Friday, March 31, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Great Minds
Calliope has a beautiful mind, Darren thought. He would like to see it up close. He peeled back her skull so that it unfolded like a flower. Wow, what a beautiful mind.
Thursday, March 30, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Cleaning
It's not easy cleaning up after monster children. The sludge alone--literal sludge--is enough to make a human faint. But it doesn't stop at the sludge. That would be too easy.
My children leave cold spots and trails of slime all over the house. I can't slither ten paces without gagging or getting chills. Corpses and legos are strewn across every surface. Guests never come over, but that's nothing new. It's the wide berth the neighbors give our house that truly hurts my feelers. I suppose the stench is too unbearable for humans.
When the kids are loud, I know they're making a mess. When they're quiet, I know they're making a bigger mess. You know how it is.
Dominic wears destruction like a dirty diaper. If I feel the howling wind in my scales, it means another room has blown apart. Half the house has been rebuilt thanks to his little toy bombs. He's a one-man wrecking crew and a mad scientist stuffed into one body.
Coral leaves crumbs of rotting flesh everywhere she goes. Her appetite is insatiable. Another neighborhood dog has gone missing? I think I found his foot on Coral's pillow. People should really stop naming their pets "Cookie" and "Cupcake."
Then, there's Butane Bruce. He propels himself around the house on gas emissions. If I can't find Bruce, I simply light a match and follow the flames. I also hold my breath. (We suspect that Bruce is the source of the horrid smell of our house, but we haven't hearts black enough to tell him.)
And finally, the baby. Rosalie is small and sneaky and there are currently a dozen warrants for her arrest. Murder. Attempted murder. Grand theft auto. We would turn her in to the police if we could catch her, but she is a slippery eel. Most people think it's her teeth you should be afraid of, but I recommend staying away from her toenails.
I have to clean up after all of them: droppings, sheddings, bleedings, vomits, comets, all of it. They leave behind skin, fur, claws, earwax, and snot. But I wouldn't trade any of my monster children for the world. I would trade them for about five bucks.
My children leave cold spots and trails of slime all over the house. I can't slither ten paces without gagging or getting chills. Corpses and legos are strewn across every surface. Guests never come over, but that's nothing new. It's the wide berth the neighbors give our house that truly hurts my feelers. I suppose the stench is too unbearable for humans.
When the kids are loud, I know they're making a mess. When they're quiet, I know they're making a bigger mess. You know how it is.
Dominic wears destruction like a dirty diaper. If I feel the howling wind in my scales, it means another room has blown apart. Half the house has been rebuilt thanks to his little toy bombs. He's a one-man wrecking crew and a mad scientist stuffed into one body.
Coral leaves crumbs of rotting flesh everywhere she goes. Her appetite is insatiable. Another neighborhood dog has gone missing? I think I found his foot on Coral's pillow. People should really stop naming their pets "Cookie" and "Cupcake."
Then, there's Butane Bruce. He propels himself around the house on gas emissions. If I can't find Bruce, I simply light a match and follow the flames. I also hold my breath. (We suspect that Bruce is the source of the horrid smell of our house, but we haven't hearts black enough to tell him.)
And finally, the baby. Rosalie is small and sneaky and there are currently a dozen warrants for her arrest. Murder. Attempted murder. Grand theft auto. We would turn her in to the police if we could catch her, but she is a slippery eel. Most people think it's her teeth you should be afraid of, but I recommend staying away from her toenails.
I have to clean up after all of them: droppings, sheddings, bleedings, vomits, comets, all of it. They leave behind skin, fur, claws, earwax, and snot. But I wouldn't trade any of my monster children for the world. I would trade them for about five bucks.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dictionary Definition
Aptrganga: noun, again-walker
Old English Dictionary
Aethelflaed waited at the edge of the village until well past sunset. Outside small buildings, oil dripped from the last few torches like fiery rain falling to earth. In that one moment as the fire splashed down, all the elements converged: water, fire, air, and earth. Still, Aethelflaed waited.
A sleepy chicken peered at her from behind a wagon wheel. The animals were nervous, Aethelflaed noted. Everyone was nervous. Tales of the nightly terror had spread quickly. Livestock shredded. Homes painted with blood. The torches burned longer tonight than they had before. Families huddled together, sleeping or waiting like Aethelflaed.
Gaest, some called it. Aptrganga. A spirit. Seeking revenge.
The aptrganga was coming.
They speculated who it was and why it was there. Perhaps the boy torn apart by wolves. His mother and sister felt such shame and guilt for not watching him more closely. Or perhaps the old man who had starved last winter as he begged for food. He'd been burned hastily since the ground was too frozen for burial. Or maybe the girl whose father broke her legs because she ran away from her groom. Unable to walk, she had dragged herself to the sea to drown. Maybe the recent storms had washed her angry spirit ashore. Maybe.
Aethelflaed waited until the last torch died. She could almost hear the hiding villagers gasp in fear as their light vanished. Then she hefted her ax and stiffly moved one mangled leg in front of the other. This time, she would go for her father's prized pig. Or maybe for her father himself.
The aptrganga was coming.
Old English Dictionary
Aethelflaed waited at the edge of the village until well past sunset. Outside small buildings, oil dripped from the last few torches like fiery rain falling to earth. In that one moment as the fire splashed down, all the elements converged: water, fire, air, and earth. Still, Aethelflaed waited.
A sleepy chicken peered at her from behind a wagon wheel. The animals were nervous, Aethelflaed noted. Everyone was nervous. Tales of the nightly terror had spread quickly. Livestock shredded. Homes painted with blood. The torches burned longer tonight than they had before. Families huddled together, sleeping or waiting like Aethelflaed.
Gaest, some called it. Aptrganga. A spirit. Seeking revenge.
The aptrganga was coming.
They speculated who it was and why it was there. Perhaps the boy torn apart by wolves. His mother and sister felt such shame and guilt for not watching him more closely. Or perhaps the old man who had starved last winter as he begged for food. He'd been burned hastily since the ground was too frozen for burial. Or maybe the girl whose father broke her legs because she ran away from her groom. Unable to walk, she had dragged herself to the sea to drown. Maybe the recent storms had washed her angry spirit ashore. Maybe.
Aethelflaed waited until the last torch died. She could almost hear the hiding villagers gasp in fear as their light vanished. Then she hefted her ax and stiffly moved one mangled leg in front of the other. This time, she would go for her father's prized pig. Or maybe for her father himself.
The aptrganga was coming.
She was already here.
Aptrganga: noun, a wronged spirit returning for justice
The Dictionary of a Thousand Truths
Tuesday, March 28, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Addict
When the residents of Overhill Road awoke on Sunday morning, they shivered in their beds. A few got up to investigate: why had the summer night left them so cold? Gregor Nox, a shoemaker, made it all the way to his front door before he discovered the source of his discomfort.
The thick doors of all the houses on Overhill Road had fallen down flat on their thresholds.
Gregor mused over this. Had he slept through an explosive blast? Had rats chewed through each door? Had thieves dismantled their only security measure? Overhill Road was on the way out of town, so they frequently saw travelers on horses, in wagons, or even on foot. Anything could have happened. Anyone could have done it.
He picked up the door to examine it. A splinter pricked his wrist, spilling blood. He found nothing there and dropped the door. Across the road, his neighbor was also staring at his fallen door and tugging on his beard in confusion.
By noon, Gregor and his neighbors had discovered a clue. The old, rusty nails in the door hinges were missing from every house. Fingernail marks showed where someone had dug the nails out of the wood frame. Gregor felt like he had swallowed a rock. He was afraid of the truth.
That night, he crept out without a lantern from under the blanket that now posed as his front door. He trotted down Overhill Road for a couple hours until he reached a forest village. Only a few hearths still glowed in the village homes. The tiny houses were all lined up along a single lane, much like the houses of Overhill Road. Gregor walked past them all.
At the end of the lane was a lean-to. It smelled of pig breath and mold, and the house it leaned against was abandoned long ago. Gregor traced the marks the fire had left on the outside wall. Years ago, the house had burned to a crisp, along with his wife and son. Penny was buried in the backyard; unfortunately, the son had lived.
Gregor approached the lean-to cautiously.
"Ferrin?" he called softly.
In the dark, a fox skittered over his feet.
"Ferrin?" he called again, even quieter.
Something stirred inside the lean-to. Then a dark body arose and slithered toward Gregor, crinkling and clanking as it went. Skin burnt black. Bones twisted askew. Organs melting into each other. And a stomach full of old, rusty nails.
"Hello, Ferrin," Gregor said.
"Nailsss," Ferrin hissed. "Iron."
"Why can't you just die like you're supposed to?" Gregor said.
Ferrin continued toward him, creeping low against the ground. "Iron."
Gregor stepped back. The blood on his wrist began flowing again.
"Mussst eat iron."
The thick doors of all the houses on Overhill Road had fallen down flat on their thresholds.
Gregor mused over this. Had he slept through an explosive blast? Had rats chewed through each door? Had thieves dismantled their only security measure? Overhill Road was on the way out of town, so they frequently saw travelers on horses, in wagons, or even on foot. Anything could have happened. Anyone could have done it.
He picked up the door to examine it. A splinter pricked his wrist, spilling blood. He found nothing there and dropped the door. Across the road, his neighbor was also staring at his fallen door and tugging on his beard in confusion.
By noon, Gregor and his neighbors had discovered a clue. The old, rusty nails in the door hinges were missing from every house. Fingernail marks showed where someone had dug the nails out of the wood frame. Gregor felt like he had swallowed a rock. He was afraid of the truth.
That night, he crept out without a lantern from under the blanket that now posed as his front door. He trotted down Overhill Road for a couple hours until he reached a forest village. Only a few hearths still glowed in the village homes. The tiny houses were all lined up along a single lane, much like the houses of Overhill Road. Gregor walked past them all.
At the end of the lane was a lean-to. It smelled of pig breath and mold, and the house it leaned against was abandoned long ago. Gregor traced the marks the fire had left on the outside wall. Years ago, the house had burned to a crisp, along with his wife and son. Penny was buried in the backyard; unfortunately, the son had lived.
Gregor approached the lean-to cautiously.
"Ferrin?" he called softly.
In the dark, a fox skittered over his feet.
"Ferrin?" he called again, even quieter.
Something stirred inside the lean-to. Then a dark body arose and slithered toward Gregor, crinkling and clanking as it went. Skin burnt black. Bones twisted askew. Organs melting into each other. And a stomach full of old, rusty nails.
"Hello, Ferrin," Gregor said.
"Nailsss," Ferrin hissed. "Iron."
"Why can't you just die like you're supposed to?" Gregor said.
Ferrin continued toward him, creeping low against the ground. "Iron."
Gregor stepped back. The blood on his wrist began flowing again.
"Mussst eat iron."
Monday, March 27, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Eavesdropper
The girl on the corner. She looked cold.
I approached her, rummaging through my pockets for something--anything--to give her. Snow drifted around us. The street was emptied of people and cars. No one comes out this late.
"Hi," I said. "Here's a brownie."
She glanced up from under her fur-lined hood. The streetlamp overhead cast strange shadows across her face. I pushed the plastic-wrapped brownie toward her, and she took it reluctantly.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She stared at the brownie and her bare fingers. They must have been freezing.
"Susan," she whispered.
"Hi, Susan. I'm Carol. Can I share a brief message with you?"
When she didn't respond, I continued.
"Do you believe in God?" I asked.
She stiffened. I rushed through the next bit in case she got angry or tried to leave.
"God is real. He knows you, and he loves you."
"I know," she said suddenly. "I've seen him."
I paused. "You've seen him?"
"Thank you for the brownie," she said.
She turned abruptly and walked down the street. I tried to keep up with her, but I'd been walking all day and just wanted to go to bed. At least I could fall asleep knowing that I had done what I could to share the gospel. Still, I wanted to know her story.
As I watched, the snow swirled around her and she was gone.
On my way back, I passed the street corner where she'd been standing. There was a small wreath of flowers there, dusted with snow. A card lay on the ground nearby.
In memory of Susan, it said.
I approached her, rummaging through my pockets for something--anything--to give her. Snow drifted around us. The street was emptied of people and cars. No one comes out this late.
"Hi," I said. "Here's a brownie."
She glanced up from under her fur-lined hood. The streetlamp overhead cast strange shadows across her face. I pushed the plastic-wrapped brownie toward her, and she took it reluctantly.
"What's your name?" I asked.
She stared at the brownie and her bare fingers. They must have been freezing.
"Susan," she whispered.
"Hi, Susan. I'm Carol. Can I share a brief message with you?"
When she didn't respond, I continued.
"Do you believe in God?" I asked.
She stiffened. I rushed through the next bit in case she got angry or tried to leave.
"God is real. He knows you, and he loves you."
"I know," she said suddenly. "I've seen him."
I paused. "You've seen him?"
"Thank you for the brownie," she said.
She turned abruptly and walked down the street. I tried to keep up with her, but I'd been walking all day and just wanted to go to bed. At least I could fall asleep knowing that I had done what I could to share the gospel. Still, I wanted to know her story.
As I watched, the snow swirled around her and she was gone.
On my way back, I passed the street corner where she'd been standing. There was a small wreath of flowers there, dusted with snow. A card lay on the ground nearby.
In memory of Susan, it said.
Sunday, March 26, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Found Poem
from a page of H.P. Lovecraft's "The Colour out of Space"
very black clouds
tipped with tongues of foul flame
and rustic tricklings
infected the moonlit ground
the last spectator
just ooze and bubbles
screamed
low-pitched
the hapless beast
stirred up something intangible
fiendish contours
grey brittleness
formless reflections
flared with unknown colour
the absence of the lamplight
shimmered
Saturday, March 25, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Letter Poem
from a letter written by Emily Dickinson to her brother Austin in January 1852
It snows slowly and solemnly
The cold without
The harder it blows
Collision
Spirits
Far away
You must go away
A large cloak
Shivering
Creeps through the flakes
We do not have much poetry
It snows slowly and solemnly
The cold without
The harder it blows
Collision
Spirits
Far away
You must go away
A large cloak
Shivering
Creeps through the flakes
We do not have much poetry
Friday, March 24, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Greeting
Hello, it is I.
More accurately, it is Eye.
Eye rest in my little cubby in your skull
Above the nose,
The mouth,
The body.
Eye see all you do.
The good,
The bad,
The otherwise.
Eye wish you were cleaner,
Wiser,
Younger,
Taller.
Eye wish you would look up and out more.
Eye want to see the world,
But Eye am trapped in my cubby,
Trapped in your skull,
Trapped behind a thin door of flesh.
Don't be surprised
If you wake up one morning
And Eye am gone.
More accurately, it is Eye.
Eye rest in my little cubby in your skull
Above the nose,
The mouth,
The body.
Eye see all you do.
The good,
The bad,
The otherwise.
Eye wish you were cleaner,
Wiser,
Younger,
Taller.
Eye wish you would look up and out more.
Eye want to see the world,
But Eye am trapped in my cubby,
Trapped in your skull,
Trapped behind a thin door of flesh.
Don't be surprised
If you wake up one morning
And Eye am gone.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dragon
I didn't see the dragon until it was too late.
Jim and I were out for a little midnight grave robbing, as you do on a Friday night after it rains. We slipped through the cemetery gates without a problem; not even the sleeping elk were disturbed. When I tugged my hat down over my brows, I noticed the watching eyes of a pair of ravens sitting on a tombstone. They didn't call out an alarm, so we assumed we had their permission.
I followed Jim down a winding path, under bare branches, over snake holes. He stopped to sneeze once, and a whiff of mist swirled around his boots. I passed him my handkerchief.
Finally, Jim planted his feet in front of an old grave. Judging by the rounded, weather-worn edges of the headstone and the coverage of moss, I guessed this was a 16th-century burial. I crouched down to read the name. Most of the letters had been rained away, but I got the gist of it. Some aristocrat named George.
"Jack," Jim said. "Hand me the pickax. The ground is a little rocky here."
From the pack on my back, I unstrapped a short pickax, still crusted with dirt from our last outing. You don't get a lot of rocky graveyards in these parts, but we usually aimed for the oldest and most protected graves. These yielded the best results.
With my work on the shovel and Jim's work with the pickax, we spent barely an hour before a worm-eaten coffin appeared beneath our feet. Jim smashed through the lid and started rummaging through the contents for gold and jewelry. I was startled when he jumped back and pulled his hand out of the coffin.
"What is it, Jim? Did something bite you?"
"There's no bottom."
"No bottom to what?"
"The coffin."
We usually worked by moonlight to avoid attention, but Jim procured a match and lit it against his boot. He held the flame inside the hole of the coffin lid.
"Look, Jack," he whispered. "There's nothing in there. Not gold, not a skeleton, nothing."
I peered in. Sure enough, the bottom of the coffin opened up to a bottomless pit. I could even see the ragged edges of the sides of the coffin where they had been ripped away.
"Jim, it's like something came up from under the ground and ate George."
"Stop talking nonsense, Jack. Who's George?"
"The man we're trying to rob."
"And you think something came out of the ground to eat him? Like what, a big snake?"
We both stiffened as we heard the slithering of scales on the ground above us. The match burned out--or was blown out. I turned as slowly as I could to see what waited for us up there.
At first, I thought it was the two ravens again. But they had never been ravens. The watching eyes I had felt at the entrance had been the four glinting eyes of a grave-dragon. The tombstone, his enormous jaw. As he stood over us, he grew bigger and blacker than the whole night sky. Bones dangled from his teeth. Dirt fell from his scales. A long tail whipped from side to side like a cat's when it spots the movement of a tiny mouse.
Surely, the legends were true. Surely, grave-dragons only ate corpses. They were harmless to the living.
Surely.
Jim and I were out for a little midnight grave robbing, as you do on a Friday night after it rains. We slipped through the cemetery gates without a problem; not even the sleeping elk were disturbed. When I tugged my hat down over my brows, I noticed the watching eyes of a pair of ravens sitting on a tombstone. They didn't call out an alarm, so we assumed we had their permission.
I followed Jim down a winding path, under bare branches, over snake holes. He stopped to sneeze once, and a whiff of mist swirled around his boots. I passed him my handkerchief.
Finally, Jim planted his feet in front of an old grave. Judging by the rounded, weather-worn edges of the headstone and the coverage of moss, I guessed this was a 16th-century burial. I crouched down to read the name. Most of the letters had been rained away, but I got the gist of it. Some aristocrat named George.
"Jack," Jim said. "Hand me the pickax. The ground is a little rocky here."
From the pack on my back, I unstrapped a short pickax, still crusted with dirt from our last outing. You don't get a lot of rocky graveyards in these parts, but we usually aimed for the oldest and most protected graves. These yielded the best results.
With my work on the shovel and Jim's work with the pickax, we spent barely an hour before a worm-eaten coffin appeared beneath our feet. Jim smashed through the lid and started rummaging through the contents for gold and jewelry. I was startled when he jumped back and pulled his hand out of the coffin.
"What is it, Jim? Did something bite you?"
"There's no bottom."
"No bottom to what?"
"The coffin."
We usually worked by moonlight to avoid attention, but Jim procured a match and lit it against his boot. He held the flame inside the hole of the coffin lid.
"Look, Jack," he whispered. "There's nothing in there. Not gold, not a skeleton, nothing."
I peered in. Sure enough, the bottom of the coffin opened up to a bottomless pit. I could even see the ragged edges of the sides of the coffin where they had been ripped away.
"Jim, it's like something came up from under the ground and ate George."
"Stop talking nonsense, Jack. Who's George?"
"The man we're trying to rob."
"And you think something came out of the ground to eat him? Like what, a big snake?"
We both stiffened as we heard the slithering of scales on the ground above us. The match burned out--or was blown out. I turned as slowly as I could to see what waited for us up there.
At first, I thought it was the two ravens again. But they had never been ravens. The watching eyes I had felt at the entrance had been the four glinting eyes of a grave-dragon. The tombstone, his enormous jaw. As he stood over us, he grew bigger and blacker than the whole night sky. Bones dangled from his teeth. Dirt fell from his scales. A long tail whipped from side to side like a cat's when it spots the movement of a tiny mouse.
Surely, the legends were true. Surely, grave-dragons only ate corpses. They were harmless to the living.
Surely.
Wednesday, March 22, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Friends
My best friend, Fiona, is dead. But, to be fair, so am I. It was the icy roads of the mountain pass that did us in. That, and Fiona's lead foot.
Still, we were partners in crime while alive, so you better believe that we are partners in crime now that we're dead. We've just moved on from cheating on tests and tossing garbage out the car windows. Now we can't get caught.
Dying with your best friend teaches you something about loyalty. If Fiona gets a crazy idea to haunt someone, I always go along. If she wants to rattle chains or scratch windows or mess with the lights, I'm right there beside her, usually doing it better.
And it goes both ways: when I have a hankering for a bloodcurdling scream, Fiona comes along to spook some unsuspecting victim. When I can't help but make eerie shadows on the wall, her shadows drift alongside mine. We talk about settling down in a haunted house someday, maybe even starting a ghost gang. Sometimes we grow nostalgic for the past or talk about the accident. How the car plunged off a cliff and burst into flames when it hit the ground. She died first, and I followed soon after. When the first responders finally found us, the heat of the fire had melted our bodies together.
We're inseparable, Fiona and me.
Still, we were partners in crime while alive, so you better believe that we are partners in crime now that we're dead. We've just moved on from cheating on tests and tossing garbage out the car windows. Now we can't get caught.
Dying with your best friend teaches you something about loyalty. If Fiona gets a crazy idea to haunt someone, I always go along. If she wants to rattle chains or scratch windows or mess with the lights, I'm right there beside her, usually doing it better.
And it goes both ways: when I have a hankering for a bloodcurdling scream, Fiona comes along to spook some unsuspecting victim. When I can't help but make eerie shadows on the wall, her shadows drift alongside mine. We talk about settling down in a haunted house someday, maybe even starting a ghost gang. Sometimes we grow nostalgic for the past or talk about the accident. How the car plunged off a cliff and burst into flames when it hit the ground. She died first, and I followed soon after. When the first responders finally found us, the heat of the fire had melted our bodies together.
We're inseparable, Fiona and me.
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Animals
A seven-legged spider and his reflection live on my bathroom mirror. With all the ants and earwigs around, I haven't the heart to kill my natural defender. He keeps the creeps away, so I leave him be. We have an unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.
He's always perched in the top right corner of the mirror when I get up in the morning. I talk to him as I put my makeup on,
"Why can't I just get this winged eyeliner right the first time?"
"What about this lipstick? Nope, nope. Definitely not."
"Oh no! Wrinkles!"
Sometimes he walks across my reflection as if to say hello. I flash him a smile.
He doesn't judge me when I play on my phone on the toilet. He watches me shave my armpits. He waves a leg when I clean out the sink. He spins his web when I brush my teeth before bed. He's always there.
He's there when I drag the bodies in.
He's there when I wash the blood out from under my fingernails.
He's there when I hang up the severed limbs to drain over the tub.
The constant companion. The silent witness. He has seen it all, but he offers no judgment, calls no police. We live our lives by that unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.
He's always perched in the top right corner of the mirror when I get up in the morning. I talk to him as I put my makeup on,
"Why can't I just get this winged eyeliner right the first time?"
"What about this lipstick? Nope, nope. Definitely not."
"Oh no! Wrinkles!"
Sometimes he walks across my reflection as if to say hello. I flash him a smile.
He doesn't judge me when I play on my phone on the toilet. He watches me shave my armpits. He waves a leg when I clean out the sink. He spins his web when I brush my teeth before bed. He's always there.
He's there when I drag the bodies in.
He's there when I wash the blood out from under my fingernails.
He's there when I hang up the severed limbs to drain over the tub.
The constant companion. The silent witness. He has seen it all, but he offers no judgment, calls no police. We live our lives by that unspoken agreement: I don't bother him if he doesn't bother me.
Monday, March 20, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dream-Catcher
Momma's basement was filled with cardboard boxes. When she moved into this house after retiring 15 years ago, she had packed away her whole life into these flimsy boxes, each one labeled in her font-like handwriting.
Bathroom
Kitchen
Movies
She had only unpacked about half her stuff in 15 years. Now that she was going senile, I found myself clearing out her basement so that I could move in. I spent hours opening boxes and rifling through memories. Momma wasn't a hoarder per se, but she kept a lot of my old things. Report cards, school pictures, a bad love poem I wrote for Valentine's Day in the third grade. I found an entire box of my dress-up clothes and Halloween costumes. Each item contained a memory, which I sat with for a moment before sorting it into one of three piles: Keep, Toss, or Donate. Like the items, some memories were worth keeping. Others were not.
An essay about the American Revolution, C-. Toss.
A Michael Jackson album cover. Keep. Possibly even sell.
A newspaper clipping about the blond neighbor kid going missing. Keep, for posterity's sake.
Behind boxes of old stuffed animals and moldy candles, there was a box that was bigger but lighter than the others. As I moved it off the pile, the contents inside shifted with a hollow thump. I opened it eagerly, expecting some heirloom or a treasure from my childhood. What had Momma kept in a big box all by itself?
Towers of memories blocked the light from this dark corner. I shone my flashlight into the box.
Dominic, my favorite doll from forty years ago, winked up at me. Momma had made him by hand; he was a fine representative of her skills with wax and paint. I had wanted a doll that looked like a toddler, not a baby, and when she couldn't find one in the stores, she made her own. What a special Christmas that was! I felt so generous, I gave all my other toys to my brother Derek and named my doll in honor of the missing kid.
I raised him out of the box. Even after all these years, Dominic still looked and felt so real. We had dressed him in Derek's old clothes and painted makeup on his face to give him life-like color. I ran my finger over his waxy cheek, recalling the Great Rift of '74 when I refused to let my sister Diana play with Dominic. In revenge, she cut my hair while I slept. I laughed at the absurdity of my youth. All that suffering over a simple doll.
When I flipped him over, I noticed that the seam running down his back had pulled apart over time. His little yellow sweatshirt was covering most of the crack, but when I pointed the flashlight, I could see inside. The opening went all the way up his head, where something fuzzy and hair-like stuck out.
I jammed my fingers into the crack and pulled it even wider. The more I saw, the more I stretched the crack. My heart raced. I dropped the flashlight. Sweat poured over my face as I pulled and pulled and pulled. Something was inside.
With a loud snap, the wax shell of Dominic broke in half. I let each piece fall to the floor and screamed, but not because my beloved playmate was beyond repair. No, I screamed because my arms now cradled a small skeleton. Wisps of blond hair still adorned the skull.
Bathroom
Kitchen
Movies
She had only unpacked about half her stuff in 15 years. Now that she was going senile, I found myself clearing out her basement so that I could move in. I spent hours opening boxes and rifling through memories. Momma wasn't a hoarder per se, but she kept a lot of my old things. Report cards, school pictures, a bad love poem I wrote for Valentine's Day in the third grade. I found an entire box of my dress-up clothes and Halloween costumes. Each item contained a memory, which I sat with for a moment before sorting it into one of three piles: Keep, Toss, or Donate. Like the items, some memories were worth keeping. Others were not.
An essay about the American Revolution, C-. Toss.
A Michael Jackson album cover. Keep. Possibly even sell.
A newspaper clipping about the blond neighbor kid going missing. Keep, for posterity's sake.
Behind boxes of old stuffed animals and moldy candles, there was a box that was bigger but lighter than the others. As I moved it off the pile, the contents inside shifted with a hollow thump. I opened it eagerly, expecting some heirloom or a treasure from my childhood. What had Momma kept in a big box all by itself?
Towers of memories blocked the light from this dark corner. I shone my flashlight into the box.
Dominic, my favorite doll from forty years ago, winked up at me. Momma had made him by hand; he was a fine representative of her skills with wax and paint. I had wanted a doll that looked like a toddler, not a baby, and when she couldn't find one in the stores, she made her own. What a special Christmas that was! I felt so generous, I gave all my other toys to my brother Derek and named my doll in honor of the missing kid.
I raised him out of the box. Even after all these years, Dominic still looked and felt so real. We had dressed him in Derek's old clothes and painted makeup on his face to give him life-like color. I ran my finger over his waxy cheek, recalling the Great Rift of '74 when I refused to let my sister Diana play with Dominic. In revenge, she cut my hair while I slept. I laughed at the absurdity of my youth. All that suffering over a simple doll.
When I flipped him over, I noticed that the seam running down his back had pulled apart over time. His little yellow sweatshirt was covering most of the crack, but when I pointed the flashlight, I could see inside. The opening went all the way up his head, where something fuzzy and hair-like stuck out.
I jammed my fingers into the crack and pulled it even wider. The more I saw, the more I stretched the crack. My heart raced. I dropped the flashlight. Sweat poured over my face as I pulled and pulled and pulled. Something was inside.
With a loud snap, the wax shell of Dominic broke in half. I let each piece fall to the floor and screamed, but not because my beloved playmate was beyond repair. No, I screamed because my arms now cradled a small skeleton. Wisps of blond hair still adorned the skull.
Sunday, March 19, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Rocket Ship
The ghost of a rocket ship haunts my grandfather's backyard.
He has an expansive woodland behind his two-story, nineteenth-century home. I think the plumbing in his house is older than the forest. At least the upstairs toilet is.
"Jessie," Grandpa calls. "Come look. It's back."
I set down my phone and join him at the back door. He has the door propped on, and we both lean out into the late-summer wind. Before I see anything, I smell smoke and metal. The wind whips sounds through my ears: creaking, steaming, warping sounds.
Then I see it. Just beyond the first line of full, green trees, a machine sits. The engine of an exploded rocket ship landed there twenty years ago. Grandpa remembers when it was removed by a series of black suits and officials in lab coats. But the ghost remains. In August nights, it appears and cries out for its missing parts.
I've seen it four times. Once, I tried to walk out to it, but the heat of the engine was too much. Now, I know that my job is only to watch and witness.
He has an expansive woodland behind his two-story, nineteenth-century home. I think the plumbing in his house is older than the forest. At least the upstairs toilet is.
"Jessie," Grandpa calls. "Come look. It's back."
I set down my phone and join him at the back door. He has the door propped on, and we both lean out into the late-summer wind. Before I see anything, I smell smoke and metal. The wind whips sounds through my ears: creaking, steaming, warping sounds.
Then I see it. Just beyond the first line of full, green trees, a machine sits. The engine of an exploded rocket ship landed there twenty years ago. Grandpa remembers when it was removed by a series of black suits and officials in lab coats. But the ghost remains. In August nights, it appears and cries out for its missing parts.
I've seen it four times. Once, I tried to walk out to it, but the heat of the engine was too much. Now, I know that my job is only to watch and witness.
Saturday, March 18, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Eye Contact
When Sally first made eye contact with Dave, she looked deep into his pupil. It was the preferred method of the old fortune-teller. In an individual's eye, she could see beyond the material form of a person and into their immaterial existence. Past, present, and future were mirrored back and forth inside the eye until time ceased to matter and there was only soul. She stared and stared into Dave's pupil, searching his soul for cracks or creases, bringing her eye close to his. All sounds and smells from the world around her faded away. She was alone with Dave's soul.
"Your soul is withered, burnt up," she said.
That was all she could see in his pupil: blackness, crispy ashes, death. Dave had squandered away the only thing that was truly him. His life of lies and hatred had destroyed his soul.
Sally pulled away from Dave's eye. The room was empty. Dave had left hours earlier, dragged away by a companion. His optical nerve dangled against her skin as she rolled the eye around her palm, considering its shape and texture. Blood dripped from her long, gnarled fingers.
"Another dead eye," she said. Then she tossed the eyeball into the trash bin under the table. It landed among the other dead eyes Sally had taken that week.
"Your soul is withered, burnt up," she said.
That was all she could see in his pupil: blackness, crispy ashes, death. Dave had squandered away the only thing that was truly him. His life of lies and hatred had destroyed his soul.
Sally pulled away from Dave's eye. The room was empty. Dave had left hours earlier, dragged away by a companion. His optical nerve dangled against her skin as she rolled the eye around her palm, considering its shape and texture. Blood dripped from her long, gnarled fingers.
"Another dead eye," she said. Then she tossed the eyeball into the trash bin under the table. It landed among the other dead eyes Sally had taken that week.
Friday, March 17, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Food
Breakfast will be served.
Gloria Gordon smiled at the sign and squinted at the rising sun. It was the perfect time for a swim: a cool breeze blew over the bay, and the other tourists were still snoozing in their air-conditioned rooms. If only for a few minutes, the water would be all hers.
She slipped an orange out of her bag and dug into it with her fingernail, tossing the peelings into the sand. The fruit felt cool and sweet going down her throat. With the warming sun on her skin, she was cool on the inside and hot on the outside. She licked her fingers, dropped her bag, and stepped into the water.
She walked slowly, sidestepping a crab or two, until the water reached her chest. Then she kicked off of the seaweed and sand and swam out into the waves.
For ten minutes, she swam to and fro as the sun rose higher over the horizon. A seagull circled overhead, casting no shadow on the sparkling bay. Other than the cries of the birds, Gloria Gordon's gentle splashing was the only sound the first tourist heard as he awoke in the beachfront bed-and-breakfast. He shuffled onto the balcony, passed the breakfast sign, and waved at the small figure in the water. Then he retreated to the bathroom.
Gloria Gordon sighed. Her time alone was over. She turned to swim back to the beach, but from the dark depths of the seawater, a long tongue snagged her foot and dragged her under without a sound. The sea serpent swallowed her whole, chewed her apart in its rocky gullet, and tossed up her salty skin onto the sand. Her guts felt cool and sweet going down the serpent's throat. Flicking his tail, the serpent swam deeper under the warming bay.
Back at the bed-and-breakfast, the hostess set out a new sign on the balcony: breakfast is served.
Gloria Gordon smiled at the sign and squinted at the rising sun. It was the perfect time for a swim: a cool breeze blew over the bay, and the other tourists were still snoozing in their air-conditioned rooms. If only for a few minutes, the water would be all hers.
She slipped an orange out of her bag and dug into it with her fingernail, tossing the peelings into the sand. The fruit felt cool and sweet going down her throat. With the warming sun on her skin, she was cool on the inside and hot on the outside. She licked her fingers, dropped her bag, and stepped into the water.
She walked slowly, sidestepping a crab or two, until the water reached her chest. Then she kicked off of the seaweed and sand and swam out into the waves.
For ten minutes, she swam to and fro as the sun rose higher over the horizon. A seagull circled overhead, casting no shadow on the sparkling bay. Other than the cries of the birds, Gloria Gordon's gentle splashing was the only sound the first tourist heard as he awoke in the beachfront bed-and-breakfast. He shuffled onto the balcony, passed the breakfast sign, and waved at the small figure in the water. Then he retreated to the bathroom.
Gloria Gordon sighed. Her time alone was over. She turned to swim back to the beach, but from the dark depths of the seawater, a long tongue snagged her foot and dragged her under without a sound. The sea serpent swallowed her whole, chewed her apart in its rocky gullet, and tossed up her salty skin onto the sand. Her guts felt cool and sweet going down the serpent's throat. Flicking his tail, the serpent swam deeper under the warming bay.
Back at the bed-and-breakfast, the hostess set out a new sign on the balcony: breakfast is served.
Thursday, March 16, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: Dancing
There are overgods and there are undergods.
The overgods live above Earth in the clouds, where they can look down on the doings of mortals and shower them with praise and criticism as necessary. They dispense wisdom and grant wishes and occasionally exact punishment, but do not be fooled into thinking the overgods keep the world running.
That responsibility belongs to the undergods, the forgotten deities who dwell miles below our feet in a realm of dust and coal. They churn the world's core and feed the world's roots and hold the mountains and the seas in place. Without them, everything would fall apart: forests would collapse, rivers would dry up, even the clouds graced by the overgods' golden sandals would cease to be. Yes, without the undergods, we would have no overgods.
Those dirty, damp beings are essential, so why don't the mortals give thanks to the undergods? No one offers sacrifices to the Under-Dweller. No one praises Gnash the Mountain-Maker or Rootma of the Oak Trees or the Darc Who Hides. No one utters prayers to Carol the Queen of Bats. With the brilliant and flashy overgods to focus on, no one remembers the rest, the unbeautiful, the ungraceful.
But they will regret that mistake.
If only the surface-dwellers would have remembered Constance the Dancer. Constance, whose eternal dance was the only thing holding back the hordes of demons bristling to overthrow the Earth. Constance, whose tapping toes shut the floodgates of molten iron in the beginning of the world, whose rapid rhythm tormented the hellhounds as they strained on their chains, whose brittle hair swung to and fro to the sound of peace. For thousands of years, Constance's dance kept at bay the forces that thirsted for the golden blood of the overgods and the meaty flesh of mortals.
If only the Dancer had been thanked, she would not have slowed, would not have wearied. The signs were clear, but the end was inevitable. It is too late for prayers now.
There were overgods and there were undergods.
Constance stopped dancing last night.
The overgods live above Earth in the clouds, where they can look down on the doings of mortals and shower them with praise and criticism as necessary. They dispense wisdom and grant wishes and occasionally exact punishment, but do not be fooled into thinking the overgods keep the world running.
That responsibility belongs to the undergods, the forgotten deities who dwell miles below our feet in a realm of dust and coal. They churn the world's core and feed the world's roots and hold the mountains and the seas in place. Without them, everything would fall apart: forests would collapse, rivers would dry up, even the clouds graced by the overgods' golden sandals would cease to be. Yes, without the undergods, we would have no overgods.
Those dirty, damp beings are essential, so why don't the mortals give thanks to the undergods? No one offers sacrifices to the Under-Dweller. No one praises Gnash the Mountain-Maker or Rootma of the Oak Trees or the Darc Who Hides. No one utters prayers to Carol the Queen of Bats. With the brilliant and flashy overgods to focus on, no one remembers the rest, the unbeautiful, the ungraceful.
But they will regret that mistake.
If only the surface-dwellers would have remembered Constance the Dancer. Constance, whose eternal dance was the only thing holding back the hordes of demons bristling to overthrow the Earth. Constance, whose tapping toes shut the floodgates of molten iron in the beginning of the world, whose rapid rhythm tormented the hellhounds as they strained on their chains, whose brittle hair swung to and fro to the sound of peace. For thousands of years, Constance's dance kept at bay the forces that thirsted for the golden blood of the overgods and the meaty flesh of mortals.
If only the Dancer had been thanked, she would not have slowed, would not have wearied. The signs were clear, but the end was inevitable. It is too late for prayers now.
There were overgods and there were undergods.
Constance stopped dancing last night.
Wednesday, March 15, 2017
365 Creative Writing Prompts: The Vessel
Full disclosure: the only way I'm getting out of here is in a hearse.
When it comes, I'll be waiting on the edge of the sidewalk in the parking lot. A few cars will pass by without a second glance at me, their drivers focused on street lights and lane lines and the occasional text-message-that-can't-wait. Then my ride will come--a long, black, shiny hearse--and I won't be able to see the passengers through the tinted windows, but it won't matter and I'll climb willingly into the back all the same.
My seat will be long and lined with satin, and I'll lie down without snapping the seatbelt into place because there won't be a seatbelt that far back in the car. The manufacturers will have long ago considered such a safety measure pointless, expensive, and too late. They did, however, install a heavy lid onto the top of my seat so that I don't bounce out and frighten the neighborhood children. I'll close the lid and cozy up to the cobwebs and the stench of formaldehyde.
We'll stop at the gas station just up the street to fuel up before the long trek to the cemetery. Blood, not gas, will gush forth from the nozzle, and fat red drops will spill onto the pavement after the gas tank is full. I will peek out from under my lid out of curiosity. Filling up will have cost the undertaker fifty dollars. A sign beside the gas pump will tell me that the blood was oxygenated, but I'll be too afraid to ask where it came from.
The rest of the trip will be smooth until we pass the cemetery gates, where the speedbumps will jostle me just enough to unfold the hands that I will have so carefully crossed over my chest. The door will open a few minutes later, and I'll hear nothing but cawing crows and an occasional elk call (why elk were welcomed into the cemetery and mourners were not, I'll never know). Once the lid is nailed to the coffin, I'll have to imagine the dead tree leaning over my grave dripping bird poop and leaves like tears. The undertaker will lower my coffin into the dirt, where I will be greeted by ancient spiders and newborn earthworms and the skeleton of a saber-tooth cat from the Holocene era.
And as the first shovelful of earth settles over my head, I'll lie back with my new friends and my old body and my favorite Emily Dickinson poem and drift away into a peaceful, eternal sleep.
Monday, March 13, 2017
Household Demons
I watched a documentary the other day and learned something very disturbing: there are demons among us. Hard-working, dusty demons. At first, they appear to be ordinary household objects; in fact, every home has at least one of these relentless demons tucked away in a corner or a closet. And the homeowners don't notice the dark and murderous presence. There is no screaming or hanging up charms or hiring an exorcist. No, the oblivious go about living their lives on the edge of danger. Sometimes, they even reach out and touch the demon. A few people probably think that they own the demon, that they have enslaved it.
They are wrong.
These demons cannot be controlled. They cannot be killed. They will continue pervading our safe spaces, undermining our security, brushing our surfaces.
You must not let them work. Whatever you do, don't sweep your floors. Never ever touch that sly devil: your household demon, the broom.
Haven't you seen the documentary--what was it called? Fantasia?
They are wrong.
These demons cannot be controlled. They cannot be killed. They will continue pervading our safe spaces, undermining our security, brushing our surfaces.
You must not let them work. Whatever you do, don't sweep your floors. Never ever touch that sly devil: your household demon, the broom.
Haven't you seen the documentary--what was it called? Fantasia?
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