(Almost) Daily Writing Prompt
Posted by Tia | Filed under writing, internet
I cannot think of even one idea for a good writing prompt. Instead, here is an idea for a bad one. Write away.
"It's 8:37 p.m. You are in a coffee shop waiting for someone you've never met to return your favorite pair of shoes. How did your pair of shoes end up in their possession? Why are you willing to meet them to have your shoes returned?"
Share your writing below. 500 words at the most. I'll choose one to feature.
Writing Under Construction
The Yellow House
The drive is the same; flat fields, sometimes white from the snow, right now a tired brown, glistening from frost that
hasn't melted yet in the sparse sunlight. It takes about fifteen minutes to drive into town from our farm.
I pass the time by looking out of the window. The flat empty fields are moving past at exactly forty mph, the
speed limit along Old Mill Road. My father never speeds, steering the car with care. Concentrating.
The ride is silent. My mother is staring straight ahead. I can only see the side of her face.
I can't tell what she's thinking. Rachel is fiddling with a small mirror, checking to see that every blonde
strand is in its proper place, gathered at the base of her head in a tortoise shell clip. I think about telling
on her then, about how I saw her flirting and smiling with Bobby Sanders, her fingers playing with the collar
of her shirt. The way she leaned towards him smiling and laughing at something he'd said, brushing her fingers
across his arm once or twice.
Unfit Matches
That was how it always was. The two of them together. They hadn't told me in so many words that I hadn't been planned for but I could tell. It was in the way they looked at me when I did some unexplained thing or other. They would look at each other and shake their heads softly from side to side, both wondering how they had gotten this child that neither of them understood.
It wasn't until I was older, around eight or nine, that they would leave the house altogether. I could notice the signs of when they were about to go away on one of the trips that took them to places that I wasn't welcome in. They would glance at me with a look of partially hidden irritation on their faces. It would be easier if I wasn't there. Now they had to at least attempt to make sure that I was looked after. I would hear them upstairs packing, the muted thumps of closing drawers and books being dropped into bags signaling to me through the floor that my parents were leaving.
This is a magazine spread about the Aeron chair that I wrote and designed.
I write and I have polymyositis. I also like reading books and watching old movies. I created this site as a pace to share all of the things that I like and some that I don't.
