Start writing a story that...
Step 1: Takes place: in a big city
-----------
Dana sat at a small table along the back wall of the city's hot new restaurant. The bar area to her right was two-deep with people calling out drink orders and reaching over each other to get the bartender's attention. The rest of the room was filled with tables and booths overflowing with diners. The majority of people in the room were students at the university, and Dana recognized several classmates two tables away from where she sat.
"Can I get you anything else?" The waiter stood over her, glaring. She had only asked for coffee refills for the last hour as she stretched out her dinner.
"Could I have another refill?" she asked, pushing her coffee cup toward him.
He sighed loudly and left.
Dana couldn't afford to keep ordering food for hours, but she had learned that the only way to get into the restaurant was to get seated right at 6:00. The bouncers who only let in the beautiful people didn't show up until 7:00, and no one had reservations before 6:30, so she could get seated and then move toward the bar once things got busier. Except as much as she wanted to be part of the conversations, she felt anxious each time she made the smallest move to to talk with anyone.
The waiter returned with the coffee. As he refilled her cup, he placed the check on the table.
"Anytime you're ready," he said.
Dana knew her time had run out. She checked her phone. It was 8:00. She could sip the coffee for another 15 minutes, but then she'd have to leave or make her move toward the bar. She eyed the situation there now. There was a crowd of guys in polo shirts, laughing loudly and drinking beers. She guessed that they were part of some school team, though she never attended games and couldn't recognize any athletes if pressed. They weren't the crowd she was looking for.
Further down was a group of six guys and girls all talking together. The girls were seated on the bar stools and the guys stood closely behind them, their arms draped over their dates. At least one guy had his hand on the ass of the girl in front of him. There is no way to join a couples crowd as a single, Dana thought.
At the section of the bar near the front of the restaurant, across from the makeshift stage setup against the front window, sat yet another group. They wore flannel and skinny jeans and knit hats. They talked loudly and she saw piercings glisten as they light bounced off of their noses and cheeks whenever they leaned back to laugh. Dana assumed they were waiting for the band to begin playing. Maybe they were even friends with the band.
When she closed her eyes, Dana could picture herself with that crowd. They exuded a cool presence that Dana admired, and she desperately wanted to learn from them. Before school ended, before she was stuck living her adult life as the awkward, boring person she was now, she needed to take action. Gulping down the rest of her coffee, Dana put her money on the check, grabbed her things, and walked slowly toward the front of the bar.
Sunday, January 31, 2016
2016 – Day 30
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who: takes a journey through time
-------
Devon shifted the time unit into third gear and let it slide into the tunnel that would connect them to the docking station. As soon as he was able to take his left hand off the controls, he scratched under the collar of his uniform. The machines got terribly hot, and the few allowable cooling units were always pointed toward the customers.
"You been doing this long?" The passenger holding the whiskey glass in the backseat looked at him in the rearview mirror. The unit didn't have to be shaped like a car inside, with the operator in the front and the paying customer in back, but company research had shown that the wealthy elite who could afford the trip liked the traditional separation of "driver" and "passenger."
"Five years," Devon said.
"This is my first trip. Any advice?"
"It's pretty straightforward," Devon said, shifting into second gear as they got closer to the dock. "Stay along the marked paths. The viewing stations are totally soundproof and visualproof. No one from the chosen time will know you're there."
"Anybody ever ruin anything? You know, those old stories about changing something in the past and affecting the future?"
"Nah. They've got it all figured out now. Used to be a lot crazier, and I guess there were incidents, but they have a system now."
"What kinds of incidents?" the passenger said, sitting forward in his seat.
The unit shook as Devon slid it into the locking mechanism and set the controls for disembarking.
"It's all just rumor," Devon said. "They used to let people pick any time and location they wanted. So people picked all sorts of crazy things. Like, some guy wanted to see Marilyn Monroe naked, in person. So they went to her apartment, but the system for keeping travelers hidden wasn't fully setup, so she saw them and freaked out."
"Wow," the passenger said. "That would've been awesome."
"I guess," Devon said. "Now it's all marked trails and public events."
"Bummer."
Devon handed the passenger his entry papers and began reading the prepared instructions for what to do once he entered his chosen destination time. He had given the instructions so many times, he hardly needed to look at the prepared card in front of him.
"Wait," the passenger interrupted him. "Is there really no way to go off the path?"
"No," Devon said, reading the prepared answer to the often-asked question. "You must stay on the path at all times and observe your selected destination through the specialized sound- and audio-proof glass."
"What if..." the passenger said, leaning close to Devon and lowering his voice. "What if there was something in it for you?"
Devon looked up from his script and watched the man drain the last of his whiskey. Only the ultra wealthy could afford the time trips, and they often offered to pay extra to get to go off the path. He was pretty good at judging which ones just wanted a cheap thrill and which ones might cause real damage. He was careful about who he took through the secret portals that only a few knew about.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
"Just to see a girl," the man said smiling. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, thick with hundred dollar bills. Devon expected to be handed several of the bills, but the man held out the entire envelope.
Devon stared at the man and then at the envelope. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating, some gut instinct he couldn't define, but he knew he had to decide. He looked at the envelope again, then reached out and took it.
"Here's what you have to do," he said.
Step 1: has a character who: takes a journey through time
-------
Devon shifted the time unit into third gear and let it slide into the tunnel that would connect them to the docking station. As soon as he was able to take his left hand off the controls, he scratched under the collar of his uniform. The machines got terribly hot, and the few allowable cooling units were always pointed toward the customers.
"You been doing this long?" The passenger holding the whiskey glass in the backseat looked at him in the rearview mirror. The unit didn't have to be shaped like a car inside, with the operator in the front and the paying customer in back, but company research had shown that the wealthy elite who could afford the trip liked the traditional separation of "driver" and "passenger."
"Five years," Devon said.
"This is my first trip. Any advice?"
"It's pretty straightforward," Devon said, shifting into second gear as they got closer to the dock. "Stay along the marked paths. The viewing stations are totally soundproof and visualproof. No one from the chosen time will know you're there."
"Anybody ever ruin anything? You know, those old stories about changing something in the past and affecting the future?"
"Nah. They've got it all figured out now. Used to be a lot crazier, and I guess there were incidents, but they have a system now."
"What kinds of incidents?" the passenger said, sitting forward in his seat.
The unit shook as Devon slid it into the locking mechanism and set the controls for disembarking.
"It's all just rumor," Devon said. "They used to let people pick any time and location they wanted. So people picked all sorts of crazy things. Like, some guy wanted to see Marilyn Monroe naked, in person. So they went to her apartment, but the system for keeping travelers hidden wasn't fully setup, so she saw them and freaked out."
"Wow," the passenger said. "That would've been awesome."
"I guess," Devon said. "Now it's all marked trails and public events."
"Bummer."
Devon handed the passenger his entry papers and began reading the prepared instructions for what to do once he entered his chosen destination time. He had given the instructions so many times, he hardly needed to look at the prepared card in front of him.
"Wait," the passenger interrupted him. "Is there really no way to go off the path?"
"No," Devon said, reading the prepared answer to the often-asked question. "You must stay on the path at all times and observe your selected destination through the specialized sound- and audio-proof glass."
"What if..." the passenger said, leaning close to Devon and lowering his voice. "What if there was something in it for you?"
Devon looked up from his script and watched the man drain the last of his whiskey. Only the ultra wealthy could afford the time trips, and they often offered to pay extra to get to go off the path. He was pretty good at judging which ones just wanted a cheap thrill and which ones might cause real damage. He was careful about who he took through the secret portals that only a few knew about.
"Where do you want to go?" he asked.
"Just to see a girl," the man said smiling. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, thick with hundred dollar bills. Devon expected to be handed several of the bills, but the man held out the entire envelope.
Devon stared at the man and then at the envelope. He wasn't sure why he was hesitating, some gut instinct he couldn't define, but he knew he had to decide. He looked at the envelope again, then reached out and took it.
"Here's what you have to do," he said.
Friday, January 29, 2016
2016 – Day 29
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He returned to the cemetery
Step 2: add this word: charm
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: I don't remember
-----------
He returned to the cemetery where his mother had taken him for walks when he was a child. Bundled up in a thick parka against the cold or pink-skinned and lathered with sunscreen, he had once wandered the paths that wound among the different sections as she walked behind him. Miniature flags adorned the graves of veterans, and though his young eyes were drawn to their bright red stripes and the way they fluttered in the wind, he had learned he could not take the flags for himself.
The cemetery had expanded in the years since Steven and his mother had lived nearby. What began as 50 graves, grew to 100, then 250. Looking across the expanse of gravesites, he could no longer tell how many graves there were behind the distant copse of elm trees, nor how many could be found beyond the small hillside on the right.
When her cancer struck and it was determined to be terminal, his mother insisted that he help her plan every last detail of her death, including her burial. At 62, she had a will and her finances were in order, but she had no cemetery plot awaiting her. Lacking church affiliation or family, there was no place she was expected to be, so she asked him to decide where he wanted to visit her. At 29, he felt wholly unprepared for the request and argued with her, knowing all the while his guilt would carry him forward.
He spent two weeks looking for an appropriate cemetery that could take her. After having visited three places, only to learn they had a five-year waiting list, he remembered the cemetery near their old house.
The first time he stepped through the gates, he was amazed at how much it looked the same, despite having grown exponentially in size. It still had the charm of a small-town cemetery, with personal effects that had been placed lovingly at gravestones and fresh flowers that were being maintained. Steven walked around the flowers near the entrance, then headed toward a small trailer on the left that bore the sign "Offices."
The room he entered was a small waiting area with two chairs and a water cooler. Behind that appeared to be another room with the door closed.
"Hello?" Steven said.
He heard rattling behind the door and, after a few minutes, a man came out. He wore jeans and a red flannel shirt, which he was busy buttoning and tucking in. His hair had an odd angle on the left, as if he had been asleep on it.
"Can I help you?" the man said.
"I'm Steven Jenkins."
"I don't remember you," he said, looking agitated. "Do I know you?"
"I called yesterday about my mother. She'd like to buy a plot."
"We're all full up," the man said and turned to go back to his room.
"Wait," Steven said. "On the phone, you said there might be something."
"No," he said. "There isn't."
He turned and went back into the other room, slamming the door behind him.
Steven slunk down in one of the chairs. He remembered the conversation they had had about the plot. He knew he hadn't imagined hearing that there was a space for his mother. He pictured her then, reclining on the large pillow in her hospital room, reading or organizing the many papers she had insisted he bring to her. He knew there was nothing he could do for her cancer and little he could do to make her more physically comfortable. But getting the plot would do wonders for easing her mind, and so that's what he had to do.
Steven stood up and walked toward the room where the man had gone. Steeling himself, he pounded on the door.
Thursday, January 28, 2016
2016 – Day 28
You arrive at your desk and check voicemail as you take off your coat and lock your purse in the desk drawer. There are four messages: two from corporate for your boss, one from HR asking you to pick up forms, and one from the mailroom to tell you about a package. You hear the sly tone in the last message and decide to leave the package for last, though it's probably something the boss is waiting for. You have not had enough coffee to deal with that yet.
You log into the computer and check email, then confirm your boss's appointments. You update her schedule to remove cancellations and prepare a list to review the new meeting requests. It is cold, so you throw on your bulky office sweater. You wait at your desk until she arrives and then go through the list with her quickly. You gauge her mood as you suggest new meeting times. She is stressed, but not angry. You are now hopeful that she will be largely reasonable today. You wait until she is settled at her desk, then go to HR via the cafeteria. As you wait in line at the coffee machine, your boss texts that her computer is acting weird and she needs help NOW and where are you? You decide to go for the dark roast coffee because you will need that today, then head back without going to HR.
You leave the coffee on your desk and go into your boss's office. She is on the phone, but rolls back two inches in her chair so you can get to her computer. You awkwardly lean over her to try to diagnose it, but none of your tricks are working. You mouth the words "I'll call IT" to her as she argues with someone about delivery deadlines, then you go back to your desk to make the call. As you wait for the phone to be answered, you think about who might be on the support line today. You hope for Steve, who's funny and patient, or Becca, who can be brusque but gets problems solved without any fuss. Unfortunately, Ed picks up the phone, and you are extra grateful you went for the dark roast.
Ed condescendingly insists that you tell him all of the measures you've tried so far to fix the problem, because he wants to make you feel inadequate. You take a deep sip of coffee, then put on your "you're smarter than me because I'm a girl, and that makes me impressed" tone because your boss is giving you looks while on her call that everything is awful until her computer is fixed. Ed finally asks you for the wonky computer's IP number so that he can log in remotely and try to fix it. You hang up, scribble on a sticky note "IT fixing computer remotely. Don't touch." and hand it to your boss. You head back toward HR, bringing the coffee with you for support.
The receptionist in HR is new, so it takes a while for her to find the form. You enjoy having the moment to sip your coffee. You also run into a friend from another department when she comes looking for a form, so you take a few minutes to catch up. Once your form is found, you make plans with your friend for a future lunch, then head downstairs to the mailroom. As you round the corner, you steel yourself for the interaction.
When you arrive at the mailroom pickup window, you ring the bell and wait for assistance. It comes in the form of Michael, who could probably ID your chest in a lineup. You ask him for the package and then ask about his weekend because you want to be polite and also because you don't want to end the sentence on the word package. As he grabs a box from the bin behind him, he complains about a neighbor who has dogs that bark. You try to sympathize as your respond to his story, but you are having trouble understanding how his neighbor's dog has in any way impacted him, so you keep saying the wrong thing. As he hands you the form to sign, he tries once more to explain why his neighbor is an asshole. He glances at your face, but he makes sure your breasts feel part of the discussion. He winks as he hands you the package and you make your escape. As you walk away, you're grateful that you're wearing the bulky sweater than hangs over your butt.
You arrive back at your desk and leave the coffee there. You have 1/3 of the cup left, and you need it to last a bit longer. You bring the package to your boss then check if her computer has been revived. She appears to be functional again, so you return to your desk to work. You begin filling out her expense reports and then focus on the handouts to be prepped for the upcoming advisory board meeting. You look out the window and resolve to take a walk during lunch, but you end up eating at your desk because your boss wants you to make new changes to the handouts as a result of her morning call.
Over the next few hours, you edit the documents while coordinating travel for eight out-of-town advisors who will attend the meeting. Several of the advisors seem nice, but two have specific dietary demands that don't seem related to allergies and another is unhappy with all available options. By 4:30 you have booked flights and hotels for everyone and finalized the handouts.
For the next hour, you pretend to work while waiting for your boss to leave. You tell yourself that this is the lunch hour you weren't able to take so that you feel less guilty about using the time to write personal emails and read entertainment gossip on your phone. At 5:20, your boss finally packs up and leaves, but not before requesting that you send emails to all of the attendees with updates to the agenda. You send out the updates, then shut down your computer before you can see any email replies. You take off your bulky office sweater and put it on the back of your chair. You put on your coat and unlock your purse from the drawer. The phone rings and your recognize the number as that of the difficult advisor who will be unhappy with the agenda change. You give the phone the middle finger, then let the call go into voice mail as you leave for home.
You log into the computer and check email, then confirm your boss's appointments. You update her schedule to remove cancellations and prepare a list to review the new meeting requests. It is cold, so you throw on your bulky office sweater. You wait at your desk until she arrives and then go through the list with her quickly. You gauge her mood as you suggest new meeting times. She is stressed, but not angry. You are now hopeful that she will be largely reasonable today. You wait until she is settled at her desk, then go to HR via the cafeteria. As you wait in line at the coffee machine, your boss texts that her computer is acting weird and she needs help NOW and where are you? You decide to go for the dark roast coffee because you will need that today, then head back without going to HR.
You leave the coffee on your desk and go into your boss's office. She is on the phone, but rolls back two inches in her chair so you can get to her computer. You awkwardly lean over her to try to diagnose it, but none of your tricks are working. You mouth the words "I'll call IT" to her as she argues with someone about delivery deadlines, then you go back to your desk to make the call. As you wait for the phone to be answered, you think about who might be on the support line today. You hope for Steve, who's funny and patient, or Becca, who can be brusque but gets problems solved without any fuss. Unfortunately, Ed picks up the phone, and you are extra grateful you went for the dark roast.
Ed condescendingly insists that you tell him all of the measures you've tried so far to fix the problem, because he wants to make you feel inadequate. You take a deep sip of coffee, then put on your "you're smarter than me because I'm a girl, and that makes me impressed" tone because your boss is giving you looks while on her call that everything is awful until her computer is fixed. Ed finally asks you for the wonky computer's IP number so that he can log in remotely and try to fix it. You hang up, scribble on a sticky note "IT fixing computer remotely. Don't touch." and hand it to your boss. You head back toward HR, bringing the coffee with you for support.
The receptionist in HR is new, so it takes a while for her to find the form. You enjoy having the moment to sip your coffee. You also run into a friend from another department when she comes looking for a form, so you take a few minutes to catch up. Once your form is found, you make plans with your friend for a future lunch, then head downstairs to the mailroom. As you round the corner, you steel yourself for the interaction.
When you arrive at the mailroom pickup window, you ring the bell and wait for assistance. It comes in the form of Michael, who could probably ID your chest in a lineup. You ask him for the package and then ask about his weekend because you want to be polite and also because you don't want to end the sentence on the word package. As he grabs a box from the bin behind him, he complains about a neighbor who has dogs that bark. You try to sympathize as your respond to his story, but you are having trouble understanding how his neighbor's dog has in any way impacted him, so you keep saying the wrong thing. As he hands you the form to sign, he tries once more to explain why his neighbor is an asshole. He glances at your face, but he makes sure your breasts feel part of the discussion. He winks as he hands you the package and you make your escape. As you walk away, you're grateful that you're wearing the bulky sweater than hangs over your butt.
You arrive back at your desk and leave the coffee there. You have 1/3 of the cup left, and you need it to last a bit longer. You bring the package to your boss then check if her computer has been revived. She appears to be functional again, so you return to your desk to work. You begin filling out her expense reports and then focus on the handouts to be prepped for the upcoming advisory board meeting. You look out the window and resolve to take a walk during lunch, but you end up eating at your desk because your boss wants you to make new changes to the handouts as a result of her morning call.
Over the next few hours, you edit the documents while coordinating travel for eight out-of-town advisors who will attend the meeting. Several of the advisors seem nice, but two have specific dietary demands that don't seem related to allergies and another is unhappy with all available options. By 4:30 you have booked flights and hotels for everyone and finalized the handouts.
For the next hour, you pretend to work while waiting for your boss to leave. You tell yourself that this is the lunch hour you weren't able to take so that you feel less guilty about using the time to write personal emails and read entertainment gossip on your phone. At 5:20, your boss finally packs up and leaves, but not before requesting that you send emails to all of the attendees with updates to the agenda. You send out the updates, then shut down your computer before you can see any email replies. You take off your bulky office sweater and put it on the back of your chair. You put on your coat and unlock your purse from the drawer. The phone rings and your recognize the number as that of the difficult advisor who will be unhappy with the agenda change. You give the phone the middle finger, then let the call go into voice mail as you leave for home.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
2016 – Day 27
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a forest
----
From the time he was a small child, Jacob understood that the dark forest could be the safest place on earth. When his father drank spirits and quoted passages that spoke of a firm hand being the arbiter of truth and of obedience as the path to the next life, Jacob's mother threw the children their cloaks and pushed them out the door. They knew to run through the trees until they reached the thicket by a small brook where an overhang of knotted branches provided safety until the early morning. When the dark night sky showed its first streaks of gray, the three boys and one girl marched back to the cabin and slipped inside to tend to their mother's bruises and begin the morning chores.
Over the years, as other children were warned to stay away from the evils of the forest, where witches were thought to dwell and brew their dark potions, Jacob and his brothers and sister were drawn to the trees and the underbrush, the mushrooms and the wildflowers, and the creatures, all of which created a world of wonder and beauty so unlike their village. Though his father was a terror, and Jacob felt no love or loyalty toward him, he understood what kind of person he was. The man who Jacob came to fear the most was Reverend Theophil Calumny, a minister of the church who felt it his duty to weed out the evildoers among the villagers.
The first accusations began when people came to Reverend Calumny to complain of missing pigs or lost farm tools. Instead of sending them to the magistrate, the reverend prayed in his chamber and proclaimed he saw the theft. The accused would be brought forth to confess their sin. Most often they claimed innocence, but no one dared accuse the minister of treachery. Punishments were severe and all were afraid of losing Reverend Calumny's good graces, so his accusations flew unabated. Jacob's father, Zachary Leighton, a known sinner for his indulgence in spirits, was accused of stealing Jeremiah Downing's missing chicken. Though muddy tracks steered some into believing it was the work of a wolf, the reverend exclaimed that it was Zachary's hound brought to assist in the theft. Zachary was summarily arrested and placed in the stocks for one week, then ordered to pay two chickens to Jeremiah. Although Jacob's family privately enjoyed the quiet of his father's detainment and dreaded his return, they did not know that Zachary's return would not be their greatest threat.
In time, Reverend Calumny moved on from righting corporeal wrongdoing and preaching about spiritual matters to thwarting the evil among them. It seemed a natural extension of his understanding of rightness and his sacred duties as a minister. And he found no greater threat to the spiritual wellness of the village than witchcraft.
The first accusation came against Clemence Nightly, a portly woman whose solitary habits brought concern to her righteous neighbors who noted she often did not attend church on the third week of each month. They relayed their concerns to Reverend Calumny.
"It was a full moon last time she wasn't seen," Agatha Corbett said.
"What could she have been doing?" Frances Cromell said.
The trial was swift. Clemence had no family, nor anyone else willing to argue in her defense. She was hung on a Wednesday night as the waning moon adorned the sky.
The second and third accusations of witchcraft were also against women of little family and who held no favor in the eyes of Reverend Calumny and his devoted followers. They, too, were hung before a crowd of fearful neighbors. The fourth accusation came against a 15-year-old girl by school classmates who despised her and claimed she showed a lack of piety due to an evil nature. The girl, Mary, was Jacob's sister. When Jacob and his brothers learned that the magistrate was coming to fetch Mary for her trial, the siblings ran from their house one final time. The forest would become their permanent home.
Step 1: takes place: in a forest
----
From the time he was a small child, Jacob understood that the dark forest could be the safest place on earth. When his father drank spirits and quoted passages that spoke of a firm hand being the arbiter of truth and of obedience as the path to the next life, Jacob's mother threw the children their cloaks and pushed them out the door. They knew to run through the trees until they reached the thicket by a small brook where an overhang of knotted branches provided safety until the early morning. When the dark night sky showed its first streaks of gray, the three boys and one girl marched back to the cabin and slipped inside to tend to their mother's bruises and begin the morning chores.
Over the years, as other children were warned to stay away from the evils of the forest, where witches were thought to dwell and brew their dark potions, Jacob and his brothers and sister were drawn to the trees and the underbrush, the mushrooms and the wildflowers, and the creatures, all of which created a world of wonder and beauty so unlike their village. Though his father was a terror, and Jacob felt no love or loyalty toward him, he understood what kind of person he was. The man who Jacob came to fear the most was Reverend Theophil Calumny, a minister of the church who felt it his duty to weed out the evildoers among the villagers.
The first accusations began when people came to Reverend Calumny to complain of missing pigs or lost farm tools. Instead of sending them to the magistrate, the reverend prayed in his chamber and proclaimed he saw the theft. The accused would be brought forth to confess their sin. Most often they claimed innocence, but no one dared accuse the minister of treachery. Punishments were severe and all were afraid of losing Reverend Calumny's good graces, so his accusations flew unabated. Jacob's father, Zachary Leighton, a known sinner for his indulgence in spirits, was accused of stealing Jeremiah Downing's missing chicken. Though muddy tracks steered some into believing it was the work of a wolf, the reverend exclaimed that it was Zachary's hound brought to assist in the theft. Zachary was summarily arrested and placed in the stocks for one week, then ordered to pay two chickens to Jeremiah. Although Jacob's family privately enjoyed the quiet of his father's detainment and dreaded his return, they did not know that Zachary's return would not be their greatest threat.
In time, Reverend Calumny moved on from righting corporeal wrongdoing and preaching about spiritual matters to thwarting the evil among them. It seemed a natural extension of his understanding of rightness and his sacred duties as a minister. And he found no greater threat to the spiritual wellness of the village than witchcraft.
The first accusation came against Clemence Nightly, a portly woman whose solitary habits brought concern to her righteous neighbors who noted she often did not attend church on the third week of each month. They relayed their concerns to Reverend Calumny.
"It was a full moon last time she wasn't seen," Agatha Corbett said.
"What could she have been doing?" Frances Cromell said.
The trial was swift. Clemence had no family, nor anyone else willing to argue in her defense. She was hung on a Wednesday night as the waning moon adorned the sky.
The second and third accusations of witchcraft were also against women of little family and who held no favor in the eyes of Reverend Calumny and his devoted followers. They, too, were hung before a crowd of fearful neighbors. The fourth accusation came against a 15-year-old girl by school classmates who despised her and claimed she showed a lack of piety due to an evil nature. The girl, Mary, was Jacob's sister. When Jacob and his brothers learned that the magistrate was coming to fetch Mary for her trial, the siblings ran from their house one final time. The forest would become their permanent home.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
2016 – Day 26
Late Sunday afternoon, Molly stepped onto the treadmill and stared at the instructions to get started. It had been six years since she gone to a gym and she felt everyone could read it on her forehead. Or more like on my ass, she thought. She decided against creating a complicated routine and instead went for the "get started" button and began walking.
She had picked the treadmill furthest to the side where there was least chance of anyone working out next to her. Lady Gaga pumped through the speakers and Molly could hear the pounding feet of someone running steadily on another treadmill one row away.
In front of her, a wall of windows faced a four-story office building that advertised space for rent. The building and gym were so close to each other that Molly could see inside the offices closest to her. The two offices directly across from her had large desks with an office chair and a small guest chair, while the offices further to her right displayed a hodge-podge of furniture that seemed to have been assembled out of a yard sale. Hallway lights glowed somewhere further inside the building, but only the sunlight through the windows lit up the offices.
Molly increased her speed and attempted to jog. Within moments, a weight pressed against her chest and she felt unable to take in more than quick, shallow breaths. Jabbing her finger at the controls, she finally hit the button to slow the treadmill back to a walk. Catching her breath, Molly held on to the sides of the treadmill and stared down at the display to check her stats. She had been going for just five minutes.
Groaning, Molly looked back toward the window to distract herself from the discomfort. She noticed then that a light had been turned on in one of the offices across the way. It was one of the rooms with the yard sale furniture, on which three men now sat. Molly's instinct was to turn away or look elsewhere, as if she could be spotted staring at them from her treadmill. But the men never turned to the window; they were engrossed in whatever they were discussing. Molly trudged along, watching them and periodically checking the stats to see how far she had gotten. The men seemed to be talking about something displayed on a computer sitting atop the plastic table between them. "Barry," as Molly had dubbed the heavier, older guy wearing a gray suit, pounded his fist on the table and jabbed a finger toward something on the screen. "Roger," a lanky fellow with shoulder-length blond hair, sat across the table from "Barry" and seemed to shake his head each time "Barry" pounded his fist. The third guy, "Richie," nodded at "Barry" and twirled something in his hand—maybe a pen or pencil?—as if it were a baton. Occasionally "Richie" gestured wildly to make some point, and the other men shook their heads or made broad gestures back at him.
Molly took a peek at the treadmill display and found that she had finally reached 15 minutes. She had wanted to go for at least 20, so she steeled herself for another five minutes of discomfort. As she did, she glanced out the window to check on the odd meeting in progress. The three men were still there, but now one of them lay on the floor beside the table. It was "Richie," and he was covered in blood.
She had picked the treadmill furthest to the side where there was least chance of anyone working out next to her. Lady Gaga pumped through the speakers and Molly could hear the pounding feet of someone running steadily on another treadmill one row away.
In front of her, a wall of windows faced a four-story office building that advertised space for rent. The building and gym were so close to each other that Molly could see inside the offices closest to her. The two offices directly across from her had large desks with an office chair and a small guest chair, while the offices further to her right displayed a hodge-podge of furniture that seemed to have been assembled out of a yard sale. Hallway lights glowed somewhere further inside the building, but only the sunlight through the windows lit up the offices.
Molly increased her speed and attempted to jog. Within moments, a weight pressed against her chest and she felt unable to take in more than quick, shallow breaths. Jabbing her finger at the controls, she finally hit the button to slow the treadmill back to a walk. Catching her breath, Molly held on to the sides of the treadmill and stared down at the display to check her stats. She had been going for just five minutes.
Groaning, Molly looked back toward the window to distract herself from the discomfort. She noticed then that a light had been turned on in one of the offices across the way. It was one of the rooms with the yard sale furniture, on which three men now sat. Molly's instinct was to turn away or look elsewhere, as if she could be spotted staring at them from her treadmill. But the men never turned to the window; they were engrossed in whatever they were discussing. Molly trudged along, watching them and periodically checking the stats to see how far she had gotten. The men seemed to be talking about something displayed on a computer sitting atop the plastic table between them. "Barry," as Molly had dubbed the heavier, older guy wearing a gray suit, pounded his fist on the table and jabbed a finger toward something on the screen. "Roger," a lanky fellow with shoulder-length blond hair, sat across the table from "Barry" and seemed to shake his head each time "Barry" pounded his fist. The third guy, "Richie," nodded at "Barry" and twirled something in his hand—maybe a pen or pencil?—as if it were a baton. Occasionally "Richie" gestured wildly to make some point, and the other men shook their heads or made broad gestures back at him.
Molly took a peek at the treadmill display and found that she had finally reached 15 minutes. She had wanted to go for at least 20, so she steeled herself for another five minutes of discomfort. As she did, she glanced out the window to check on the odd meeting in progress. The three men were still there, but now one of them lay on the floor beside the table. It was "Richie," and he was covered in blood.
Monday, January 25, 2016
2016 – Day 25
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: includes the words: salutation fatigue origin
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: I know you're hiding a secret
Step 3: add this word: exhausting
Step 4: add this word: change
Step 5: add this word: away
----
"Salutations to you, good sir," says the man, speaking with a formal English accent. He wears a white ruffly shirt and a tall black hat with an orange band and a footlong white feather sticking straight back. I had sat down next to him on the bench in the subway platform and assumed he was an actor who would mind his own business, as any working guy on a subway platform would. But the moment I sit down, he turns to face me and, looking me up and down with great interest, gives a look of grave concern.
"You look fatigued, sir," he says. "But here you have found a resting place, and I am glad of it."
"Thanks." I consider the odds that he will follow me if I get up and stand elsewhere on the platform. Would he cause a bigger scene?
"Might I ask the origin of your travels?" he says. "Or perhaps it is more important to speak of your destination."
"Work," I say, then look down at my phone to end the conversation.
"O, how full of briers is this working-day world!" he says, shaking his head. "I am a writer and poet by trade. For which profession must you toil?"
"You know, guy?" I say. "I'm just waiting for my train."
"We are all awaiting something," he says. Then he smiles, but I don't feel warmth or friendliness in the look.
"Uh-huh." I stand up and crane my neck to see if a train might be arriving soon to rescue me.
"I know you're hiding a secret," he says, voice low but unmistakable.
I turn back toward the bench and stare down at him. Although I have heard every word, I can't make sense of it. The man cocks his head to the side and stares back at me.
"Carrying secrets is exhausting," he says. "Perhaps that is why you find yourself on this bench with me."
Finally I hear the train and, without a word to the man, step toward the crowd forming at the platform's edge. My ears are still tuned in to the sounds behind me as I try to gauge, without looking back, if the man is following me. I hear the clicking of heeled shoes and sense, rather than see, that he is directly behind me.
"Fair sir," he says, voice barely audible over the approaching train. "I wish to provide you with important instructions. You must change trains at 7th avenue."
"Go away!" My anger overrides my fear and I glare at him, ready to throw punches.
He takes off his hat and bows before me, eyes staying fixed on mine. I hear the train wheels squealing as it slows down and the crowd around me surges forward, but I am transfixed by the man. There is something familiar about him now. The crowd behind me jostles onto the train car and the beeping of the doors about to be closed echoes across the station walls, but I don't move.
Step 1: includes the words: salutation fatigue origin
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: I know you're hiding a secret
Step 3: add this word: exhausting
Step 4: add this word: change
Step 5: add this word: away
----
"Salutations to you, good sir," says the man, speaking with a formal English accent. He wears a white ruffly shirt and a tall black hat with an orange band and a footlong white feather sticking straight back. I had sat down next to him on the bench in the subway platform and assumed he was an actor who would mind his own business, as any working guy on a subway platform would. But the moment I sit down, he turns to face me and, looking me up and down with great interest, gives a look of grave concern.
"You look fatigued, sir," he says. "But here you have found a resting place, and I am glad of it."
"Thanks." I consider the odds that he will follow me if I get up and stand elsewhere on the platform. Would he cause a bigger scene?
"Might I ask the origin of your travels?" he says. "Or perhaps it is more important to speak of your destination."
"Work," I say, then look down at my phone to end the conversation.
"O, how full of briers is this working-day world!" he says, shaking his head. "I am a writer and poet by trade. For which profession must you toil?"
"You know, guy?" I say. "I'm just waiting for my train."
"We are all awaiting something," he says. Then he smiles, but I don't feel warmth or friendliness in the look.
"Uh-huh." I stand up and crane my neck to see if a train might be arriving soon to rescue me.
"I know you're hiding a secret," he says, voice low but unmistakable.
I turn back toward the bench and stare down at him. Although I have heard every word, I can't make sense of it. The man cocks his head to the side and stares back at me.
"Carrying secrets is exhausting," he says. "Perhaps that is why you find yourself on this bench with me."
Finally I hear the train and, without a word to the man, step toward the crowd forming at the platform's edge. My ears are still tuned in to the sounds behind me as I try to gauge, without looking back, if the man is following me. I hear the clicking of heeled shoes and sense, rather than see, that he is directly behind me.
"Fair sir," he says, voice barely audible over the approaching train. "I wish to provide you with important instructions. You must change trains at 7th avenue."
"Go away!" My anger overrides my fear and I glare at him, ready to throw punches.
He takes off his hat and bows before me, eyes staying fixed on mine. I hear the train wheels squealing as it slows down and the crowd around me surges forward, but I am transfixed by the man. There is something familiar about him now. The crowd behind me jostles onto the train car and the beeping of the doors about to be closed echoes across the station walls, but I don't move.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
2016 – Day 24
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who: always wears red
--------
Grandma Elena always wore red. Her dresses, sweaters, blouses, pants, and skirts ranged from red to burgundy, crimson to scarlet, ruby to garnet. She wore other colors, too, of course, but there was always something in a shade of red.
I first asked my mother why Grandma Elena dressed this way when I was seven. I had come back from my friend David's house where his grandmother had fed us snacks and juice boxes, all while wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. It had never occurred to me that all grandmothers didn't simply have to wear red.
My mother was busy making Sunday dinner and didn't pause as she responded to my question.
"Oh, it's silly, Bobby. Don't worry about it. Go play."
She turned to wave her oven-mitt-clad hand toward the living room, then returned to face the stove.
I forgot about it for a while after that, but then I spent a summer week with my Grandma Elena when my parents both had to travel for business. I was 10 by then, and we spend the days walking to the playground and then the YMCA pool, stopping for ice cream or cannoli in-between. She always cooked dinner at home and I was tasked with helping cut vegetables for a salad or the summer soups she made. We set the table on her back deck and ate while the mid-summer sun hung in the early evening air.
I was allowed one soda per day, and so as I finished my dinner one evening, I held my Coke and sipped it slowly, trying to make it last. The rays of the sun bounced off the can, giving it a red glow. I noticed that it matched the red scarf that Grandma Elena was wearing over her pale pink shirt.
"Grandma, why do you always wear red?" I asked, sipping the soda but keeping my eyes on her.
She took a sip of her wine and smiled at me over the glass.
"Why do you always clap your hands two times before you dive into the pool?"
"I don't!"
"Oh, but you do. I see it every day."
"I don't know. I think I did it once because I was excited that first day, and then I must have done it again for some reason. I guess it's a habit."
"Well, it's a habit for me, too," she said, setting down her glass to resume eating her soup.
I watched her eat the vegetable soup I had helped to make as I drained the last of my soda. The sun had begun to set and everything had a redder hue. I knew that bedtime wasn't too far off.
"But how did it become a habit for you? Why did you wear red the first time?"
She paused and looked at me. She seemed to be deciding what she would tell me, so I sat up straighter in my seat and put on my serious "I'm old enough for this" look.
"Has your mother told you that you look very much like your grandfather?" she asked.
"No, she doesn't talk about him much."
"I suppose not," she said, still looking straight at me. "Has she said anything about him?"
I looked around, unsure if I was supposed to know anything or say anything about my mysterious grandfather. I decided to take a chance if it meant finding out the secret of grandmother's red wardrobe.
"She said he went to prison when she was about my age," I said in a near-whisper. "Is that true?"
"It is," she said. "He was not a great man when he was younger, but he's an example of how someone can change."
She leaned in close and tousled my hair. I could smell the rosy perfume that she puts on each wrist just before we go out for the day.
"Would you like me to tell you about him?" she asked.
"Yes!" I said. "Will you tell me about the red clothes, too?"
"Oh, that's all part of the same story," she said.
Step 1: has a character who: always wears red
--------
Grandma Elena always wore red. Her dresses, sweaters, blouses, pants, and skirts ranged from red to burgundy, crimson to scarlet, ruby to garnet. She wore other colors, too, of course, but there was always something in a shade of red.
I first asked my mother why Grandma Elena dressed this way when I was seven. I had come back from my friend David's house where his grandmother had fed us snacks and juice boxes, all while wearing jeans and a dark blue sweater. It had never occurred to me that all grandmothers didn't simply have to wear red.
My mother was busy making Sunday dinner and didn't pause as she responded to my question.
"Oh, it's silly, Bobby. Don't worry about it. Go play."
She turned to wave her oven-mitt-clad hand toward the living room, then returned to face the stove.
I forgot about it for a while after that, but then I spent a summer week with my Grandma Elena when my parents both had to travel for business. I was 10 by then, and we spend the days walking to the playground and then the YMCA pool, stopping for ice cream or cannoli in-between. She always cooked dinner at home and I was tasked with helping cut vegetables for a salad or the summer soups she made. We set the table on her back deck and ate while the mid-summer sun hung in the early evening air.
I was allowed one soda per day, and so as I finished my dinner one evening, I held my Coke and sipped it slowly, trying to make it last. The rays of the sun bounced off the can, giving it a red glow. I noticed that it matched the red scarf that Grandma Elena was wearing over her pale pink shirt.
"Grandma, why do you always wear red?" I asked, sipping the soda but keeping my eyes on her.
She took a sip of her wine and smiled at me over the glass.
"Why do you always clap your hands two times before you dive into the pool?"
"I don't!"
"Oh, but you do. I see it every day."
"I don't know. I think I did it once because I was excited that first day, and then I must have done it again for some reason. I guess it's a habit."
"Well, it's a habit for me, too," she said, setting down her glass to resume eating her soup.
I watched her eat the vegetable soup I had helped to make as I drained the last of my soda. The sun had begun to set and everything had a redder hue. I knew that bedtime wasn't too far off.
"But how did it become a habit for you? Why did you wear red the first time?"
She paused and looked at me. She seemed to be deciding what she would tell me, so I sat up straighter in my seat and put on my serious "I'm old enough for this" look.
"Has your mother told you that you look very much like your grandfather?" she asked.
"No, she doesn't talk about him much."
"I suppose not," she said, still looking straight at me. "Has she said anything about him?"
I looked around, unsure if I was supposed to know anything or say anything about my mysterious grandfather. I decided to take a chance if it meant finding out the secret of grandmother's red wardrobe.
"She said he went to prison when she was about my age," I said in a near-whisper. "Is that true?"
"It is," she said. "He was not a great man when he was younger, but he's an example of how someone can change."
She leaned in close and tousled my hair. I could smell the rosy perfume that she puts on each wrist just before we go out for the day.
"Would you like me to tell you about him?" she asked.
"Yes!" I said. "Will you tell me about the red clothes, too?"
"Oh, that's all part of the same story," she said.
Saturday, January 23, 2016
2016 – Day 23
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: I want you to come with me
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: I can read your mind
Step 3: add a scene that takes place: in a restaurant
--------
"I want you to come with me," Donna says, blotting lipstick on a tissue and then making a duck face in the mirror. "I do. But it's a work thing. I can't just bring a roommate."
"Did they say that?" I ask. I hold the dress I was planning to wear in front of me in the mirror. It looks so cute.
"No, but it's understood."
"But aren't you bringing Grant?"
"Yeah, but he's my boyfriend. That's different." She picks up a brush and starts pulling it through her frizzy hair.
"What about all our discussions of sisterhood? Putting other women ahead of men?"
I raise my eyebrows at her. She stops brushing and looks at my reflection in the mirror.
"I can read your mind, you know," she says. "You're not interested in sisterhood. You want face time with Martha Owenstein because you want the editorial assistant job. You're so transparent."
"Well, since you won't put in a good word for me, I have to do something!"
"Maybe that something should be finding your own job." Donna tosses her brush in her toiletries basket and leaves me standing alone in the bathroom. Half an hour later, I hear the downstairs buzzer and Donna leaves with Grant. I go into the living room and pace for a bit. The job is perfect for me. I'm a serious reader, and it must be said, I run circles around Donna and the other girls at book group. In fact, Donna probably won't mention me to her boss or bring me to the office holiday party because she knows I'd show her up. Which I wouldn't have, if she hadn't been so selfish. I've learned that there's no better support than what you give yourself, so maybe tonight I need to do more to support me. I put on my cute dress and get myself ready to impress.
----
The party is being held at restaurant inside the Bryson House Hotel. I have the cab drop me off right in front so I don't have to bring a heavy coat and sweat as I trudge from the subway. A guy about my age stands out front and informs me that there's a private party inside. I smile and laugh and then look super upset as I have trouble finding the invitation in my purse. I drop the names of Donna's coworkers to sound legit. As I start to shiver when the wind picks up, he finally takes pity on me and ushers me inside.
I've only been to the Bryson once before when my parents and aunt came into town. My mom had heard about the place because it was mentioned in a show she watches, so she decided that she had to go there when she came to the city. We went for brunch and were surrounded by an odd mixture of older single women who were all dressed up and a bunch of rich 20-somethings nursing hangovers. The food was okay, but mom thought she spotted a CSI actor across the room, so it was the highlight of her trip.
As I step inside I can see that the place has been decorated for the party. Silver garlands are draped along the oak walls and something else silvery hangs from each light fixture. At first I think it's tinsel, but then I realize it's actually silver chains with snowflake charms. The lights give out a warm glow, casting gentle shadows on the tables heaped with holiday finger foods. I notice Donna just before she sees me and charges toward me.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice low, but there's no mistaking her anger.
"I understand that you feel threatened by me, but you shouldn't," I say, looking past her to find Martha Owenstein.
"You think I feel threatened?" she says. "Is that a joke?"
"I'm not trying to take your job, Donna. I think we'd work great together."
Her face turns a darker shade of red, and she looks rather creepy as the soft lights make shadows across the bridge of her nose. I try not to appear freaked out as I look into her the eyes. We stare at each other for a moment, then she leans in close.
"I've worked here for two years. You've never had a job in publishing. Hell, you've never had a job that didn't involve giving change. Go ahead. Talk to Martha, if you think I haven't wanted to mention you because I feel threatened. You'll see."
She turns around and begins to walk away, then looks back at me briefly.
"Oh, and you need to be out of the apartment by Tuesday."
I watch as she swishes back to the bar and begins whispering with a group of girls I recognize from when she had them over at the apartment. They all stare at me as she talks, their mouths agape and eyes narrowed. I take a deep breath and walk toward Martha Owenstein, who's chatting with other executive-looking types over the shrimp cocktail. I dismiss all thoughts of Donna's insecure rant. I know I've got this.
Step 1: starts with this dialogue: I want you to come with me
Step 2: include a dialogue that begins with: I can read your mind
Step 3: add a scene that takes place: in a restaurant
--------
"I want you to come with me," Donna says, blotting lipstick on a tissue and then making a duck face in the mirror. "I do. But it's a work thing. I can't just bring a roommate."
"Did they say that?" I ask. I hold the dress I was planning to wear in front of me in the mirror. It looks so cute.
"No, but it's understood."
"But aren't you bringing Grant?"
"Yeah, but he's my boyfriend. That's different." She picks up a brush and starts pulling it through her frizzy hair.
"What about all our discussions of sisterhood? Putting other women ahead of men?"
I raise my eyebrows at her. She stops brushing and looks at my reflection in the mirror.
"I can read your mind, you know," she says. "You're not interested in sisterhood. You want face time with Martha Owenstein because you want the editorial assistant job. You're so transparent."
"Well, since you won't put in a good word for me, I have to do something!"
"Maybe that something should be finding your own job." Donna tosses her brush in her toiletries basket and leaves me standing alone in the bathroom. Half an hour later, I hear the downstairs buzzer and Donna leaves with Grant. I go into the living room and pace for a bit. The job is perfect for me. I'm a serious reader, and it must be said, I run circles around Donna and the other girls at book group. In fact, Donna probably won't mention me to her boss or bring me to the office holiday party because she knows I'd show her up. Which I wouldn't have, if she hadn't been so selfish. I've learned that there's no better support than what you give yourself, so maybe tonight I need to do more to support me. I put on my cute dress and get myself ready to impress.
----
The party is being held at restaurant inside the Bryson House Hotel. I have the cab drop me off right in front so I don't have to bring a heavy coat and sweat as I trudge from the subway. A guy about my age stands out front and informs me that there's a private party inside. I smile and laugh and then look super upset as I have trouble finding the invitation in my purse. I drop the names of Donna's coworkers to sound legit. As I start to shiver when the wind picks up, he finally takes pity on me and ushers me inside.
I've only been to the Bryson once before when my parents and aunt came into town. My mom had heard about the place because it was mentioned in a show she watches, so she decided that she had to go there when she came to the city. We went for brunch and were surrounded by an odd mixture of older single women who were all dressed up and a bunch of rich 20-somethings nursing hangovers. The food was okay, but mom thought she spotted a CSI actor across the room, so it was the highlight of her trip.
As I step inside I can see that the place has been decorated for the party. Silver garlands are draped along the oak walls and something else silvery hangs from each light fixture. At first I think it's tinsel, but then I realize it's actually silver chains with snowflake charms. The lights give out a warm glow, casting gentle shadows on the tables heaped with holiday finger foods. I notice Donna just before she sees me and charges toward me.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice low, but there's no mistaking her anger.
"I understand that you feel threatened by me, but you shouldn't," I say, looking past her to find Martha Owenstein.
"You think I feel threatened?" she says. "Is that a joke?"
"I'm not trying to take your job, Donna. I think we'd work great together."
Her face turns a darker shade of red, and she looks rather creepy as the soft lights make shadows across the bridge of her nose. I try not to appear freaked out as I look into her the eyes. We stare at each other for a moment, then she leans in close.
"I've worked here for two years. You've never had a job in publishing. Hell, you've never had a job that didn't involve giving change. Go ahead. Talk to Martha, if you think I haven't wanted to mention you because I feel threatened. You'll see."
She turns around and begins to walk away, then looks back at me briefly.
"Oh, and you need to be out of the apartment by Tuesday."
I watch as she swishes back to the bar and begins whispering with a group of girls I recognize from when she had them over at the apartment. They all stare at me as she talks, their mouths agape and eyes narrowed. I take a deep breath and walk toward Martha Owenstein, who's chatting with other executive-looking types over the shrimp cocktail. I dismiss all thoughts of Donna's insecure rant. I know I've got this.
Friday, January 22, 2016
2016 – Day 22
A character-writing exercise from the Writing Excuses podcast, episode 10.5
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
-------
Character 3:
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
-------
Character 3:
"Ryan, get over here." Beth nodded her head to the right and waited for her intern to join her in the corner behind the baskets of beets.
Ryan, a 20-year-old college junior wearing a dress shirt, slacks, and tie, jogged over to where Beth was pressed against the wall.
"I thought I told you to look casual," she said. "Do you know what that means?"
"I'm sorry, I thought it was a test," he said.
"A test of what? How to do things wrong?"
"I thought...Nevermind. Should I go home and change?"
"No, you idiot, there isn't time." She scanned the room. Crowds of families, people young and old, milled among the tables of the farmer's market. Chatter flowed in waves over the room, with an occasional laugh or cough permeating the general din.
"Did you bring the folder?" she asked.
"Yes, it's right here." He pulled a glossy red folder out of his shoulder bag.
"You couldn't have picked a brighter color?"
"Red's a power color. I thought it would make the report look more powerful."
Beth snatched it from his hand and flipped through the pages.
"The report is powerful enough," she said. "These secrets can take down our competition. At least you didn't miss any pages. Come on."
She moved away from the wall and merged into the flow of the crowd. Ryan moved quickly to keep up with her. They traveled through the throngs of people, past baskets of vegetables and fruits and tables of cheese and grass-fed beef. As they turned the corner and began to walk past handmade jewelry and trinkets, Beth grabbed Ryan's arm and pulled him back toward one of the tables.
"I think I saw someone," she said. "Wait here."
Ryan looked over his shoulder, back at the crowd.
"Who did you see?" he asked.
"Shhhhh. Don't look."
Beth turned to smile at the woman behind the table and then glanced at the items spread out before them.
"Oh, what a cute bracelet!" she said, her voice rising sharply. "Ryan, look at this bracelet."
Ryan appeared confused but he looked down at the bracelet, a bright piece of copper twisted into a loop and etched with a series of oddly-shaped teardrops.
"What's that on them?" he asked the woman.
"Sperm," she said. "It's a fertility bracelet. When worn during love-making, it generates a power in the woman that enhances her ovulation and helps her to conceive."
Ryan dropped the bracelet on the table with a clatter.
"Would you like to try it on?" the woman asked Beth.
"Oh, please." Beth rolled her eyes then turned her back on the woman. She looked toward the tables across the room. There it was. A tiny green recycling basket, like the one she had in her office. It seemed out-of-place here at the market, where everything else was wood, wicker, or hemp, but she hadn't been the one to choose the drop location.
"See that green basket?" she said to Ryan. "Go drop the folder in there then meet me in the parking lot.
"Um, you're not waiting here for me?"
"No, of course not. I can't be seen when it's happening."
"Will I get in trouble?" Ryan asked. He put his hand to his chin and anxiously rubbed his stubble.
"Only if you're caught. You're young. You'll be fine."
"I don't know..."
"Stop whining. When you graduate there's a job ready for you. Wait two minutes for me to walk away, then go do it. I'll be in the car."
She gave him a firm look then turned and walked away. She moved swiftly through the crowd, stopping only to grab some cheese samples along the way. Once outside, she went straight to the car and sat with the engine running. Two minutes later, Ryan yanked open the passenger side door and slammed it shut.
"I did it, I did it," he said. His words tumbled over each other. "It's fine. I think it's fine. Totally fine."
"Oh, for god's sakes, calm down."
A black SUV drove up behind them and slowed down. Ryan turned to stare at it.
"Oh, shit," he said. "Oh, man."
The car parked in a spot opposite theirs, then was quiet for a moment. As the driver-side door opened, the parking lot was filled with loud, thumping Latin music. Then the car turned off and a man, woman, and two young children climbed out and headed toward the market.
Ryan let go of the breath he had been holding and Beth put the car in reverse.
"That song reminds me. Make a note to change my Thursday class to Monday. I'll really need to sweat it out after today's stress."
Hands shaking, Ryan reached for his phone and started making the scheduling change. Beth backed out of the parking space and they drove off.
Ryan, a 20-year-old college junior wearing a dress shirt, slacks, and tie, jogged over to where Beth was pressed against the wall.
"I thought I told you to look casual," she said. "Do you know what that means?"
"I'm sorry, I thought it was a test," he said.
"A test of what? How to do things wrong?"
"I thought...Nevermind. Should I go home and change?"
"No, you idiot, there isn't time." She scanned the room. Crowds of families, people young and old, milled among the tables of the farmer's market. Chatter flowed in waves over the room, with an occasional laugh or cough permeating the general din.
"Did you bring the folder?" she asked.
"Yes, it's right here." He pulled a glossy red folder out of his shoulder bag.
"You couldn't have picked a brighter color?"
"Red's a power color. I thought it would make the report look more powerful."
Beth snatched it from his hand and flipped through the pages.
"The report is powerful enough," she said. "These secrets can take down our competition. At least you didn't miss any pages. Come on."
She moved away from the wall and merged into the flow of the crowd. Ryan moved quickly to keep up with her. They traveled through the throngs of people, past baskets of vegetables and fruits and tables of cheese and grass-fed beef. As they turned the corner and began to walk past handmade jewelry and trinkets, Beth grabbed Ryan's arm and pulled him back toward one of the tables.
"I think I saw someone," she said. "Wait here."
Ryan looked over his shoulder, back at the crowd.
"Who did you see?" he asked.
"Shhhhh. Don't look."
Beth turned to smile at the woman behind the table and then glanced at the items spread out before them.
"Oh, what a cute bracelet!" she said, her voice rising sharply. "Ryan, look at this bracelet."
Ryan appeared confused but he looked down at the bracelet, a bright piece of copper twisted into a loop and etched with a series of oddly-shaped teardrops.
"What's that on them?" he asked the woman.
"Sperm," she said. "It's a fertility bracelet. When worn during love-making, it generates a power in the woman that enhances her ovulation and helps her to conceive."
Ryan dropped the bracelet on the table with a clatter.
"Would you like to try it on?" the woman asked Beth.
"Oh, please." Beth rolled her eyes then turned her back on the woman. She looked toward the tables across the room. There it was. A tiny green recycling basket, like the one she had in her office. It seemed out-of-place here at the market, where everything else was wood, wicker, or hemp, but she hadn't been the one to choose the drop location.
"See that green basket?" she said to Ryan. "Go drop the folder in there then meet me in the parking lot.
"Um, you're not waiting here for me?"
"No, of course not. I can't be seen when it's happening."
"Will I get in trouble?" Ryan asked. He put his hand to his chin and anxiously rubbed his stubble.
"Only if you're caught. You're young. You'll be fine."
"I don't know..."
"Stop whining. When you graduate there's a job ready for you. Wait two minutes for me to walk away, then go do it. I'll be in the car."
She gave him a firm look then turned and walked away. She moved swiftly through the crowd, stopping only to grab some cheese samples along the way. Once outside, she went straight to the car and sat with the engine running. Two minutes later, Ryan yanked open the passenger side door and slammed it shut.
"I did it, I did it," he said. His words tumbled over each other. "It's fine. I think it's fine. Totally fine."
"Oh, for god's sakes, calm down."
A black SUV drove up behind them and slowed down. Ryan turned to stare at it.
"Oh, shit," he said. "Oh, man."
The car parked in a spot opposite theirs, then was quiet for a moment. As the driver-side door opened, the parking lot was filled with loud, thumping Latin music. Then the car turned off and a man, woman, and two young children climbed out and headed toward the market.
Ryan let go of the breath he had been holding and Beth put the car in reverse.
"That song reminds me. Make a note to change my Thursday class to Monday. I'll really need to sweat it out after today's stress."
Hands shaking, Ryan reached for his phone and started making the scheduling change. Beth backed out of the parking space and they drove off.
Thursday, January 21, 2016
2016 – Day 21
A character-writing exercise from the Writing Excuses podcast, episode 10.5
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
-------
Character 2:
"Honey, do you have this one?"
Jerry turned to look at his wife. She waved a shot glass toward him then brought it close to her face.
"It says 'Cold River Vodka,'" she said.
"No, not that one." he said.
"I'll get it for you, then."
"Okay, thanks." Jerry looked past her at the nearby tables of the farmer's market, now packed with post-lunch crowds searching for squash, artisanal cheeses, and locally-brewed beer. He had wanted to come earlier, but Donna had arranged to go to morning yoga with a friend, and insisted that he wait for her. Probably better to have the cover of a crowd, he told himself.
"Jerry!"
Jerry turned toward the deep baritone voice calling his name and recognized one of his neighbors.
"Hey, Frank. How's it going?"
They shook hands and gave each other a hearty slap on the back.
"Good! How're our boys looking this year?" Frank said.
"They're good," Jerry said. "Working hard at practice."
"That's great. Hey, any truth to this rumor that Donaldson may be pulled from Saturday's game? I heard he wasn't passing some classes or something."
Jerry's pulse quickened and he felt a warmth creep up from his neck to his cheeks.
"Nah," he said, pulling up his baseball cap to wipe his forehead. "He's got to pass a test tomorrow, but he'll do fine. He's been studying."
"I hope so. That kid's not the brightest crayon in the pack, but he's a kick-ass running back, pardon my French."
"That he is," Jerry said, forcing himself to take slower breaths.
"Okay, good luck. We'll see you on Saturday!" Frank gave Jerry another slap on the back and walked off in the direction of the local brewery tables.
Jerry took a deep breath and looked at his watch. 2:14 p.m. He had 31 minutes left until Donaldson would come looking for the test answer sheet. They couldn't be seen together. He'd have to do the drop right away.
"Donna, I'm going to check out the pickles," he said to his wife, who had moved on to a booth selling homemade jewelry. "I'll be right back."
"Pickles?" she said. "You hate pickles!"
But Jerry had already started walking toward the other side of the spacious greenhouse that held the market. Suddenly more aware of the possibility that he could be recognized by someone in the crowd, he kept his face down and pulled his baseball cap lower. After leaving the crafts room and weaving through the meats and cheeses room, he arrived at the fruits and vegetables. He had expected it to be quieter than the other rooms since the local Whole Foods wasn't exactly short on farm-fresh produce, but he soon realized he had misjudged the situation. The doorway leading in was packed with people in line for the first table. Jerry craned his neck over them and saw that the other tables were no less busy. He could also see the Carolee's Pickles table just 10 yards away and began to make his way toward it. Though he tried to avoid it, his broad shoulders bumped him into one person after another. At least two people recognized him and wished him luck at the game. He nodded and tried to smile back, but the throbbing in his chest had moved to his head and he was convinced that he might be on the verge of a heart attack.
When he finally reached the table, he scoured the area for the empty Blue Moon box that was supposed to be nearby. He could hardly see anything around the bodies of the people checking out the pickle offerings, but finally found an opening to get closer to the table.
There it was, an empty cardboard box partially hidden behind a crate of pickle jars. Jerry didn't know if the kid selling the pickles to the crowd knew why the box was there and decided not to take a chance with him. When he thought the kid wasn't looking, he leaned down to tie his shoelaces, then quickly pulled the tan envelope out of his inside coat pocket and dropped it into the box.
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
-------
Character 2:
"Honey, do you have this one?"
Jerry turned to look at his wife. She waved a shot glass toward him then brought it close to her face.
"It says 'Cold River Vodka,'" she said.
"No, not that one." he said.
"I'll get it for you, then."
"Okay, thanks." Jerry looked past her at the nearby tables of the farmer's market, now packed with post-lunch crowds searching for squash, artisanal cheeses, and locally-brewed beer. He had wanted to come earlier, but Donna had arranged to go to morning yoga with a friend, and insisted that he wait for her. Probably better to have the cover of a crowd, he told himself.
"Jerry!"
Jerry turned toward the deep baritone voice calling his name and recognized one of his neighbors.
"Hey, Frank. How's it going?"
They shook hands and gave each other a hearty slap on the back.
"Good! How're our boys looking this year?" Frank said.
"They're good," Jerry said. "Working hard at practice."
"That's great. Hey, any truth to this rumor that Donaldson may be pulled from Saturday's game? I heard he wasn't passing some classes or something."
Jerry's pulse quickened and he felt a warmth creep up from his neck to his cheeks.
"Nah," he said, pulling up his baseball cap to wipe his forehead. "He's got to pass a test tomorrow, but he'll do fine. He's been studying."
"I hope so. That kid's not the brightest crayon in the pack, but he's a kick-ass running back, pardon my French."
"That he is," Jerry said, forcing himself to take slower breaths.
"Okay, good luck. We'll see you on Saturday!" Frank gave Jerry another slap on the back and walked off in the direction of the local brewery tables.
Jerry took a deep breath and looked at his watch. 2:14 p.m. He had 31 minutes left until Donaldson would come looking for the test answer sheet. They couldn't be seen together. He'd have to do the drop right away.
"Donna, I'm going to check out the pickles," he said to his wife, who had moved on to a booth selling homemade jewelry. "I'll be right back."
"Pickles?" she said. "You hate pickles!"
But Jerry had already started walking toward the other side of the spacious greenhouse that held the market. Suddenly more aware of the possibility that he could be recognized by someone in the crowd, he kept his face down and pulled his baseball cap lower. After leaving the crafts room and weaving through the meats and cheeses room, he arrived at the fruits and vegetables. He had expected it to be quieter than the other rooms since the local Whole Foods wasn't exactly short on farm-fresh produce, but he soon realized he had misjudged the situation. The doorway leading in was packed with people in line for the first table. Jerry craned his neck over them and saw that the other tables were no less busy. He could also see the Carolee's Pickles table just 10 yards away and began to make his way toward it. Though he tried to avoid it, his broad shoulders bumped him into one person after another. At least two people recognized him and wished him luck at the game. He nodded and tried to smile back, but the throbbing in his chest had moved to his head and he was convinced that he might be on the verge of a heart attack.
When he finally reached the table, he scoured the area for the empty Blue Moon box that was supposed to be nearby. He could hardly see anything around the bodies of the people checking out the pickle offerings, but finally found an opening to get closer to the table.
There it was, an empty cardboard box partially hidden behind a crate of pickle jars. Jerry didn't know if the kid selling the pickles to the crowd knew why the box was there and decided not to take a chance with him. When he thought the kid wasn't looking, he leaned down to tie his shoelaces, then quickly pulled the tan envelope out of his inside coat pocket and dropped it into the box.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
2016 – Day 20
A character-writing exercise from the Writing Excuses podcast, episode 10.5
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
--------
Character 1:
Despite the cold, Lila wore a short, a-line dress to the winter market. She also attached a wide-brimmed Sunday hat to her hair, which she had spent an hour straightening. That morning she had woken up feeling Audrey Hepburn-ish and decided to follow that instinct. Now she tried imitating Audrey's mysterious smile from the Breakfast at Tiffany's poster, but she kept breaking into a broad grin as she squeezed the plainly wrapped package in her hand and thought about her mission.
Once inside the market, Lila made her way down the narrow aisles toward the local cheesemaker booths. As she passed the artisan section, her eyes caught a collection of sea-green beads in various sizes on a nearby table. Those would look breathtaking in a teardrop bracelet, she thought and immediately veered toward the booth. She handled the beads, feeling their weight and considered what strength string she'd need. Deciding they were worth a splurge, she reached for her purse, only to remember that she had left it in the car. Shane had instructed her to keep an ID handy at all times, so she had put it in her purse on her way out the door. But when she arrived, she decided that the handbag was more Victoria Beckham than Audrey Hepburn, and so she couldn't bring it inside.
"I'll come back for these," she told the woman at the booth and hurried toward the cheeses. Roasting coffee aromas enveloped her as she entered the gourmet food aisles. She would have never thought it possible, but she had stopped enjoying the smell of coffee after spending years being surrounded by it. It probably wasn't the fault of the coffee so much as the angry, needy, and demanding people who ordered it, but now the two were inextricably linked in her senses. Of course, that was the place where she had met Shane and been given this important job, so perhaps it wasn't all bad.
Lila noticed the Gunther Farm sign to her left. Beneath the sign stood a table covered with cheeses. Below that sat a purple scraps bucket. Lila ran through the checklist in her mind, then approached the table.
"Nice Gruyère," she said to the bearded man wearing a Gunther Farm apron. "How big are your curds?"
He looked at her and smiled, then handed her a slice.
"They are tiny," he said. "To make the smoothest slices. Please try."
Lila smiled and nodded, then reached down and dropped the package in the scraps bucket. She then took the slice of cheese and took a tiny bite, chewing with great effect.
"Mmmmm," she said. "So tasty. Thank you."
Flashing her mysterious smile, Lila turned and made her way back down the aisles. Shane will be so proud, she thought. As she passed through the artisan section, the woman with the beads waved to her.
"I've had some other interest!" she called over the crowd. "Still want the beads?"
"Yes!" Lila said, knowing she had earned a treat. "I'll be right back with my purse!"
She hurried toward the entrance and pushed open the doors. The first thing she noticed was an aching sensation as the bitter cold wind that slapped against her shoulders and across her legs. The second thing she noticed were three police cars and two unmarked cars, all with their lights aglow and pointing toward her car.
Take three different characters and walk them through a scene. Convey their emotional states, their jobs, and their hobbies without directly stating any of those. The scene in question: walking through a marketplace, and they need to do a dead-drop.
--------
Character 1:
Despite the cold, Lila wore a short, a-line dress to the winter market. She also attached a wide-brimmed Sunday hat to her hair, which she had spent an hour straightening. That morning she had woken up feeling Audrey Hepburn-ish and decided to follow that instinct. Now she tried imitating Audrey's mysterious smile from the Breakfast at Tiffany's poster, but she kept breaking into a broad grin as she squeezed the plainly wrapped package in her hand and thought about her mission.
Once inside the market, Lila made her way down the narrow aisles toward the local cheesemaker booths. As she passed the artisan section, her eyes caught a collection of sea-green beads in various sizes on a nearby table. Those would look breathtaking in a teardrop bracelet, she thought and immediately veered toward the booth. She handled the beads, feeling their weight and considered what strength string she'd need. Deciding they were worth a splurge, she reached for her purse, only to remember that she had left it in the car. Shane had instructed her to keep an ID handy at all times, so she had put it in her purse on her way out the door. But when she arrived, she decided that the handbag was more Victoria Beckham than Audrey Hepburn, and so she couldn't bring it inside.
"I'll come back for these," she told the woman at the booth and hurried toward the cheeses. Roasting coffee aromas enveloped her as she entered the gourmet food aisles. She would have never thought it possible, but she had stopped enjoying the smell of coffee after spending years being surrounded by it. It probably wasn't the fault of the coffee so much as the angry, needy, and demanding people who ordered it, but now the two were inextricably linked in her senses. Of course, that was the place where she had met Shane and been given this important job, so perhaps it wasn't all bad.
Lila noticed the Gunther Farm sign to her left. Beneath the sign stood a table covered with cheeses. Below that sat a purple scraps bucket. Lila ran through the checklist in her mind, then approached the table.
"Nice Gruyère," she said to the bearded man wearing a Gunther Farm apron. "How big are your curds?"
He looked at her and smiled, then handed her a slice.
"They are tiny," he said. "To make the smoothest slices. Please try."
Lila smiled and nodded, then reached down and dropped the package in the scraps bucket. She then took the slice of cheese and took a tiny bite, chewing with great effect.
"Mmmmm," she said. "So tasty. Thank you."
Flashing her mysterious smile, Lila turned and made her way back down the aisles. Shane will be so proud, she thought. As she passed through the artisan section, the woman with the beads waved to her.
"I've had some other interest!" she called over the crowd. "Still want the beads?"
"Yes!" Lila said, knowing she had earned a treat. "I'll be right back with my purse!"
She hurried toward the entrance and pushed open the doors. The first thing she noticed was an aching sensation as the bitter cold wind that slapped against her shoulders and across her legs. The second thing she noticed were three police cars and two unmarked cars, all with their lights aglow and pointing toward her car.
Tuesday, January 19, 2016
2016 – Day 19
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a hotel
----
I stood above the bed and stared at the cream-colored bedspread embellished with a quilted sea wave pattern. I hoped it would bring me a sense of calm in the unfamiliar space of the hotel room. But five minutes later, unable to find ease, I began to pace across the small room, taking four steps each way then having to turn around. My phone was in my hands, my thumb hovering over the number of Dr. Edmunds, my therapist. It was her idea that I use the conversational skills I'd been practicing with her for a year in an actual interaction. We decided that I would find a place close enough to drive to within a day, but still far enough from home that I was unlikely to ever meet any of the same people again.
I picked the Hyatt on Route 9 in Eastborough, which advertised a restaurant and bar along with a pool and cable TV. The nausea and ache in my joints overtook me as I looked at photos of the bar and restaurant on the website, but Dr. Edmunds insisted I was ready. I booked the room during our Tuesday appointment and drove through Friday traffic to reach it by 6:00.
Registration was easy because I'm good at functional exchanges. I can say what I need and respond to information. But I freeze at any small talk beyond the initial greeting. Over the years, I've learned to avoid eye contact because it discourages conversations. My first therapist thought my issue was an inability to make eye contact and ran me through practice drills to teach me that the first part of having conversations is to look people in the eye. I didn't stay with him. I had cultivated that skill of avoiding looking directly at people at just the right time. It wasn't an inability but a talent. If you avoid eye contact entirely, people treat you as if you are mentally challenged or up to something. I'm a white woman who speaks softly and dresses like an old Sears catalog. They always assume the former for me. Dr. Edmunds has shared articles with me about others who have the same issues that I do, and one African-American man described constantly being accused of being up to something. Still, the alternative can be worse.
In fourth grade, kids started calling me "the robot." I looked right at people when they spoke to me and responded to direct questions. But I couldn't respond to jokes or emotions or anything that they considered human. When they cracked a joke while talking with me, they saw that I would look them directly in the eye and...just that. I would continue to stare at them until they said something else or until I thought the exchange was over. At first they found that to be hilarious, until eventually they didn't. Then they declared that it was creepy and took my lack of response to mean I lacked any emotions. I was the robot who felt nothing. They couldn't know how I spent countless hours trying not to be who I was.
The downstairs restaurant and bar area smelled of cologne and fried foods. Two men sat at one end of the shiny black bar and stared at the TV. A bartender handed them beers then kept busy wiping down glasses and shelving boxes of liquor bottles. A man and a woman sat in a booth on the opposite side of the room. Suddenly the woman laughed at something the man said, and they both slapped their palms against their table.
The room began to wobble and I realized I had stopped breathing. I forced air into my lungs and swallowed the bile that had crept up into my throat, then stepped toward the bar.
Step 1: takes place: in a hotel
----
I stood above the bed and stared at the cream-colored bedspread embellished with a quilted sea wave pattern. I hoped it would bring me a sense of calm in the unfamiliar space of the hotel room. But five minutes later, unable to find ease, I began to pace across the small room, taking four steps each way then having to turn around. My phone was in my hands, my thumb hovering over the number of Dr. Edmunds, my therapist. It was her idea that I use the conversational skills I'd been practicing with her for a year in an actual interaction. We decided that I would find a place close enough to drive to within a day, but still far enough from home that I was unlikely to ever meet any of the same people again.
I picked the Hyatt on Route 9 in Eastborough, which advertised a restaurant and bar along with a pool and cable TV. The nausea and ache in my joints overtook me as I looked at photos of the bar and restaurant on the website, but Dr. Edmunds insisted I was ready. I booked the room during our Tuesday appointment and drove through Friday traffic to reach it by 6:00.
Registration was easy because I'm good at functional exchanges. I can say what I need and respond to information. But I freeze at any small talk beyond the initial greeting. Over the years, I've learned to avoid eye contact because it discourages conversations. My first therapist thought my issue was an inability to make eye contact and ran me through practice drills to teach me that the first part of having conversations is to look people in the eye. I didn't stay with him. I had cultivated that skill of avoiding looking directly at people at just the right time. It wasn't an inability but a talent. If you avoid eye contact entirely, people treat you as if you are mentally challenged or up to something. I'm a white woman who speaks softly and dresses like an old Sears catalog. They always assume the former for me. Dr. Edmunds has shared articles with me about others who have the same issues that I do, and one African-American man described constantly being accused of being up to something. Still, the alternative can be worse.
In fourth grade, kids started calling me "the robot." I looked right at people when they spoke to me and responded to direct questions. But I couldn't respond to jokes or emotions or anything that they considered human. When they cracked a joke while talking with me, they saw that I would look them directly in the eye and...just that. I would continue to stare at them until they said something else or until I thought the exchange was over. At first they found that to be hilarious, until eventually they didn't. Then they declared that it was creepy and took my lack of response to mean I lacked any emotions. I was the robot who felt nothing. They couldn't know how I spent countless hours trying not to be who I was.
The downstairs restaurant and bar area smelled of cologne and fried foods. Two men sat at one end of the shiny black bar and stared at the TV. A bartender handed them beers then kept busy wiping down glasses and shelving boxes of liquor bottles. A man and a woman sat in a booth on the opposite side of the room. Suddenly the woman laughed at something the man said, and they both slapped their palms against their table.
The room began to wobble and I realized I had stopped breathing. I forced air into my lungs and swallowed the bile that had crept up into my throat, then stepped toward the bar.
Monday, January 18, 2016
2016 – Day 18
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He read the sign and stood thinking
Step 2: add a character who: is wearing a hat
----
He read the sign and stood thinking, trying to decide how low he was willing to go for work. His stomach churned, and he could hear his father's voice in his head, telling him not to waste his time on film school, but he went anyway, and here he was. Darren breathed in, filling his lungs with air until they ached, then slowly exhaled. He wanted to remember everything about how he felt before his life turned into a great embarrassment.
The next night, Darren and his roommate, Bryce, ate dinner on the couch while they watched college basketball. Bryce, having put down some money, watched the game anxiously, swearing at each missed shot. When he swore, his plate shook, and Darren stared at the crumbs of food that fell to the floor and between the cushions. The mice will be back, he thought.
During commercials, Bryce quizzed Darren about the new job.
"Wait, so are you delivering packages?" he asked. "Literarily, working in the mailroom?"
"Yeah," Darren said. "It's pretty cliche, except I'm not really just starting out, right?"
"They know you have a Master's degree and that you've worked on actual movies?"
"Movies, yes. Degree, no. I was afraid they wouldn't hire me."
"Of course, not. You're way over qualified!"
"But at least I'm still in the industry."
"I guess," Bryce said, then whipped his head back to the TV screen. "Shhhh, it's back on."
Darren stared at the TV, too, but he hardly noticed the game. He thought about his time on local film shoots, the small production assistant jobs that hardly paid the bills. The feeling that he was in the movie world, but only for six weeks at a time. The desperate search for the next job, which often didn't materialize in time to cover his expenses, sending him further into debt. The exhaustion he felt when he was working and the anxiety he felt when he wasn't. The screenplays that he'd started and felt he could never finish.
On Monday at 8:00 a.m., Darren arrived at his new place of work, the local CBS affiliate, and was escorted to HR to get his ID badge.
"You'll have a yellow badge," said the woman at the desk as she took his photo. She had extremely long nails covered in purple polish and accented with sparkling diamonds in the pattern of moons and stars, and he watched with fascination as she somehow manipulated the printed photo and managed to laminate it onto the ID card despite having to work around her nails.
"Is yellow good?" he asked, smiling.
"Just means you have access for mailroom-related duties," she said, handing him the card. "The ID will open most any door so you can drop off packages, but it registers a certain way in the system. They like to make sure you're only going where you're supposed to."
"Got it."
When he arrived in the mailroom, he noticed how quiet it was. Aside from a radio playing classic rock in the corner, all he could hear was the hum of overhead lights. He had imagined the room to be a bustling hub of activity, with people moving everywhere all at once, pushing mail carts and organizing letters, but all he saw was a single wall of numbered mailboxes and a set of metal shelves holding assorted office supplies. At the sole computer in the room sat A.J., his new boss. He wore khakis and a blue button-down shirt with a tie, and atop his head was a well-worn Red Sox cap.
"Good morning," Darren called out.
"Mornin'," A.J. said as he typed something out with just his index finger. He then looked up at Darren and frowned. "Are you wearing jeans to work?"
Darren looked down at his jeans, which were slightly worn but, he had thought, still had a clean appearance.
"Yes," he said. "I didn't want to ruin any slacks. I thought these would be good for physical work."
"You're not building a bridge, you're delivering mail. And when you're in the hallways, you have to represent the company. Go home and change."
Darren stood speechless. Was this how they initiated the new guy? He tried smiling, but A.J. only shook his head and frowned.
"Go get changed, newbie," he said. "Nice pants, dress shirt, and tie. And no hats."
"But you're wearing a hat," Darren said.
"You work here 20 years, you can start wearing a hat."
Darren stared at A.J., still uncertain of what was happing.
"You want to keep this job?" A.J. said. "Go change."
Darren turned around and headed for home. He thought about what he was willing to do for work on the entire drive home and back.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He read the sign and stood thinking
Step 2: add a character who: is wearing a hat
----
He read the sign and stood thinking, trying to decide how low he was willing to go for work. His stomach churned, and he could hear his father's voice in his head, telling him not to waste his time on film school, but he went anyway, and here he was. Darren breathed in, filling his lungs with air until they ached, then slowly exhaled. He wanted to remember everything about how he felt before his life turned into a great embarrassment.
The next night, Darren and his roommate, Bryce, ate dinner on the couch while they watched college basketball. Bryce, having put down some money, watched the game anxiously, swearing at each missed shot. When he swore, his plate shook, and Darren stared at the crumbs of food that fell to the floor and between the cushions. The mice will be back, he thought.
During commercials, Bryce quizzed Darren about the new job.
"Wait, so are you delivering packages?" he asked. "Literarily, working in the mailroom?"
"Yeah," Darren said. "It's pretty cliche, except I'm not really just starting out, right?"
"They know you have a Master's degree and that you've worked on actual movies?"
"Movies, yes. Degree, no. I was afraid they wouldn't hire me."
"Of course, not. You're way over qualified!"
"But at least I'm still in the industry."
"I guess," Bryce said, then whipped his head back to the TV screen. "Shhhh, it's back on."
Darren stared at the TV, too, but he hardly noticed the game. He thought about his time on local film shoots, the small production assistant jobs that hardly paid the bills. The feeling that he was in the movie world, but only for six weeks at a time. The desperate search for the next job, which often didn't materialize in time to cover his expenses, sending him further into debt. The exhaustion he felt when he was working and the anxiety he felt when he wasn't. The screenplays that he'd started and felt he could never finish.
On Monday at 8:00 a.m., Darren arrived at his new place of work, the local CBS affiliate, and was escorted to HR to get his ID badge.
"You'll have a yellow badge," said the woman at the desk as she took his photo. She had extremely long nails covered in purple polish and accented with sparkling diamonds in the pattern of moons and stars, and he watched with fascination as she somehow manipulated the printed photo and managed to laminate it onto the ID card despite having to work around her nails.
"Is yellow good?" he asked, smiling.
"Just means you have access for mailroom-related duties," she said, handing him the card. "The ID will open most any door so you can drop off packages, but it registers a certain way in the system. They like to make sure you're only going where you're supposed to."
"Got it."
When he arrived in the mailroom, he noticed how quiet it was. Aside from a radio playing classic rock in the corner, all he could hear was the hum of overhead lights. He had imagined the room to be a bustling hub of activity, with people moving everywhere all at once, pushing mail carts and organizing letters, but all he saw was a single wall of numbered mailboxes and a set of metal shelves holding assorted office supplies. At the sole computer in the room sat A.J., his new boss. He wore khakis and a blue button-down shirt with a tie, and atop his head was a well-worn Red Sox cap.
"Good morning," Darren called out.
"Mornin'," A.J. said as he typed something out with just his index finger. He then looked up at Darren and frowned. "Are you wearing jeans to work?"
Darren looked down at his jeans, which were slightly worn but, he had thought, still had a clean appearance.
"Yes," he said. "I didn't want to ruin any slacks. I thought these would be good for physical work."
"You're not building a bridge, you're delivering mail. And when you're in the hallways, you have to represent the company. Go home and change."
Darren stood speechless. Was this how they initiated the new guy? He tried smiling, but A.J. only shook his head and frowned.
"Go get changed, newbie," he said. "Nice pants, dress shirt, and tie. And no hats."
"But you're wearing a hat," Darren said.
"You work here 20 years, you can start wearing a hat."
Darren stared at A.J., still uncertain of what was happing.
"You want to keep this job?" A.J. said. "Go change."
Darren turned around and headed for home. He thought about what he was willing to do for work on the entire drive home and back.
Sunday, January 17, 2016
2016 – Day 17
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She bought the train tickets and...
Step 2: add a character who: wants to discover a family secret
------
She bought the train tickets and went to meet her sister, Jackie, on the platform. The train had just started boarding and Erin was grateful to get out of the cold January rain. They found seats at the back of one of the cars and settled in for the long trip to D.C.
"I wish I'd brought a magazine," Jackie said, digging in her purse.
"I told you to," Erin said.
"I know, and I meant to, but I got busy."
"Doing what?" Erin said, pulling a book out of her backpack. "I did all the planning."
"Packing and I had to talk to work about being gone for a week."
"You've known about this for two weeks."
"Stop with the judging, Erin," Jackie said, tossing her purse under the seat. "I'm sure Great Aunt Polly won't appreciate the negative vibes you're bringing down."
"She's dead," Erin said.
"I know she's dead! That's the whole point of this house clean-out and will reading. I'm not stupid."
Jackie reached down to grab her purse again and pulled out her phone.
"But her spirit will sense the negativity you're putting into the universe is all I'm saying," she said.
Erin shot Jackie a look, then turned her attention toward her book.
Jackie looked down at her phone, then began searching through her purse again.
"Ugh, this sucks," she said. "Let me use your earbuds. Come on, Erin. You're not using them."
Erin sighed and pulled earbuds out of her jacket pocket.
"Do not get them tangled," she said, handing them to Jackie.
Jackie rolled her eyes. She plugged the earbuds into her phone and began listening to music while Erin returned to her book. They sat in silence as the train began its long journey.
Ten minutes later, Jackie popped out the earbuds and turned to her sister, nudging her on the shoulder to get her attention.
"You think Great Aunt Polly had a secret second family?" she said.
"What are you talking about?" Erin said, carefully placing her bookmark and turning to frown at her sister.
"They're making such a big deal out of everyone coming to her house and going through things and then there's the special reading of the will. Doesn't that seem odd?"
"No," Erin said. "She was practically a hoarder and Uncle Tim and his family need help getting rid of stuff. And there's some legal reason why they have to read the will in person."
Erin went back to reading her book, but Jackie tapped her shoulder again.
"Yeah, but maybe the hoarding thing is a cover. I've seen photos of the place on her Christmas card, and there's never any mess in the background."
"Because it's a Christmas card! And it's just a corner of one room in her house," Erin said.
"There's still something not right," Jackie said. "I can feel it."
Erin looked like she wanted to say something, then simply shook her head. She reopened her book. Jackie raised her hand again, but Erin turned to glare at her.
"Don't tap my shoulder again," Erin said, then looked down at her book.
"Fine," Jackie said. "But, there's something going on there. You'll see."
Step 1: begins with this sentence: She bought the train tickets and...
Step 2: add a character who: wants to discover a family secret
------
She bought the train tickets and went to meet her sister, Jackie, on the platform. The train had just started boarding and Erin was grateful to get out of the cold January rain. They found seats at the back of one of the cars and settled in for the long trip to D.C.
"I wish I'd brought a magazine," Jackie said, digging in her purse.
"I told you to," Erin said.
"I know, and I meant to, but I got busy."
"Doing what?" Erin said, pulling a book out of her backpack. "I did all the planning."
"Packing and I had to talk to work about being gone for a week."
"You've known about this for two weeks."
"Stop with the judging, Erin," Jackie said, tossing her purse under the seat. "I'm sure Great Aunt Polly won't appreciate the negative vibes you're bringing down."
"She's dead," Erin said.
"I know she's dead! That's the whole point of this house clean-out and will reading. I'm not stupid."
Jackie reached down to grab her purse again and pulled out her phone.
"But her spirit will sense the negativity you're putting into the universe is all I'm saying," she said.
Erin shot Jackie a look, then turned her attention toward her book.
Jackie looked down at her phone, then began searching through her purse again.
"Ugh, this sucks," she said. "Let me use your earbuds. Come on, Erin. You're not using them."
Erin sighed and pulled earbuds out of her jacket pocket.
"Do not get them tangled," she said, handing them to Jackie.
Jackie rolled her eyes. She plugged the earbuds into her phone and began listening to music while Erin returned to her book. They sat in silence as the train began its long journey.
Ten minutes later, Jackie popped out the earbuds and turned to her sister, nudging her on the shoulder to get her attention.
"You think Great Aunt Polly had a secret second family?" she said.
"What are you talking about?" Erin said, carefully placing her bookmark and turning to frown at her sister.
"They're making such a big deal out of everyone coming to her house and going through things and then there's the special reading of the will. Doesn't that seem odd?"
"No," Erin said. "She was practically a hoarder and Uncle Tim and his family need help getting rid of stuff. And there's some legal reason why they have to read the will in person."
Erin went back to reading her book, but Jackie tapped her shoulder again.
"Yeah, but maybe the hoarding thing is a cover. I've seen photos of the place on her Christmas card, and there's never any mess in the background."
"Because it's a Christmas card! And it's just a corner of one room in her house," Erin said.
"There's still something not right," Jackie said. "I can feel it."
Erin looked like she wanted to say something, then simply shook her head. She reopened her book. Jackie raised her hand again, but Erin turned to glare at her.
"Don't tap my shoulder again," Erin said, then looked down at her book.
"Fine," Jackie said. "But, there's something going on there. You'll see."
Saturday, January 16, 2016
2016 – Day 16
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a house by the sea
----
Barry's family had owned the house in Yarmouth for three generations. It stood atop a hill overlooking the ocean, with a private expanse of beach that was shared with four other homes. All of the homes were too stately to be considered beach bungalows, but the one owned by Barry's family was largest among them, featuring six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen with full appliances, including a six-burner gas stove. When I first came to the house after Barry and I got engaged, I tried to complement his mother on the beauty of the decorative style without letting on how astonished I felt. All I could picture was the small motel room my parents had rented for a month each summer, so that my two brothers and I could run around the beach under the watchful eye of our grandmother while my parents went back to Boston for work. When they visited us on weekends, my brothers would give them the pull-out couch and then sleep in their sleeping bags on the floor.
After we were married, Barry and I stayed at the family beach house for three weeks every summer for our vacation. Sometimes Barry's older sister Beth would be there with her family at the same time, and his younger brother Tyler would come with his serious girlfriend, whose parents were already close friends of the family. Barry's parents would be there for most of the summer and welcomed their children any time they could come. Everyone was welcoming to me, too, and I liked to imagine that I was an equal among them, but sometimes there were inside jokes or childhood remembrances were so far removed from my experiences that I felt myself an outsider and could never completely relax.
About three years after we were married, things began to unravel in the fall. Barry had always been fun, a loud drinker who took center stage at any party or bar, but drinks with the guys after work started going later and becoming more frequent and he would come home quiet or angry instead of chatty and sweet. Sometimes I wondered if there were other women by the scent of perfume mingled with the smoke, sweat, and stale beer on his breath. But the starker realization came when he was no longer just a drunk who stumbled home on the train, with a bar address written in Sharpie on his arm so he knew where to find his car the next day. It was when I could see more than Sharpie ink marks along his arms and I realized that the surliness he greeted me with when he finally made it home was the aftereffect of the heroin that had become his new source of enjoyment. We argued. I accused and he denied and accused me back of wanting to keep him locked up and unfulfilled. It always ended with apologies from both sides and promises to do better before the cycle began again. It was not until April that I finally understood what I was up against when my credit card was rejected at Whole Foods and then I was unable to withdraw any funds on the bank card. I rushed home to log into all of our accounts. There was hardly anything left.
That night, I confronted Barry with furious accusations and threats to finally leave. With both of us in tears, he promised to get real help. Together we called his family to ask for money to pay for treatment at a nearby facility. His mother, always the stalwart of the family, requested that I calm down and not take things so far. His father said he distrusted the doctors at the facility. Who were they to know what someone like Barry needed? I begged for help, any help. They offered the beach house. Our own private detox center where Barry and I could take the time we needed, alone.
Step 1: takes place: in a house by the sea
----
Barry's family had owned the house in Yarmouth for three generations. It stood atop a hill overlooking the ocean, with a private expanse of beach that was shared with four other homes. All of the homes were too stately to be considered beach bungalows, but the one owned by Barry's family was largest among them, featuring six bedrooms, three bathrooms, a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen with full appliances, including a six-burner gas stove. When I first came to the house after Barry and I got engaged, I tried to complement his mother on the beauty of the decorative style without letting on how astonished I felt. All I could picture was the small motel room my parents had rented for a month each summer, so that my two brothers and I could run around the beach under the watchful eye of our grandmother while my parents went back to Boston for work. When they visited us on weekends, my brothers would give them the pull-out couch and then sleep in their sleeping bags on the floor.
After we were married, Barry and I stayed at the family beach house for three weeks every summer for our vacation. Sometimes Barry's older sister Beth would be there with her family at the same time, and his younger brother Tyler would come with his serious girlfriend, whose parents were already close friends of the family. Barry's parents would be there for most of the summer and welcomed their children any time they could come. Everyone was welcoming to me, too, and I liked to imagine that I was an equal among them, but sometimes there were inside jokes or childhood remembrances were so far removed from my experiences that I felt myself an outsider and could never completely relax.
About three years after we were married, things began to unravel in the fall. Barry had always been fun, a loud drinker who took center stage at any party or bar, but drinks with the guys after work started going later and becoming more frequent and he would come home quiet or angry instead of chatty and sweet. Sometimes I wondered if there were other women by the scent of perfume mingled with the smoke, sweat, and stale beer on his breath. But the starker realization came when he was no longer just a drunk who stumbled home on the train, with a bar address written in Sharpie on his arm so he knew where to find his car the next day. It was when I could see more than Sharpie ink marks along his arms and I realized that the surliness he greeted me with when he finally made it home was the aftereffect of the heroin that had become his new source of enjoyment. We argued. I accused and he denied and accused me back of wanting to keep him locked up and unfulfilled. It always ended with apologies from both sides and promises to do better before the cycle began again. It was not until April that I finally understood what I was up against when my credit card was rejected at Whole Foods and then I was unable to withdraw any funds on the bank card. I rushed home to log into all of our accounts. There was hardly anything left.
That night, I confronted Barry with furious accusations and threats to finally leave. With both of us in tears, he promised to get real help. Together we called his family to ask for money to pay for treatment at a nearby facility. His mother, always the stalwart of the family, requested that I calm down and not take things so far. His father said he distrusted the doctors at the facility. Who were they to know what someone like Barry needed? I begged for help, any help. They offered the beach house. Our own private detox center where Barry and I could take the time we needed, alone.
Friday, January 15, 2016
2016 – Day 15
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: When he woke up...
-----
When he woke up one morning from uneasy dreams, Rogreg found himself transformed into a Gigantic One. The extreme brightness of the room caused by light flooding in from four windows, which now appeared much smaller than Rogreg remembered them, filled him with anxiety and he wished to flee toward darker, hidden spaces. As he tried to scuttle away from the soft platform on which he lay, he realized that his six strong legs had been replace by four uneven ones, two large stompers and two weaker, floating ones. He reached out toward the floor and fell into the open space. Landing on the floor stomper appendages made him wobbly, and then having the rest of his weight land on the floating legs sent sharp pains to his insides. This caused his legs to give way and Rogreg collapsed on the floor in a loud thud. As he lay there, legs sprawled in all directions, he noticed a space beneath the soft platform and squirmed into the quiet, darkness.
No longer feeling exposed, Rogreg took stock of himself in the dark hideaway. His head was now heavy and round, and he could no longer see in all directions unless he turned his head to a great degree, something he was not used to doing. Atop his head, his antennae were gone and in their place grew a big swath of long hairs that obscured his vision when he looked down at the floor. His middle seemed a soft mass with no outer protection, and everything about his body felt heavier and harder to move. The Gigantic Ones had appeared to be so swift and powerful when they discovered Rogreg among their foods and chased him off. Now he did not feel swift nor powerful.
Rogreg lay beneath the soft platform and thought about what his family would do without him. He was their main provider, taking on much of the risk by venturing into open spaces and grabbing crumbs. He had come near death multiple times. The Gigantic Ones had no regard for the lives of his kind, and they seemed to always appear unexpectedly, first blinding him with lights, then attacking him with their large stomper appendages. He looked again at his large stompers and saw that they were soft and fleshy, lacking the outer coverings he was used to seeing come toward him. Perhaps he was injured.
He then heard a scuttling noise and turned his large head toward the sound. Across the room stood his sister, her antennae scanning the space around her. Rogreg was sure she was looking for him.
"I'm here!" he shouted, unprepared for the thunderous noise that escaped his body and filled the entire room. He could see his sister freeze where she stood, her antennae twitching nervously about her head. In an instant she was gone.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: When he woke up...
-----
When he woke up one morning from uneasy dreams, Rogreg found himself transformed into a Gigantic One. The extreme brightness of the room caused by light flooding in from four windows, which now appeared much smaller than Rogreg remembered them, filled him with anxiety and he wished to flee toward darker, hidden spaces. As he tried to scuttle away from the soft platform on which he lay, he realized that his six strong legs had been replace by four uneven ones, two large stompers and two weaker, floating ones. He reached out toward the floor and fell into the open space. Landing on the floor stomper appendages made him wobbly, and then having the rest of his weight land on the floating legs sent sharp pains to his insides. This caused his legs to give way and Rogreg collapsed on the floor in a loud thud. As he lay there, legs sprawled in all directions, he noticed a space beneath the soft platform and squirmed into the quiet, darkness.
No longer feeling exposed, Rogreg took stock of himself in the dark hideaway. His head was now heavy and round, and he could no longer see in all directions unless he turned his head to a great degree, something he was not used to doing. Atop his head, his antennae were gone and in their place grew a big swath of long hairs that obscured his vision when he looked down at the floor. His middle seemed a soft mass with no outer protection, and everything about his body felt heavier and harder to move. The Gigantic Ones had appeared to be so swift and powerful when they discovered Rogreg among their foods and chased him off. Now he did not feel swift nor powerful.
Rogreg lay beneath the soft platform and thought about what his family would do without him. He was their main provider, taking on much of the risk by venturing into open spaces and grabbing crumbs. He had come near death multiple times. The Gigantic Ones had no regard for the lives of his kind, and they seemed to always appear unexpectedly, first blinding him with lights, then attacking him with their large stomper appendages. He looked again at his large stompers and saw that they were soft and fleshy, lacking the outer coverings he was used to seeing come toward him. Perhaps he was injured.
He then heard a scuttling noise and turned his large head toward the sound. Across the room stood his sister, her antennae scanning the space around her. Rogreg was sure she was looking for him.
"I'm here!" he shouted, unprepared for the thunderous noise that escaped his body and filled the entire room. He could see his sister freeze where she stood, her antennae twitching nervously about her head. In an instant she was gone.
Thursday, January 14, 2016
2016 – Day 14
Mrs. Shwartz has been my therapist for two years, ever since I had my emotional breakdown about being committed to my marriage. She’s been so helpful, and I am doing much better these days. Not only have I made more of an effort to share with Conrad my thoughts and concerns, but I’ve completely moved past any feelings I thought I was having for Trevor (the barista at Starbucks), Modi (my mechanic), and Damon (a man who also shops at 5:45 each Friday evening at Stop ‘n Shop). As part of the process, Mrs. Schwartz is teaching me how to gain a deeper understanding of who I am and where I want to go while still maintaining my marriage. (Mrs. Shwartz is a licensed psychiatrist, but she prefers to go by Mrs. rather than Dr.)
When I first came to her office and sat across from her at the large oak desk, she asked why I came for counseling.
“I’m married,” I said, “But lately I’ve been having feelings for another man.”
“Who?” she said.
“His name is Damon, and we keep running into each other while grocery shopping.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know,” I said, doing a quick mental count that eventually ran close to a dozen times. “Maybe 5 or 6.”
“Is he the only one?"
"There have been a few others, but he's the only one right now."
"Okay," she said, taking a few notes in a pad on her desk. "And what do you hope to get out of this counseling?”
“I’m just really confused these days,” I said, looking for a nod or knowing smile, but she remained still. “I don't think I want another relationship. Conrad and I have known each other five years now and we've been married for three, and so we're used to each other. But it's nice to talk to other people sometimes. I've been home with the baby since he was born 14 months ago, and it gets pretty lonely. And Conrad is always at the office. I even thought he was into someone else for a while, but he said he wasn't. And I don't mean to have these feelings for anyone else. I'm just so confused."
"But you're married," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"We can meet on Tuesdays." She shook my hand and said her secretary would set up the next appointment.
Now on Tuesdays, I walk into her waiting room and prepare for our session as she instructed. I take a seat in one of the plush white chairs along the back wall and assess my week.
Did I communicate my needs to Conrad? Well, he was busy on his laptop and may not have heard me when I asked him to do the dishes. Also, I may have said it quietly because I didn't really want him to do it because I was asking. We already agreed I needed more help around the house. So that agreement counts as communicating, and therefore I really shouldn't have to ask again. Answer: Yes.
Did Conrad and I make time for true interactions? We had sex on Tuesday and I drove him to the mechanic on Wednesday. He got upset when I started chatting with Modi about Dancing with the Stars and so we interacted by arguing in the car on the way home. Answer: Yes.
Did I avoid inappropriate interactions? I talked with Modi, of course, but Conrad was there so that can't be inappropriate. I did go shopping at Stop 'n Shop, but I waited until 6:15, so it hardly left much time to talk with Damon, who happened to still be shopping though his cart was full. Answer: Yes.
Am I feeling that I am working toward the person I wish to be? I think I'm less confused. I'm pretty committed to Conrad. And when his mother mentioned grandchildren, and I ran into the bathroom and cried for 30 minutes straight, I think that was just bad timing because I'd seen a video about sick puppies three hours earlier and it just hit me then. I'm sure of it.
When I first came to her office and sat across from her at the large oak desk, she asked why I came for counseling.
“I’m married,” I said, “But lately I’ve been having feelings for another man.”
“Who?” she said.
“His name is Damon, and we keep running into each other while grocery shopping.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know,” I said, doing a quick mental count that eventually ran close to a dozen times. “Maybe 5 or 6.”
“Is he the only one?"
"There have been a few others, but he's the only one right now."
"Okay," she said, taking a few notes in a pad on her desk. "And what do you hope to get out of this counseling?”
“I’m just really confused these days,” I said, looking for a nod or knowing smile, but she remained still. “I don't think I want another relationship. Conrad and I have known each other five years now and we've been married for three, and so we're used to each other. But it's nice to talk to other people sometimes. I've been home with the baby since he was born 14 months ago, and it gets pretty lonely. And Conrad is always at the office. I even thought he was into someone else for a while, but he said he wasn't. And I don't mean to have these feelings for anyone else. I'm just so confused."
"But you're married," she said.
"Yes," I said.
"We can meet on Tuesdays." She shook my hand and said her secretary would set up the next appointment.
Now on Tuesdays, I walk into her waiting room and prepare for our session as she instructed. I take a seat in one of the plush white chairs along the back wall and assess my week.
Did I communicate my needs to Conrad? Well, he was busy on his laptop and may not have heard me when I asked him to do the dishes. Also, I may have said it quietly because I didn't really want him to do it because I was asking. We already agreed I needed more help around the house. So that agreement counts as communicating, and therefore I really shouldn't have to ask again. Answer: Yes.
Did Conrad and I make time for true interactions? We had sex on Tuesday and I drove him to the mechanic on Wednesday. He got upset when I started chatting with Modi about Dancing with the Stars and so we interacted by arguing in the car on the way home. Answer: Yes.
Did I avoid inappropriate interactions? I talked with Modi, of course, but Conrad was there so that can't be inappropriate. I did go shopping at Stop 'n Shop, but I waited until 6:15, so it hardly left much time to talk with Damon, who happened to still be shopping though his cart was full. Answer: Yes.
Am I feeling that I am working toward the person I wish to be? I think I'm less confused. I'm pretty committed to Conrad. And when his mother mentioned grandchildren, and I ran into the bathroom and cried for 30 minutes straight, I think that was just bad timing because I'd seen a video about sick puppies three hours earlier and it just hit me then. I'm sure of it.
Wednesday, January 13, 2016
2016 – Day 13
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a boat
-----------
For their three-month dating anniversary, Margot asked Tim to go with her on a boat ride along the river.
"We don't go anywhere except Bill's or Eddy's to play Xbox," she said. "Let's do something different. It'll be romantic."
"I don't know anything about boats," he said.
"It's just a rowboat," she said. "I think they let anyone rent one."
They argued for three days, but after Margot's final request and ultimatum, Tim agreed.
On the morning of the anniversary, they exchanged gifts (candy and bracelet for her, bottle of scotch for him) then drove out to the spot along the river where tourists could rent fishing poles, paddleboats, and rowboats.
It cost $20 to rent the boat, plus a $30 deposit for the oars and life vests. The boat they were given was pale blue with yellow trim along the top and "Sylvia" written in cursive along the stern. Margot squealed and hugged Tim to her.
"It looks like it belongs in a painting, doesn't it?" she said.
After their life vests were on, the man from the rental company helped them climb into the boat. Margot was instructed her to sit in the front, while Tim took the back seat. They were each handed an oar, given a quick run-through of the safety rules, and then shoved into the slow-moving water.
Tim, anxious and wobbly even while seated, plunged his oar into the water on his right and began swiftly rowing them away from the riverbank. Margot turned back and smiled.
"You're a natural!" she said.
"Turn around, you're shaking it," he said, now rowing on his left to avoid the sharp turn they were taking from his rowing on the right.
"Calm down," she said, looking around them. The water was calm, but the river was busy. There were several other rowboats like theirs ahead of them and two paddleboats behind. She saw a few boats all around that didn't look the same as theirs and guessed they must belong to people who actually lived beside the river and had their own boats. One such boat floated to their left along the opposite bank. It was painted gray with white stripes, and it was filled with five to six young guys. Margot saw a glint of something floating in the water beside them and realized it was a beer can. When she looked back up into the gray boat, she saw that one of the guys on the back bench staring at her. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw him wink and then smile at her.
"I need you to row on the left while I row on the right," Tim said.
Margot turned back to look at him as she lowered her oar into the water.
"Lets go further down the river from here," she said. "See what's there."
They each began to row together, looking for the rhythm that would keep them going straight. Margot stared ahead and listened for any sounds to their left as they pulled away from the gray boat. All around she heard the hum of people talking and laughing and the sound of water sloshing against the boats.
"Push harder or faster or something," Tim said. "You keep sending us to the left."
Margot focused on her rowing motion. Oar goes down, push back, oar goes up. Oar goes down, push back, oar goes up. After several strokes, she looked back at Tim.
"I think I've got it," she said, smiling. But then she saw it, the gray boat with white stripes following them down the river.
Step 1: takes place: in a boat
-----------
For their three-month dating anniversary, Margot asked Tim to go with her on a boat ride along the river.
"We don't go anywhere except Bill's or Eddy's to play Xbox," she said. "Let's do something different. It'll be romantic."
"I don't know anything about boats," he said.
"It's just a rowboat," she said. "I think they let anyone rent one."
They argued for three days, but after Margot's final request and ultimatum, Tim agreed.
On the morning of the anniversary, they exchanged gifts (candy and bracelet for her, bottle of scotch for him) then drove out to the spot along the river where tourists could rent fishing poles, paddleboats, and rowboats.
It cost $20 to rent the boat, plus a $30 deposit for the oars and life vests. The boat they were given was pale blue with yellow trim along the top and "Sylvia" written in cursive along the stern. Margot squealed and hugged Tim to her.
"It looks like it belongs in a painting, doesn't it?" she said.
After their life vests were on, the man from the rental company helped them climb into the boat. Margot was instructed her to sit in the front, while Tim took the back seat. They were each handed an oar, given a quick run-through of the safety rules, and then shoved into the slow-moving water.
Tim, anxious and wobbly even while seated, plunged his oar into the water on his right and began swiftly rowing them away from the riverbank. Margot turned back and smiled.
"You're a natural!" she said.
"Turn around, you're shaking it," he said, now rowing on his left to avoid the sharp turn they were taking from his rowing on the right.
"Calm down," she said, looking around them. The water was calm, but the river was busy. There were several other rowboats like theirs ahead of them and two paddleboats behind. She saw a few boats all around that didn't look the same as theirs and guessed they must belong to people who actually lived beside the river and had their own boats. One such boat floated to their left along the opposite bank. It was painted gray with white stripes, and it was filled with five to six young guys. Margot saw a glint of something floating in the water beside them and realized it was a beer can. When she looked back up into the gray boat, she saw that one of the guys on the back bench staring at her. She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw him wink and then smile at her.
"I need you to row on the left while I row on the right," Tim said.
Margot turned back to look at him as she lowered her oar into the water.
"Lets go further down the river from here," she said. "See what's there."
They each began to row together, looking for the rhythm that would keep them going straight. Margot stared ahead and listened for any sounds to their left as they pulled away from the gray boat. All around she heard the hum of people talking and laughing and the sound of water sloshing against the boats.
"Push harder or faster or something," Tim said. "You keep sending us to the left."
Margot focused on her rowing motion. Oar goes down, push back, oar goes up. Oar goes down, push back, oar goes up. After several strokes, she looked back at Tim.
"I think I've got it," she said, smiling. But then she saw it, the gray boat with white stripes following them down the river.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
2016 – Day 12
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a forest
Step 2: include this sentence: Time goes by so fast that...
Step 3: add a character who: stumbles and falls
Step 4: add a character who: doesn't have any hair
Step 5: add this word: hug
------------
The hike was meant to be low-key and less structured than other cub scout events. Eight boys and their parents on a Saturday afternoon would walk along a trail in the Pineway Reserve, a small forest and nature preserve situated at the intersection of four suburban towns. Bonnie had never been a scout herself, nor did she have any interest in scouting, but Trevor had begged to join with his friend Allen and so she felt compelled to sign him up. As a single mother dealing with an inattentive ex, it fell to her to manage all activities for her two boys. She tried to sign them up for anything they expressed interest in doing, else she would feel the gnawing guilt over not giving them every chance at normalcy and happiness. Time goes by so fast that they'll be grown before I know it, she thought. I need to spend my time with them now.
The morning of the hike began with a light drizzle that dissolved into gray skies as they pulled into the parking lot. Trevor darted out of the car the moment it stopped, leaving Bonnie to gather the backpacks and jackets they had thrown into the back seat. She hadn't been on a hike in 15 years, and so she steeled herself for a stressful afternoon. Between her last hike, which resulted in a terrible case of poison ivy, and other outdoor experiences that caused painful, allergic reactions, she had come to one conclusion: her body hated nature and nature hated her back. As such, Bonnie attempted to avoid nature wherever possible, venturing only onto manicured lawns and maintained paths, never into wilderness, and always at a distance from any flying or crawling creatures.
The scouting had ushered in a period of detente between Bonnie and nature in which she had, several times, ventured into wilder territories than her front lawn. Still, this hike represented her biggest attempt to make peace with the natural world. She tightened her boot laces while leaning on the car, then made her way toward the edge of the parking lot. From there she could see the group of scouts and parents gathered near a large sign at the Reserve's entrance. A winding, rocky path led downhill from the parking lot to where the group stood. Bonnie walked quickly to the path and began making her way down. But after only five steps, her foot caught on a large stone, and she felt herself flying to the ground and then continuing to tumble down the path. She threw her arms out to try to stop herself from rolling, but felt only pain in return as her body was scraped and bruised. Finally, she came to a stop at the feet of the scout leader who had come running toward the path when he saw her fall.
"Are you okay?" he said, grabbing her face in his hands and looking into her eyes.
Bonnie stared up at him. She knew the baseball hat he wore sat atop a large, shiny, bald head, but suddenly she found herself wondering how he kept from getting sunburns and bug bites in the areas the hat didn't cover. She was still staring when Trevor ran over and grabbed her in a hug.
"Mom! You okay?"
Bonnie looked at Trevor and saw that he was frightened. She forced herself to focus on his face and told him that she was okay. With help from the scout leader and another parent, she managed to stand up and limp over to a bench made from a large tree trunk. They helped bandage up her cuts and she assured them that nothing felt broken. She made some joke about her pride being broken, but she wasn't sure if anyone laughed. They asked her many times if she wanted to go home or wait for them at the entrance, but she insisted that she wanted to go on ahead with the hike. As the group began to make their way toward the trail entrance, Bonnie looked at the forest ahead. Nature had won the first round. The next one was hers.
Step 1: takes place: in a forest
Step 2: include this sentence: Time goes by so fast that...
Step 3: add a character who: stumbles and falls
Step 4: add a character who: doesn't have any hair
Step 5: add this word: hug
------------
The hike was meant to be low-key and less structured than other cub scout events. Eight boys and their parents on a Saturday afternoon would walk along a trail in the Pineway Reserve, a small forest and nature preserve situated at the intersection of four suburban towns. Bonnie had never been a scout herself, nor did she have any interest in scouting, but Trevor had begged to join with his friend Allen and so she felt compelled to sign him up. As a single mother dealing with an inattentive ex, it fell to her to manage all activities for her two boys. She tried to sign them up for anything they expressed interest in doing, else she would feel the gnawing guilt over not giving them every chance at normalcy and happiness. Time goes by so fast that they'll be grown before I know it, she thought. I need to spend my time with them now.
The morning of the hike began with a light drizzle that dissolved into gray skies as they pulled into the parking lot. Trevor darted out of the car the moment it stopped, leaving Bonnie to gather the backpacks and jackets they had thrown into the back seat. She hadn't been on a hike in 15 years, and so she steeled herself for a stressful afternoon. Between her last hike, which resulted in a terrible case of poison ivy, and other outdoor experiences that caused painful, allergic reactions, she had come to one conclusion: her body hated nature and nature hated her back. As such, Bonnie attempted to avoid nature wherever possible, venturing only onto manicured lawns and maintained paths, never into wilderness, and always at a distance from any flying or crawling creatures.
The scouting had ushered in a period of detente between Bonnie and nature in which she had, several times, ventured into wilder territories than her front lawn. Still, this hike represented her biggest attempt to make peace with the natural world. She tightened her boot laces while leaning on the car, then made her way toward the edge of the parking lot. From there she could see the group of scouts and parents gathered near a large sign at the Reserve's entrance. A winding, rocky path led downhill from the parking lot to where the group stood. Bonnie walked quickly to the path and began making her way down. But after only five steps, her foot caught on a large stone, and she felt herself flying to the ground and then continuing to tumble down the path. She threw her arms out to try to stop herself from rolling, but felt only pain in return as her body was scraped and bruised. Finally, she came to a stop at the feet of the scout leader who had come running toward the path when he saw her fall.
"Are you okay?" he said, grabbing her face in his hands and looking into her eyes.
Bonnie stared up at him. She knew the baseball hat he wore sat atop a large, shiny, bald head, but suddenly she found herself wondering how he kept from getting sunburns and bug bites in the areas the hat didn't cover. She was still staring when Trevor ran over and grabbed her in a hug.
"Mom! You okay?"
Bonnie looked at Trevor and saw that he was frightened. She forced herself to focus on his face and told him that she was okay. With help from the scout leader and another parent, she managed to stand up and limp over to a bench made from a large tree trunk. They helped bandage up her cuts and she assured them that nothing felt broken. She made some joke about her pride being broken, but she wasn't sure if anyone laughed. They asked her many times if she wanted to go home or wait for them at the entrance, but she insisted that she wanted to go on ahead with the hike. As the group began to make their way toward the trail entrance, Bonnie looked at the forest ahead. Nature had won the first round. The next one was hers.
Monday, January 11, 2016
2016 – Day 11
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a bus
Step 2: add a character who: receives a gift
Step 3: add this word: appreciation
Step 4: add a character who: looks out the window
------
Benji sat on the Go Bus from Boston to New York, his legs bouncing atop the floor in jittery anticipation. He had finally decided to make the big leap and get a fresh start at life in a real city. Boston was fine and all, but it was too damn small. That old TV show about the Boston bar where everybody knows your name? May as well have been about the whole city. Everybody knows everybody else's business and won't stay out if it. Neighbors. Parents. Aunts and uncles. Ex-girlfriends and the new jerks they're dating. He'd been in Boston all 27 years of his life, and it was enough.
Outside the bus windows, the narrow road they were on took them past brownstones and blocks of shops and nail salons until it finally gave way to a wider stretch of highway. There, greenery began filling in the gaps between buildings, of which there were fewer and fewer, until all Benji could see on either side were forests. The unchanging scenery soon made his eyelids droopy, so he turned his attention to the bag at his feet.
Nearly all of his possessions were crammed underneath the bus in his dad's old army bag. But a few special things he stuffed in the backpack beneath the seat in front of him. He reached down and pulled the bag open to stare at the item at the very top—a present wrapped in silver paper with gold stars. It was from Connie, who told him to stash the gift and not open it until he was outside of Boston. She said it would make her cry to see him open it and also her boyfriend wouldn't appreciate her gesture. Benji didn't want her to cry, but he didn't mind taking an opportunity to annoy the new jerk boyfriend.
"Whacha got there, Connie?" he'd said in a loud voice that everyone at his goodbye party could hear. "Present for me?"
He smiled at her, but she shook her head, her gray eyes locking tightly on his.
"This is not how you show appreciation, Benji," she said, her voice so low that only he could hear. "I asked you to keep that between you and me. It's shit like this that made me leave your ass."
"It's just a joke!" he said, thinking how much he hated her angry stare. She always took things too seriously. He took the present and stashed it in his bag. The jerk boyfriend never saw it.
Now he regarded the present by his feet once more. He wasn't sure he wanted to open it. It was time for a clean break in a city that didn't know him. He zipped the bag up with the present still inside, and turned to look back out the window.
Step 1: takes place: in a bus
Step 2: add a character who: receives a gift
Step 3: add this word: appreciation
Step 4: add a character who: looks out the window
------
Benji sat on the Go Bus from Boston to New York, his legs bouncing atop the floor in jittery anticipation. He had finally decided to make the big leap and get a fresh start at life in a real city. Boston was fine and all, but it was too damn small. That old TV show about the Boston bar where everybody knows your name? May as well have been about the whole city. Everybody knows everybody else's business and won't stay out if it. Neighbors. Parents. Aunts and uncles. Ex-girlfriends and the new jerks they're dating. He'd been in Boston all 27 years of his life, and it was enough.
Outside the bus windows, the narrow road they were on took them past brownstones and blocks of shops and nail salons until it finally gave way to a wider stretch of highway. There, greenery began filling in the gaps between buildings, of which there were fewer and fewer, until all Benji could see on either side were forests. The unchanging scenery soon made his eyelids droopy, so he turned his attention to the bag at his feet.
Nearly all of his possessions were crammed underneath the bus in his dad's old army bag. But a few special things he stuffed in the backpack beneath the seat in front of him. He reached down and pulled the bag open to stare at the item at the very top—a present wrapped in silver paper with gold stars. It was from Connie, who told him to stash the gift and not open it until he was outside of Boston. She said it would make her cry to see him open it and also her boyfriend wouldn't appreciate her gesture. Benji didn't want her to cry, but he didn't mind taking an opportunity to annoy the new jerk boyfriend.
"Whacha got there, Connie?" he'd said in a loud voice that everyone at his goodbye party could hear. "Present for me?"
He smiled at her, but she shook her head, her gray eyes locking tightly on his.
"This is not how you show appreciation, Benji," she said, her voice so low that only he could hear. "I asked you to keep that between you and me. It's shit like this that made me leave your ass."
"It's just a joke!" he said, thinking how much he hated her angry stare. She always took things too seriously. He took the present and stashed it in his bag. The jerk boyfriend never saw it.
Now he regarded the present by his feet once more. He wasn't sure he wanted to open it. It was time for a clean break in a city that didn't know him. He zipped the bag up with the present still inside, and turned to look back out the window.
Sunday, January 10, 2016
2016 – Day 10
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He got the message
Step 2: include this sentence: it had been nine years
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: Any questions?
----------
He got the message about the reorg on Friday. At 4:30 p.m.
"That ain't good," he said to Dave, who sat in the cube to his left. "They only give bad news on Friday afternoons."
"Chill out, Frank," Dave said, not looking away from his screen where an animated penguin was boxing a robot. "They haven't given any real information yet."
"What do you know?" Frank said, standing up from his chair and leaning over the cubicle wall. "You're, what, 27?"
"I'm 25."
"Even worse. Well, I'm 57 and I've been through these before. Somebody's losing their job."
"You're 57?" Dave said, looking up from his computer and regarding Frank over the wall. "Huh."
Frank's already rosy face turned redder. "'What do you mean 'huh'?"
"Nothing. I just had no idea how old you were."
"I'm old enough to know that this management team has their heads up their asses and hiring some outside "experts" isn't going to fix anything."
"Maybe they've figured something else out. You never know."
Frank shook his head and returned to his desk. As he sat down, he picked up a pen and began to fiddle with it. Still open on his monitor was the email from his department director announcing the upcoming changes. Dave wasn't wrong. There was no real information about the reorg in the email, other than the fact that it was happening, but Frank hated any change. It had been nine years since his last promotion, and he was fine with that. More money would have been good, of course, but he and his wife were comfortable enough, and he thought it more important to stay off the senior leadership's radar. The more seniority and responsibility you were given, the more chance there was of screwing up and finding yourself out of a job. Frank had no intension of starting over now that he was just 10 years from retirement.
Monday morning the team gathered in the conference room. Frank squeezed in toward the back, but made sure he could see what was happening at the front. The meeting began with Ed, the department director, giving a short speech about the importance of their work and staying current with trends. Frank half-listened as he scanned the room for any unfamiliar faces. He figured if anyone was brought in to downsize or manage the group, this would be their introduction. But after looking back and forth several times, Frank had to conclude that there was no one he didn't know.
After about five minutes, Ed concluded his speech.
"And so we need new ideas," he said, pounding his right fist into his left hand in excited emphasis. "New understandings of our users and and their ever-changing world. And the ability to look for new opportunities in the burgeoning markets. That is why I have appointed Dave Etger as our new Managing Director. Please join me in congratulating him."
The room filled with polite applause. Frank joined in, but he wasn't sure he understood what had just happened. The kid who sat beside him was his new boss? Was that possible?
"Any questions?" Ed asked.
The room was quiet. Frank wondered if others were speechless from shock, or if they, like him, were now replaying every conversation that they had had with Dave.
Step 1: begins with this sentence: He got the message
Step 2: include this sentence: it had been nine years
Step 3: include a dialogue that begins with: Any questions?
----------
He got the message about the reorg on Friday. At 4:30 p.m.
"That ain't good," he said to Dave, who sat in the cube to his left. "They only give bad news on Friday afternoons."
"Chill out, Frank," Dave said, not looking away from his screen where an animated penguin was boxing a robot. "They haven't given any real information yet."
"What do you know?" Frank said, standing up from his chair and leaning over the cubicle wall. "You're, what, 27?"
"I'm 25."
"Even worse. Well, I'm 57 and I've been through these before. Somebody's losing their job."
"You're 57?" Dave said, looking up from his computer and regarding Frank over the wall. "Huh."
Frank's already rosy face turned redder. "'What do you mean 'huh'?"
"Nothing. I just had no idea how old you were."
"I'm old enough to know that this management team has their heads up their asses and hiring some outside "experts" isn't going to fix anything."
"Maybe they've figured something else out. You never know."
Frank shook his head and returned to his desk. As he sat down, he picked up a pen and began to fiddle with it. Still open on his monitor was the email from his department director announcing the upcoming changes. Dave wasn't wrong. There was no real information about the reorg in the email, other than the fact that it was happening, but Frank hated any change. It had been nine years since his last promotion, and he was fine with that. More money would have been good, of course, but he and his wife were comfortable enough, and he thought it more important to stay off the senior leadership's radar. The more seniority and responsibility you were given, the more chance there was of screwing up and finding yourself out of a job. Frank had no intension of starting over now that he was just 10 years from retirement.
Monday morning the team gathered in the conference room. Frank squeezed in toward the back, but made sure he could see what was happening at the front. The meeting began with Ed, the department director, giving a short speech about the importance of their work and staying current with trends. Frank half-listened as he scanned the room for any unfamiliar faces. He figured if anyone was brought in to downsize or manage the group, this would be their introduction. But after looking back and forth several times, Frank had to conclude that there was no one he didn't know.
After about five minutes, Ed concluded his speech.
"And so we need new ideas," he said, pounding his right fist into his left hand in excited emphasis. "New understandings of our users and and their ever-changing world. And the ability to look for new opportunities in the burgeoning markets. That is why I have appointed Dave Etger as our new Managing Director. Please join me in congratulating him."
The room filled with polite applause. Frank joined in, but he wasn't sure he understood what had just happened. The kid who sat beside him was his new boss? Was that possible?
"Any questions?" Ed asked.
The room was quiet. Frank wondered if others were speechless from shock, or if they, like him, were now replaying every conversation that they had had with Dave.
Saturday, January 9, 2016
2016 – Day 9
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: has a character who: believes in ghosts
Step 2: add this word: city
Step 3: add this word: intolerant
-------------------
Yana had been able to see ghosts since she was 12. Her mother also saw them and had relayed all that she knew to her when Yana was 10.
"If you have the sight, it will come when you reach womanhood," she said. "Don't be scared."
Of course Yana was petrified. She had nightmares for two weeks, but then slowly forgot about it as the months passed. Then, while she was sitting in math class in 6th grade, she felt discomfort and asked to go to the bathroom. In the stall, she discovered that her period had started, but she had been prepared for it for weeks after conversations with her mom, doctor, and friends who had already gotten it, so she felt only relief to no longer be waiting for it. She cleaned up and went to wash her hands in the sink. As she reached for soap pump, the florescent lights above, which had a loud ever-present hum, grew silent. Their power dimmed and instead a brighter light began to form behind her. She watched it glow in the mirror and then she heard the sounds, very low at first, but then louder. It was a cacophony of voices, with no single voice standing out. It was as if a crowd had formed around her and everyone was having separate conversations, all at the same volume. It grew louder and louder and as she moved to cover her ears, all of the voices seemed to call out in unison, "Yana!"
She awoke in the school nurse's office and was told some students had found her passed out on the bathroom floor. She told the nurse, Ms. Rawlins, only that her period had started, and that seemed to satisfy any concern.
"Everyone responds differently the first time," Ms. Rawlins said. "I'll suggest your mom take you to the doctor for a checkup, but I suspect you'll be just fine."
Eight years later, Yana still thought back to that first day as she set up for her clients. She was now going to college in New York City, and she worked as "Madam Yulia" to help pay the bills. While her classmates worked as cashiers or messengers, and a few as escorts, she stole away to a small storefront that her Aunt, also a seer, let her use.
Yana had learned early that people had a particular vision of what this experience would entail. When she first began, she kept everything simple. A small, round wooden table in the center of the room with two chairs opposite each other. She would tell the clients to sit with her and she would hold their hands. She only asked for the name of the person they wanted to contact but didn't ask any other questions. She looked into their eyes and waited for the sounds of departed loved ones to fill the room. The ghosts never arrived alone, so she painstakingly found the needed voice within the din and relayed all they had to say to the person sitting before her. But the ghosts could not always be heard. Relationships among the living are fraught with anxiety, anger, intolerance, and jealousy. The ghosts were still the essence of their living selves and didn't become gracious or loving simply because they had passed on. Sometimes what they had to say seemed too unpleasant to pass on, or they simply refused to speak.
The few clients whose loved ones were present and had loving things to say, were mostly happy with what she had to tell them. However, those clients whose loved ones refused to speak, or were better not translated, called her a fraud. And it seemed that everyone, no matter what the result of their communication had been, had a difficult time believing that this young girl in a nearly empty store could actually speak to the dead. She looked nothing like they thought she would and said none of the things they expected to hear. Most left upset and did not return.
Yana began to see that she needed to do more than give them the truth. She watched every movie she could find about ghosts and mediums and mysticism. She bought curtains and hung them around all of the walls. She bought colored lights to bring a glow to the room. She found old fashioned robes and capes that she could wear, and she wore makeup to add age and intrigue. When they came in, she sat them down, and in a thick Russian accent that mimicked her old relatives, asked them about their departed husbands or parents and then moaned the names out loud.
"John Barron. Jooooohn Baaaaaronnnn. Come speak to us. We beseech you to come from beyond and speak to your beloved wife, Clara."
Then she listened to the voices that had already surrounded her to find the one that was John Barron. If she could find his words and they were kind or helpful, she spoke them aloud. If they were hurtful words, she changed them to add apologies or regrets from beyond. The ghosts themselves lacked fullness of presence and understanding, so they did not hear what she relayed to the living. They only spoke what was inside of them.
If she could not find the voice of the person her client wanted to reach, she learned how to fake it. Though she had true sight, she figured out how to glean the right information when she questioning them to give them believable loving messages from beyond.
Soon, more and more clients returned, often bringing friends or family. Over time, Yana got used to the presentation she had to give, but she began to wonder if there was anything true about her sight any more.
Step 1: has a character who: believes in ghosts
Step 2: add this word: city
Step 3: add this word: intolerant
-------------------
Yana had been able to see ghosts since she was 12. Her mother also saw them and had relayed all that she knew to her when Yana was 10.
"If you have the sight, it will come when you reach womanhood," she said. "Don't be scared."
Of course Yana was petrified. She had nightmares for two weeks, but then slowly forgot about it as the months passed. Then, while she was sitting in math class in 6th grade, she felt discomfort and asked to go to the bathroom. In the stall, she discovered that her period had started, but she had been prepared for it for weeks after conversations with her mom, doctor, and friends who had already gotten it, so she felt only relief to no longer be waiting for it. She cleaned up and went to wash her hands in the sink. As she reached for soap pump, the florescent lights above, which had a loud ever-present hum, grew silent. Their power dimmed and instead a brighter light began to form behind her. She watched it glow in the mirror and then she heard the sounds, very low at first, but then louder. It was a cacophony of voices, with no single voice standing out. It was as if a crowd had formed around her and everyone was having separate conversations, all at the same volume. It grew louder and louder and as she moved to cover her ears, all of the voices seemed to call out in unison, "Yana!"
She awoke in the school nurse's office and was told some students had found her passed out on the bathroom floor. She told the nurse, Ms. Rawlins, only that her period had started, and that seemed to satisfy any concern.
"Everyone responds differently the first time," Ms. Rawlins said. "I'll suggest your mom take you to the doctor for a checkup, but I suspect you'll be just fine."
Eight years later, Yana still thought back to that first day as she set up for her clients. She was now going to college in New York City, and she worked as "Madam Yulia" to help pay the bills. While her classmates worked as cashiers or messengers, and a few as escorts, she stole away to a small storefront that her Aunt, also a seer, let her use.
Yana had learned early that people had a particular vision of what this experience would entail. When she first began, she kept everything simple. A small, round wooden table in the center of the room with two chairs opposite each other. She would tell the clients to sit with her and she would hold their hands. She only asked for the name of the person they wanted to contact but didn't ask any other questions. She looked into their eyes and waited for the sounds of departed loved ones to fill the room. The ghosts never arrived alone, so she painstakingly found the needed voice within the din and relayed all they had to say to the person sitting before her. But the ghosts could not always be heard. Relationships among the living are fraught with anxiety, anger, intolerance, and jealousy. The ghosts were still the essence of their living selves and didn't become gracious or loving simply because they had passed on. Sometimes what they had to say seemed too unpleasant to pass on, or they simply refused to speak.
The few clients whose loved ones were present and had loving things to say, were mostly happy with what she had to tell them. However, those clients whose loved ones refused to speak, or were better not translated, called her a fraud. And it seemed that everyone, no matter what the result of their communication had been, had a difficult time believing that this young girl in a nearly empty store could actually speak to the dead. She looked nothing like they thought she would and said none of the things they expected to hear. Most left upset and did not return.
Yana began to see that she needed to do more than give them the truth. She watched every movie she could find about ghosts and mediums and mysticism. She bought curtains and hung them around all of the walls. She bought colored lights to bring a glow to the room. She found old fashioned robes and capes that she could wear, and she wore makeup to add age and intrigue. When they came in, she sat them down, and in a thick Russian accent that mimicked her old relatives, asked them about their departed husbands or parents and then moaned the names out loud.
"John Barron. Jooooohn Baaaaaronnnn. Come speak to us. We beseech you to come from beyond and speak to your beloved wife, Clara."
Then she listened to the voices that had already surrounded her to find the one that was John Barron. If she could find his words and they were kind or helpful, she spoke them aloud. If they were hurtful words, she changed them to add apologies or regrets from beyond. The ghosts themselves lacked fullness of presence and understanding, so they did not hear what she relayed to the living. They only spoke what was inside of them.
If she could not find the voice of the person her client wanted to reach, she learned how to fake it. Though she had true sight, she figured out how to glean the right information when she questioning them to give them believable loving messages from beyond.
Soon, more and more clients returned, often bringing friends or family. Over time, Yana got used to the presentation she had to give, but she began to wonder if there was anything true about her sight any more.
Friday, January 8, 2016
2016 – Day 8
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: takes place: in a post office
Step 2: includes a dialogue that begins with: I got fired
Step 3: add this word: drown
-----------
Eliot stood in line at the post office. All he wanted was a book of stamps, but the ones offered in the automated machine in the vestibule didn't have the right design. He wanted something to go with his letter, a stamp that was special enough to convince the woman on the receiving end that this was a letter worth opening.
There were only three other people ahead of him in line, but the man at the front of the line now talking with the postal worker seemed to have a complicated request. The clerk had given him forms and asked him to step aside to complete them, but the man's numerous questions kept him coming back to the front. The woman behind him had tried twice to take her turn, but appeared to have given up after the last interruption and now stood back to wait. Eliot took in the man's thickly lined rain jacket and rumpled pants, both of which seemed to deny the 80-degree weather outside, and didn't blame the woman for giving him a wide berth.
"I got fired!" the man said, holding the form up and pointing to a line in the middle. "I need this to show exactly when I sent this so I have proof of my legal action. Do I fill that out here? Shouldn't it be some automatic stamp?"
"Sir, you have to fill out all of the light gray sections," the clerk responded. "I can't fill any of that out for you."
"That's not how it worked last time," the man said. "Do you know what you're doing?"
Eliot tried not to stare at the exchange happening and instead focused on the illustration of available stamps hanging above the counter. There were flags and flowers and famous landmarks. All the same options he could get at the machine. But he was putting in the time to wait for two special stamps. The first was the Ingrid Bergman stamp. The sepia photograph showed hints of color, blue for Bergman's eyes and red for her lips, which curved in just a hint of a smile as she looked off to her right. Eliot hoped the stamp would remind Lila of the first time they watched Gaslight together, each in their own homes but talking nonstop over IMs. That was before they had started dating officially and long before their relationship had dissolved into fights that he often started and she always ended. The final fight, which she ended by throwing his shirts into the entryway, was worthy of a Hollywood movie. But the dramatic end belied the agonizing quiet that was to follow.
She blocked him from every means of electronic communication. Emails were never returned, and he was certain her gmail was set to automatically filter out his emails so she never had to see them. All of her social media accounts disappeared from his view. Friends were instructed not to relay messages. The walls were up at every turn.
The solution came to him as he drank his sorrows and drowned in old movies that reminded him of her. What if he sent her a letter? They were romantic. They were personal. And they arrived whether you wanted them to or not. Of course she could always throw the letter away without reading it. But first she would see the stamp. Maybe it would remind her of that night. And of some of the other good nights. Maybe she'd open the letter and read it. And, if it touched her enough to keep her reading to the end, she would find on the very last page a Jimmy Stewart stamp taped to the bottom. That would remind her of the time they watched The Shop Around the Corner, in which a man and woman fall in love through letters, though they fight all the time in person. And then, maybe, hopefully, she'd use the stamp. He was ready to wait a long time to get that stamp back. But first, he would wait in line at the post office.
Step 1: takes place: in a post office
Step 2: includes a dialogue that begins with: I got fired
Step 3: add this word: drown
-----------
Eliot stood in line at the post office. All he wanted was a book of stamps, but the ones offered in the automated machine in the vestibule didn't have the right design. He wanted something to go with his letter, a stamp that was special enough to convince the woman on the receiving end that this was a letter worth opening.
There were only three other people ahead of him in line, but the man at the front of the line now talking with the postal worker seemed to have a complicated request. The clerk had given him forms and asked him to step aside to complete them, but the man's numerous questions kept him coming back to the front. The woman behind him had tried twice to take her turn, but appeared to have given up after the last interruption and now stood back to wait. Eliot took in the man's thickly lined rain jacket and rumpled pants, both of which seemed to deny the 80-degree weather outside, and didn't blame the woman for giving him a wide berth.
"I got fired!" the man said, holding the form up and pointing to a line in the middle. "I need this to show exactly when I sent this so I have proof of my legal action. Do I fill that out here? Shouldn't it be some automatic stamp?"
"Sir, you have to fill out all of the light gray sections," the clerk responded. "I can't fill any of that out for you."
"That's not how it worked last time," the man said. "Do you know what you're doing?"
Eliot tried not to stare at the exchange happening and instead focused on the illustration of available stamps hanging above the counter. There were flags and flowers and famous landmarks. All the same options he could get at the machine. But he was putting in the time to wait for two special stamps. The first was the Ingrid Bergman stamp. The sepia photograph showed hints of color, blue for Bergman's eyes and red for her lips, which curved in just a hint of a smile as she looked off to her right. Eliot hoped the stamp would remind Lila of the first time they watched Gaslight together, each in their own homes but talking nonstop over IMs. That was before they had started dating officially and long before their relationship had dissolved into fights that he often started and she always ended. The final fight, which she ended by throwing his shirts into the entryway, was worthy of a Hollywood movie. But the dramatic end belied the agonizing quiet that was to follow.
She blocked him from every means of electronic communication. Emails were never returned, and he was certain her gmail was set to automatically filter out his emails so she never had to see them. All of her social media accounts disappeared from his view. Friends were instructed not to relay messages. The walls were up at every turn.
The solution came to him as he drank his sorrows and drowned in old movies that reminded him of her. What if he sent her a letter? They were romantic. They were personal. And they arrived whether you wanted them to or not. Of course she could always throw the letter away without reading it. But first she would see the stamp. Maybe it would remind her of that night. And of some of the other good nights. Maybe she'd open the letter and read it. And, if it touched her enough to keep her reading to the end, she would find on the very last page a Jimmy Stewart stamp taped to the bottom. That would remind her of the time they watched The Shop Around the Corner, in which a man and woman fall in love through letters, though they fight all the time in person. And then, maybe, hopefully, she'd use the stamp. He was ready to wait a long time to get that stamp back. But first, he would wait in line at the post office.
Thursday, January 7, 2016
2016 – Day 7
Start writing a story that...
Step 1: includes the words: leader serious vest
Step 2: add this word: fear
------------
In 6th grade, Mattie Donaldson was our leader and she took it very seriously. We were a loose band of geeky, awkward girls who either had no interest in girly stuff like makeup and clothes, or had an intense interest, but lacked the skills or look to make it work. We knew who we were and we somehow found the strength to go with it, despite all the pressures to conform.
We weren't aware that we might have individual strength at the time, we just knew that we had Mattie, and she kept us feeling strong together. On Fridays, Mattie wore her "celebration vest" to school, a bright purple, faux fur vest that made her look like a muppet had shed all over her. Mattie's grandmother had given her the vest when she was four, and Mattie loved it immediately. But it had been much too large for her to wear to school, so her mother told her she had to wait to wear it and stashed it out of sight. Every few months, Mattie would beg her mother to give her the vest so that she could try it on again, but it was never produced.
Mattie began to suspect that her mother would never give back the vest. She feared that she would outgrow it before she had the chance to wear it and so she began furtive searches of her house when her mother wasn't home. It was difficult because Mrs. Donaldson didn't work outside the house, so Mattie had to be quick during grocery shopping trips or doctor's appointments. She couldn't risk looking when she and her sister were left with a babysitter because she suspected that she'd be ratted out. But she took every opportunity until, finally, in the summer before 6th grade, she found it tucked inside a box in the basement labeled "cooking utensils." There were, in fact, several spatulas and old pots and pans in the box, ones that Mattie didn't remember ever seeing in the kitchen. But also, just beneath a cast-iron pan, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag, was the vest. She tried it on that very moment and it fit perfectly.
That night, we were all on the phone debating how Mattie should handle her discovery. She could confront her mother. She could hide the vest in her own room. She could wear it secretly to school. Every possible idea was thrown out. But then Mattie made the decision that only she would make. On the first day of school, she dressed in jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt, and then she put on her purple vest and went downstairs. When her mother saw her, Mattie looked her right in the eyes, keeping her face serious, unapologetic, and silent. Then she walked out to the bus stop without saying a word.
Her mother never mentioned the vest. And every Friday after that first day, Mattie wore it to school. She named it the "celebration vest." She never said if she was celebrating her discovery of the vest, her victory over her mother, or the vest itself, but it didn't matter. We all shared in her joy as we walked down the hall together, the vest's purple hairs blowing back with each step. And no matter what reaction we got from our classmates—sneers, confusion, or outright meanness—we felt strong.
Step 1: includes the words: leader serious vest
Step 2: add this word: fear
------------
In 6th grade, Mattie Donaldson was our leader and she took it very seriously. We were a loose band of geeky, awkward girls who either had no interest in girly stuff like makeup and clothes, or had an intense interest, but lacked the skills or look to make it work. We knew who we were and we somehow found the strength to go with it, despite all the pressures to conform.
We weren't aware that we might have individual strength at the time, we just knew that we had Mattie, and she kept us feeling strong together. On Fridays, Mattie wore her "celebration vest" to school, a bright purple, faux fur vest that made her look like a muppet had shed all over her. Mattie's grandmother had given her the vest when she was four, and Mattie loved it immediately. But it had been much too large for her to wear to school, so her mother told her she had to wait to wear it and stashed it out of sight. Every few months, Mattie would beg her mother to give her the vest so that she could try it on again, but it was never produced.
Mattie began to suspect that her mother would never give back the vest. She feared that she would outgrow it before she had the chance to wear it and so she began furtive searches of her house when her mother wasn't home. It was difficult because Mrs. Donaldson didn't work outside the house, so Mattie had to be quick during grocery shopping trips or doctor's appointments. She couldn't risk looking when she and her sister were left with a babysitter because she suspected that she'd be ratted out. But she took every opportunity until, finally, in the summer before 6th grade, she found it tucked inside a box in the basement labeled "cooking utensils." There were, in fact, several spatulas and old pots and pans in the box, ones that Mattie didn't remember ever seeing in the kitchen. But also, just beneath a cast-iron pan, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag, was the vest. She tried it on that very moment and it fit perfectly.
That night, we were all on the phone debating how Mattie should handle her discovery. She could confront her mother. She could hide the vest in her own room. She could wear it secretly to school. Every possible idea was thrown out. But then Mattie made the decision that only she would make. On the first day of school, she dressed in jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt, and then she put on her purple vest and went downstairs. When her mother saw her, Mattie looked her right in the eyes, keeping her face serious, unapologetic, and silent. Then she walked out to the bus stop without saying a word.
Her mother never mentioned the vest. And every Friday after that first day, Mattie wore it to school. She named it the "celebration vest." She never said if she was celebrating her discovery of the vest, her victory over her mother, or the vest itself, but it didn't matter. We all shared in her joy as we walked down the hall together, the vest's purple hairs blowing back with each step. And no matter what reaction we got from our classmates—sneers, confusion, or outright meanness—we felt strong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)