goldfish. It never occurred to him to do this. After bringing Goldfish to Lenmana the 14th time, she suggested he look for sales, or try to price match them instead.

He seldom got tired of this routine. It was more of a necessity to him than anything else. It was simple: he wanted certain things from her and she would give those things to him if she got the Goldfish. Not for a kid or anything, just for herself.

At the cash, the clerk did the least she could to not look annoyed. “It’s 1130 at night, sir,” she said in her mind.

Out loud she repeated what her managers had told her to say in these situations: “I’m sorry, we don’t price-match here.”

Suhit searched his wallet for his debit card, pointing to one of the bags he picked up that had goldfishes on it swimming in blue water. “Fine – I’ll just take the… those ones.”

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Today’s writing prompt says:
Write about taking a bite.

Somewhere in between me starting the rhubarb pie and taking the last slice, I caught one.

It wasn’t anything like the first. It wasn’t bad, but it just wasn’t great like the first one. The crust was too doughy, and by now, the lumps of rhubard, strawberries and other solid pie foods were just sugary bits of mushy food. And the sauce filling – just a thick, red sugar sauce with a consistency that was slightly thicker than spit.

I was more than full by the time I had finished one-quarter of the pie that was probably meant for a family. I imagined the people who had bought the pies on top and below the one I was killing off. They probably had a nice bottle off wine in their bags from the liquor store – a nice white.

That person in that family was going to warm up the pie before cutting single-person servings of the pie. No doubt, it would be at least 50% better than what I was eating even though it was the same pie. But that one would be eaten around friends and family, with the wine, and after a satisfying meal.

They would savor the first bite they took. And the second and third.

The first bite I took was about filling a hole masquerading as hunger. My first piece was the appetizer. I was now on the third course – whatever was inbetween the main meal and dessert.

No, my first bite was very different than this one I caught in total conciousness. I released it down my throat with another bite poised at my lips.

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Today’s writing prompt says:
write a scene that involves jars.

I went much longer than 10 minutes this time, but I’m still waking up from sleep so I had a slow start.


“When’s this fucking bus going to get here!” It’s never a question, just a statement demanding an answer.

I could feel water trickling down my back. “I must still be dry in some places,” I thought. “Maybe it will help to distract myself while I wait for this goddamned mother-youknow what bus to think of the places on my body that are still dry.”

“The inside of my nose is dry. That’s good – I hate having water in my nose. My stomach is dr- wait, no it’s not. My Extra Special Items are dry. That’s good. I don’t think anyone wants their MESI wet by accident. That’s the worst. And it looks like that’s it. Every where else on my body is either soaking wet or – “

And then we saw it – The Bless-sed Bus.

Me and the other strangers at this stop in the middle of butt-wet-nowhereMississauga, Ontario. We had formed a little collective, us Waiting Rainers. I had made up a story about each of us, and this short time of our lives that would only happen once. I imagined something like being LOST. We could all live together in the wild, just in case the bus driver or some passenger decided to take the bus hostage and drive us all out into the wilderness outside of Toronto.

Everyone lined up to get through the open doors to the dry place inside. It wasn’t packed with people, as these things usually happen. And, somewhat oddly, no one made a race to the door to try and be the first one on.

“So polite!” I thought. “How would this work in the wild?”

Finally it was my turn to get on. I boarded and walked straight to the back, like the signs say. It’s my personal feeling that if you’re a strong, able-bodied person, you should always try and sit at the back of the bus.

There was a man at the very back who had surrounded himself with about 20 jars, all of different types and sizes. In my quick scan of the situation and the man’s level of craziness, my radar went to the highest level possible, so I sat as far away from him as I could even though there was another woman in the seat next to me.

It’s surprising how social people get when there’s a sense that *something* is about to happen.


Ah, shit.

Everyone in the bus heard him when he tried again, more frantically, with urgency this time. I started to feel the stares.


The woman I sat beside quietly excused herself to go sit further away. “You utter, complete BASTARD.” I thought, moving my legs to let her pass.

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Today’s writing prompt says:
Write a list of things that appear to be closed.

Well it’s 802am here and if you were to look around, everything appears to be closed. My thoight about this prompt is that it doesn’t ask you to write a list of things that are closed, just a list of things that *appear* to be closed.

A small, but important, difference. And it also doesn’t ask you to come up with a list of things, it just asks you to write a list of actual things that appear to be closed.

I have a hard time with this one. And I guess you could say this little preamble is just a way to kill some of the ten minutes I’ve been instructed to write for.

  1. Doors. Doors appear to be closed (real ones, not Ikea kitchen showroom ones, or ones you’d find at a door convention), but their real purpose is in the opening and closing of them.
  2. Opportunities. These can appear to be closed, but often just require another look.
  3. School. When you look at a school when class is in session, it appears to be closed. Really it’s full.
  4. My mouth. Just because it’s closed doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to say.
  5. A mind. When I first started this prompt, I wantes to write that a mind can appear to be closed. But that’s not always the case. And it’s not possible for a mind to stay closed all the time. A person witha closed mind has to balance monents of closed-ness with moments of openness. It’s just the people who are most interested in that person’s closed mind really only experience that mind and that person at certain times, in specific circumstances where the mind appears to be closed.

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This isn’t a writing prompt, just an idea that was in my head.

I could feel the blood drying at the corner of my mouth.

At least this part of me was healing, growing into a hard place right at the place lips meet.

I quickly ran my tongue over my teeth to check for any looseness.

None. Good.

Mike had retreated to some other part of the apartment. It was so quiet, I could pretend like I was alone for a few minutes, at least before I heard a loud snort and his voice yelling at himself.

I sat on the floor, feeling my body for the sore places even while my mind had gone numb. I’m not sure where I got this routine from, but I appreciated it – I knew after An Incident that I would be left alone for a few hours. And I saw this as an opportunity to get some peace.

There was no sharp pain on the sore spots. That was good – I wouldn’t have to put anything on any open cuts. I hate Polysporin.

I slowly got off the floor, mentally scanning my body for any sharp pains. I stood up. A wave of emotion started from my chest but I stopped it at my throat. I would have to be stronger than I was the last time. The last time when I stood up, I started to heave-sob and couldn’t stand up straight because of the pain in my chest. This time I was going to cry but I was going to keep my back ram-rod straight.

He wasn’t going to beat the strength out of me.

He must have heard me move because I could hear his footsteps coming back to the bedroom. This I hadn’t planned for – should I make my way to the bathroom and risk having my back to him? Or should I stand still, facing the door so I could try and defend myself? And what about this welling up in my chest? He wasn’t going to see me —

The door swung open while I was trying to decide. The whole room seemed to be disrupted by the verocity of it – papers rustled and the handle hit the wall with a bang. It would probably make the dent that’s been there for months even deeper.“So you’re up, eh?”

His voice was too quiet, too low. I stood there without saying anything. I was used to him coming at me for a beating. That’s what I thought when the door swung open. But it occurred to me after he spoke that he was just anxious to see if I was conscious.

Once he saw I was able to stand and breathing, he got his resolve back.

“Do you see? Do you see how the things you say affect me? I don’t understand why you have to be so… unkind all the time!!!

His voice got slightly louder on these last words. Oddly enough, I wasn’t as scared as I was last time. I could hear him, but I wasn’t worried about what he was saying. I was mainly thinking about how silly he sounded when he got all emotionally discombobulated. It was funny in way.

You always do this!!!”

He was going to run out of exclamation points if he continued for much longer.

“You always make me feel like I can’t do anything!!! Like I’m not enough! Like you’re better than me!!!”

The neighbours were probably hearing this now. Though they heard it so much they could probably mouth the words along with him.

That thought almost me snortle out loud. I swallowed the chuckle and was able to disguise it as a throat clear.

And then he said it. The one phrase he said every time he beat me that I could repeat back to him the exact same way he said it to me:


This was it. Either he was going to start beating me again or I could do something drastic. Something to let him know I didn’t need to hit back, I didn’t need to fight back when he raped me.

Something to let him know I wasn’t having this anymore. Every other time I was quiet, not saying anything unless he asked me something. This time was going to be different.

Something to let him know I wasn’t scared, and I wasn’t backing down and I wasn’t going to let his inability to be strong touch me.

I couldn’t put my hands on him and beat him down like he did me, but I had my words. He needed to know that. He needed to know I didn’t care anymore. He needed to know we could be doing this all night, that we would either die here together or he was going to get himself together.

I gathered every ounce of calm I had. I wanted to be as collected as he was in a mess.

He glared at me as I cleared my throat. Then the words came out. I didn’t consider how they could kill me until after they were floating between us, but I stand by them. They had run through my mind long enough:

“Well,” (pause for effect, raise your voice a little) “I imagine EVERYTHING I say sounds smart to you,” (breathe) “so you’re. going to have to be. more. specific.”

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Today’s writing prompt says:
“Write about everything in your character’s pockets today.”

The usual things, keys, money, a lip gloss, a small knife. A fork for the unexpected meal. Maybe an orange? Too bulky. How about a package of crackers. Yea, a package of crackers. They’re stale, from a visit she made to Tim Hortons or McDonalds or something like that. She put the crackers in her pocket thinking that they could be a little snack just in case she gets hungry but she hasn’t been hungry yet.

There are crumbs. Crumbs in her pocket from another snack she had stored in there, something tastier than some dry old crackers, something like cookies or piece of a muffin. She definitely ate that one quickly, no need to ‘store it for the future’. The crumbs happened because she put the wrapping of the cookies, or muffin, or whatever it was back into her pocket with the intention of throwing it out. But it never got thrown out. Somewhere between her eating the item and now, the crumbs had spilled out into her pockets and now, though the snack was long gone, she had crumbs in her pocket.

Sure, it’s annoying, every time she goes in to reach for something she actually needs, the tips of her fingers feel around crumbs and come out a mess. Everything in her pockets gets dusted with these dry crumbs, she has to shake the item out or brush the crumbs off so she can use the thing, whatever it is, after reaching for it.

But she hasn’t gotten around to just cleaning out her pockets. The one pocket actually. Now when she feels the crumbs she’s reminded of the snack, and the fact that she had it.

The crackers on the other hand are a different kind of reminder. They’re slowly being crushed by her hands and the other items in her pocket – the other pocket, the non-crumb pocket. There are still some whole pieces but they don’t look like they used to. She doesn’t want to eat crackers, she never wants to eat crackers. And she especially doesn’t want to eat crushed crackers. Not even in soup. But she hasn’t gotten around to throwing them out either.

The pockets themselves are pretty large, and can’t really object to any item being bounced around inside of them. It’s only when they get too full, when they start to alter how she looks and the shape of her body, that she decides when it’s time for a cleaning. And even then she only disposes of the largest, most offensive items. Not the crackers or the crumbs. They’ll be in her pockets for a while longer.

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Another Writing Prompt post.
This one written only in dialogue, in 10 minutes.

“I’m leaving now.”

“What?! You can’t leave! You’ve got responsibilities! You’ve got resolutions to make! Promises you’ve made!…


“I’m over all this, do you hear me? Yea, I’ve got responsibilities and all that shit you talked about. But this isn’t worth it! I’m better–“

“Don’t you fucking go there. What you think, you’re better? You think you’re special?! Well you’re not. You wanna get up on your high horse? I’ll trip that horse and laugh your ass back down to earth. Don’t try me Nidhi, I’m not the one.”


“So are you ready? Have I gotten you together yet?”






“Good. You had me worried there for a moment. I thought I would have had to call Martin.”


“Should I call Mar-“



“I’m together, I’m together. Don’t call Martin. I’m ready. I’m going.”

“Good. You’ll find everything you need in the closet by the bathroom. Go in there and wash, I don’t want any complaints today.”


“Well? What in the actual fuck are you waiting for!”

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Today’s writing prompt says:
Read the first sentence of 5 short stories by 5 different authors. Then write 5 first sentences of your own.

The five authors + five stories I read where: Dorothy Parker, “A Telephone Call”; Leonid Andreyev, “On The Day of The Crucifixion”; H. P. Lovecraft, “The Call of Cthulhu”; D. H. Lawrence, “Odour of Chrysanthemums” and Aesop, “The Plane Tree”. I randomly chose the stories from this site.


1. I don’t really mind the cold, most days.

2. Margaret was about to put her teacup and saucer down to help her cat, Panzy, down from the edge of the 10th story balcony.

3. Sherman found hope on January 28th, 1999.

4. Outbursts in the library are more significant than outbursts in other places, like on buses or in malls.

5. It was months after the creditors stopped calling when Maxwell finally decided to log into his credit accounts with the intention of paying his debts.

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This is something I wrote in ten minutes.

It’s based on a writing prompt I received today from Sarah Selecky. I might do these regularly… I might not.


It confused everyone when she wore it out one day. It was a monstrous thing, with sleeves that seemed to go on forever but pant legs that were way too short.

And then there was the camel toe. It was unavoidable, really, daring all who she passed to look away for even a second.

Unfortunately her apartment only had mirrors that reflected her image from the waist up, so there was no way for her to know about the camel toe, just a short distance below her nose, stealing all her attention.

She thought she looked fabulous, granted she had to ignore the drips of sweat starting a journey from her armpits and splitting two ways, some sweat going down her arm, some sweat going down the sides of her body.

The black catsuit was the closest thing she had in her closet that was close to high fashion. She was sure at some point the magazines would talk about catsuits being in style again, so she figured she was either on trend or in front of the trend.

As weirded out as everyone was at this woman wearing an ill-fitting jump suit at a church picnic, no one could deny that she had the most positive attitude. But they stopped short at this allowance. The truth was that compared to all of them, she was probably closest in mindset and attitude to Jesus.

Her church crew was too Godly to tell her the thing was completely inappropriate. They just hung by her side in silence, recounting in horror the conversation they had just a few weeks earlier about shopping at vintage stores, cursing themselves for praising her so highly for getting away with this item, this thing she called a “steal”.

“I could see why it was a steal,” one friend said to the other with her eyes. “Another embarrassment, it’ll be over soon. Just smile and nod,” the other friend responded.

Within an hour the small beads of sweat grew up. Now they were middle-aged beads of sweat, with children, mortgages and mid-life crises. She had to leave, but this was the part of the church picnic…

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