I've been following a blog that sends out an email each morning with a short writing prompt. The prompts are not always easy. The one a few days ago was about a ripe banana. I liked the one today, it was about a character with 5 middle names. LOL
Anyway, I thought it would be fun to post my prompts and responses so far. Some of them are very funny. Names have been changed to protect the innocent. <grin> If you are interested in joining me in writing a bit everyday, the blog is SarahSelecky.com. Very fun, indeed.
June 13, 2014 – A scene that takes place on a couch.
The orange cat paced into the living room and stopped and
stared. The new blue couch would be perfect for his afternoon nap. He ran to
it, preparing to leap, leopard like, onto the soft blue cushions.
The woman appeared with a hair brush (Good God, was she
going to brush him again?) Carrot stood on the couch and stared with his
smooshy cat face, trying to appear thoughtful.
“Carrot,” and then she continued with her “blah, blah, blah,
blah, blah, blah.” Carrot looked slitty eyed at her and hopped off the couch.
His tail twitched disdainfully and he daintily stepped into his cat bed.
The woman appeared again and blah blah blahed him again
before closing the front door. Carrot’s orange ears twitched as he waited for
the car to start. As it zoomed away, he got up and stretched luxuriously and
started across the room again. He could almost feel the soft cushions on his
little orange body. Ahhhhh.
He leapt up on the couch and illegally stretched again. He
flexed his sharp cat claws and dug them into the soft blue fabric. Ah, that
felt good. He was just entering that wonderful cat dream world when he wondered
when he would eat again . . . this was the life of a cat.
June 14, 2014 – A character who dresses in monochromatic
colors.
Amelia opened her closet doors. Her clothes were tidy and
pressed, ready for picking the perfect outfit. Tonight was special. Her
husband, Trent had made a reservation at Le Bovine, a quaint little café, in
town, months ago and she hadn’t thought about what she was going to wear until
now.
The scoop neck black dress? The dress with the frills down
the front and the little buttons? The simple dress she called her “little black
dress?” Or should she wear slacks and one of her beautiful new sweaters. The
color was easy. Every single outfit and piece of clothing was black. It was her
color and she knew it. The dark color brought out the brown in her eyes and the
sheen of her beautiful hair. It was easy to pick out outfits at the store that
matched. Black matches black. She rarely deviated from her favorite color.
Her makeup applied carefully, she added a neutral shade of
lipstick to her naturally plump lips and kissed a Kleenex with care.
She chose her little black dress and slipped it on, being
careful of hair and makeup. She opened her jewelry box. As she fastened her
necklace, she picked up the dangling hoop ear rings and added them to her
ensemble. Next were shoes.
Lined up evenly, from casual, to the highest heeled elegant
shoes was a rainbow of color. Some shoes were red and a few had patterns. One
had a daring leopard print. Noticeably missing was black. Not one pair. She
chose to wear the pair with a floral print. When Trent came home he had a hard
time deciding whether reservations at the restaurant would wait . . .
June 15, 2015 – Write about a tragedy that just occurred.
Don’t mention the tragedy.
The crowd was small right after it happened. No more than 6 or 7, definitely less than a
dozen. Passerbyers or those that had seen it happen. As the morning wore on
more arrived and by 6 that evening, just as dusk was falling, the crowd pushed
against the yellow police tape.
Somewhere in the mayhem that any crowd creates, the news
crews had set up. Big satellite dishes on white vans with the stations
emblazoned on the sides, focused on the scene and several helicopters circled
the air. It was hard to tell if it was more news vans or the police.
No effort was made to disperse the crowd and some had gone
into the local restaurants and drank coffee from takeout containers, or snacked
on various forms of fast food as they craned heads to try and see something.
One man had a picnic basket and his family eagerly reached for a sandwich he
had thoughtfully brought with him.
There was a hum in the air of voices asking questions that
any tragedy will generate. The who, why, and plain, what had happened. No one
in the audience of onlookers knew any of the victims and certainly not one of
them belonged in the crowd, staring morbidly at the large canvass tent that had
been set up, blocking their view.
Police cars and emergency vehicles clogged the street and
several police officers guarded the tape, making sure no bystander made a bold,
daring dart toward the actual scene. Several blocks from the crowd, an officer
directed traffic, diverting any vehicle away that wanted to turn onto Walnut
Grove Avenue.
Finally the ambulance left, lights not blaring and the
police cars rolled up the canvass tent and a loud speaker was used to disperse
the crowd who reluctantly backed away. The news crews, seeing no interviews
would be given, stood by their vans and provided useless commentary, empty
speculation, and a few words of what the first at the scene had reported
seeing. Certainly not an interesting interview, but news never the less.
As the last few stragglers left the scene the police officers
took down the yellow tape and noted the cups and bits of rubbish left by the
watchers. An older officer shook his head and said to his partner, “Why does
something like this always attract so many?” The younger partner just sighed
and threw the tape in the trunk of the black and white sedan.
June 16, 2014 – Write about a character that becomes
religious suddenly.
He smelled really awful, a mixture of sweat, dirt, and the
hard liquor he swilled whenever he though she wasn’t looking. Homeless and
disheveled he had shown up on her door stop the night before. It was the
holidays so maybe that’s why he appeared, although she doubted he knew what
season it was, let alone a holiday.
Much to her husband’s dismay she ushered him to the upstairs
guest bathroom and ordered him firmly to get in the shower. He complied, like a
child instead of the father he had once been. She waited until he was in the
shower and went in to get his clothes.
“Oh Dad,” she whispered as his bottle of liquor clanked on
the tile floor.
He snapped the curtains open and stared at her, the water
beading on his forehead, his eyes small and red. His naked body was horrifying
to her; he was as thin and white as a ghost. “Don’t touch my liquor, Susie. I
swear, I just need one more drink and I’ll feel so much better.”
Then it happened. He had just closed the shower curtain and
was washing his body when he bent over double, crying out.
“What is it, Dad,” she asked her voice slightly shaky.
“It’s just these spells I get. Can you hand me a towel so I can get to a
place to sit for a bit.” Before he’d even uttered the last word again he
doubled over again. This time he sat on the shower floor, moaning.
Reaching in she turned the water off and began towel drying
his long, tangled hair. She left for a moment and returned with a pair of
sweats and a sweatshirt her husband rarely wore. She got him up, her back
screaming in agony and supporting his weight on her shoulders they hobbled
across the hall to the guest bedroom. She helped him dress and then he moaned
again, curling into a tight fetal position.
“Oh God,” he whispered. “Never been this bad before."
“We’re going to the hospital,” she firmly declared and
before he could change his mind she once again acted like a human cane or
crutch and they headed to the front door. They stopped once in a while as his
spells hit him. They were getting worse, the color was drained from his face
and tears streaked his hairy face.
Once he was settled in the passenger side she ran to the
driver side and they sped out of the driveway, her father clutching his abdomen
in his fear and pain.
She arrived at the hospital and got him into the waiting
room before he collapsed into a chair. They were the only ones in the waiting
room and soon were in a bed, waiting for the doctor.
“Susie?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“I’m scared. Would you say a prayer with me? I found a bible
in the dumpster behind the Good Will store and I’ve been reading it. Jesus will
know what to do.”
Susie stared at her father. He hated religion. He never went
to church and he regularly used the Lord’s name in vain. And yet there he was, lying
there with all the tubes and wires hooked to him, like a robot, recharging, his
hands clasped and shaking. She took them in both of hers and they said the
Lord’s prayer together. They silently prayed together as they waited. He calmed
himself and began to recite some of the passages from Psalms. She paced the
hallways as they ran all the tests on him, worried and wondering what it was
that could be causing so much pain.
The doctor was waiting for her when she returned to his
hospital bed.
“The news isn’t good, I’m afraid. He paused, looking from
daughter to father. Your dad’s pancreas is failing. Does he drink? She nodded,
numb. We can keep him here under IV pain medication or you can take him home,
there’s really nothing we can do.
She looked down at her father and saw that he was fervently
praying again. She wondered how finding a Bible had him find the Lord. She took
him home that afternoon and he sat on her leather couch, drowsy from the pain
medication.
“I love you, Dad,” she said softly and went to make dinner
for her family.
June 17, 2014 – Write a scene that involves a ripe banana.
She walked into her house late that night. The kids and
husband were all snoring in their bed, who would have believed her plane would
be delayed that long. She was exhausted from all day meetings and frantic calls
from the home office, asking her to do the impossible. As the head of the IT
department she was on call 24/7 and she did love her job so she tried not to
complain.
She kicked her torturous black heels off by the foot of the
stairs and trudged into the kitchen. She needed to unwind before joining her
hubby in his slumber land.
Just as she suspected her husband had cleaned the kitchen
and had placed a bottle of Chardonnay in the refrigerator to chill. She poured
a glass and then turned to sit on one of the tall stools by the counter. She
laughed. Before she had left on her trip she had made a trip to the grocery
store and had stocked the cupboards and freezer with lots of goodies, including
some fresh produce. The bananas had all been green when she picked them up but
she had gotten them anyway. Apparently it had been a hit. Every banana had been
devoured except one.
The leftover banana was so ripe it had turned brown as a
bear. It smelled strong too. She picked it up and almost threw it in the trash
when she remembered she had a new banana bread recipe. She pulled the ingredients
from the cupboard above the stove and got out a loaf pan and her mixer. Was she
really going to make banana bread at 1 in the morning?
With a methodical method she mixed the dry ingredients in a
separate bowl and then in the bigger bowl off of the stand mixer she mixed the
wet ingredients like the eggs, oil, and milk. She added the flour mixture to
the wet mixture and then dumped it in the pan.
As she placed it the oven she smiled to herself. It would be
just her luck if she woke the family up with the smell of freshly baked banana
bread. Not a bad way to wake up, she thought.
Soon the whole house smelled of bananas and her mouth
watered. Did Chardonnay pair well with banana bread? Ah, heck, anything paired
with banana bread. She sipped her wine and waited impatiently.
When the timer dinged, she pulled out the pan and set it on
a hot pad to cool a bit. Dumping it on a dinner plate she reached for the bread
knife. The first slice is always the best, she reminisced biting into the
warm aromatic bread.
June 18, 2014 – Write about something you bought and never
used.
I once bought a brand new box of Martha Stewart pencils.
They were expensive, but I had a coupon and they looked so pretty in their
little white box, I couldn’t resist them. I loved the colors. I loved the way
they felt in my hand. I brought them home and they lived on my stamp table for
weeks before I slipped them into a drawer.
I got them out a few weeks later and laid the pencils out on
the table and admired their sharpened points and the vivid colors of each white
coated pencil. I was watching TV and stamping bears for making birthday cards.
My idea was to color the bear in light brown and his balloons in vivid primary
colors.
Yet I sat there, looking at the blank bear with his colorless
balloons and did nothing. After an hour of the admiration of my new pencils, I
carefully placed them back in their box (it even has a snap to keep the lid
closed). I picked up some of my older pencils and quickly colored in the bear
and his balloon.
The cards were beautiful, yet I wondered why I didn’t use my
new pencils. They would have been perfect for my project and so nice to use. I
went back to get the pencils out and noticed another box under the Martha
Stewart pencils. It was metallic and when I lifted it out, I laughed. It was a
box of water color pencils. When I opened the lid I was stunned. Not one pencil
had been used. Apparently I am a collector of pencils, at least I have my old
set of pencils to use, otherwise my bear would still be holding colorless
balloons.
June 23, 2014 – Write about a character named Juice.
She decided to just go and visit. Swallowing her anxiety,
she rang the door bell and listened to the chimes, announcing her arrival. She
heard the door knob and the lock turning with difficulty. Someone was working
hard on the other side to unlock the locks and the knob.
“My name’s Juice,” the little boy in the striped blue shirt
announced and then stuck out his hand. She took it, crouching a little, and
said, “My name’s Maria. I live next door. Juice, is your mommy home?” She
carefully wiped her hand on her jeans and straightened up. She was glad she
hadn’t brought the cookies over. Something felt off here. Like maybe Juice was
all by himself.
“Mom!!!” Juice hollered down the hall. “A lady is here to
see you . Her name is Naria (well, close enough, Maria thought.) “My mom is
cleaning my juice off the bathroom floor. It was an accident,” he frowned a
little bit. “Now I have to keep the juice in the kitchen.
Juice’s mom came down the hall. She wore jeans and a loose
fitting sweat shirt and her hands were encased in plastic dish gloves. “Hello,”
she said. “I see you’ve met our door greeter, Tommy.”
“My name is JUICE,” the boy in the striped, sticky shirt
pronounced and began jumping on the couch.
“My, he is active,” Maria murmured and wiped her hand again.
“I’m the neighbor from next door. We moved in over the weekend . . . “
“Caroline,” Juice’s mom stuck out a hand and then retracted
it to pull the yellow glove off. “I saw your moving van and was hoping for a
young family . . . you have children?”
“Not yet,” said Maria. She eyed Juice again who leapt off
the couch and disappeared into the kitchen.
Oh wow, busy boy. She and Caroline
stood talking about the neighborhood until Caroline noticed they were still
standing in the entry way. “Come and sit,” she said sheepishly.
“Just for a minute and then I have more unpacking to do,”
Maria said.
Just as they had settled themselves on the couch, Juice came
around the corner, balancing a flat tray upon which he had placed a full
pitcher of something red, and 3 rather breakable blue glasses. The tray tipped
dangerously, first one way and then the other before Juice paused, as he
realized the coffee table was full of toys, legos, books, action figures, and
even a computer. Yikes. Julie was horrified and instinctively reached for the
tray.
“Oh Juice, aren’t you sweet.” Caroline helped him move the
things aside and placed the tray of juice on the coffee table. “Maybe Maria
prefers tea instead . . . he just loves his juice, the little bugger.” She
roughed up his hair and kissed his sticky face. “Maybe you’ve had enough Juice
for one day, Tommy.”
“Juice,” he corrected in a kind and firm voice.
June 25, 2014 – Write about a character that has 5 middle names
The man and woman looked down on the tiny sleeping baby.
Arms flung out and legs in a froggy like position, their hearts almost burst,
they loved this tiny person so much.
“What about Charles for a middle name?” asked the man. “We
have to get the birth certificate in tomorrow. We have to decide on Alexander’s
middle name.”
“I thought we agreed on Thomas, after my grandfather?” The
woman said softly. She dared to softly stroke the sleeping baby’s little face.
He moved his mouth to her finger and started sucking on it.
“Oh, so you name him after your uncle that died in the
Vietnam war and now the middle name is after your grandfather? I know you
really looked up to him, but Claire, Alexander needs to know he comes from the
merging of 2 families.”
“What if we gave him both middle names?” Claire asked,
taking her finger gently back.
“Well, if we’re going to do that what about my dad? John? If
it’s 2 middle names, why not 3?”
“And there’s my cousin, Richard who died in the fire as a
child, we can’t forget him.”
“And don’t forget my best friend who died just last year . .
. Randall is a very dignified sounding middle name.”
Later that night, Claire carefully penned in the baby’s
first name in the appropriate box on the birth certificate. “Alexander.” She
whispered the name. She still couldn’t believe she was a mommy.
Then came the hard part. She wrote small and cramped and
barely fit the 5 names in the box. Their last name, Smith, looked funny and
stark against the other 6 names.
“Alexander Charles Thomas John Richard Randall Smith,” you
are a special boy to be carrying the memories of so many. The baby cried out
softly in his sleep and then was still again. Claire got up and put the birth
certificate by her purse so she could file it the next day and then she curled
up against her sleeping husband, Alexander John Smith the third.
