100 Day Project

55/100

54/100

“I did not intend to be the first woman on Everest,” said the small woman smiling broadly with shining eyes. Growing up, the woman was not athletic. She was one of seven children, five girls, two boys. When she was born, her father said only, “Another girl…” and several days passed before she was given the name Junko, which means obedient child. 

Frail and often sick, Junko lived in a pretty place surrounded by green mountains covered in sakura blossoms. One day, she played on a hill covered with azaleas flowers. She saw beyond the boundaries of her small town green mountains, and in her heart, blossomed a passion that set the course for the rest of her life. 

When the teacher asked who wanted to take a trip to the mountain, Junko was first to raise her hand. And later, when they finally reached the summit after a night of camping, she felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment that she’d never before felt. 

Her sister died later while she was in college, and she struggled to find her way. She returned to the mountain. Every forward step she took felt like a step toward peace. She was not an athlete, so for Junko, mountaineering was something beyond competitive sport. “No matter how hard the struggle became there would be no substitutions, no switch of players,” she said. “One had to complete the task themselves.” 

This is how she first came to the top of Everest. People told her she should be home raising children. But she knew that she could be a good mother and good climber, step by step with determination to the summit to see what is beyond. She had to learn to overcome shyness and cultural appropriateness of what a Japanese woman should be like. She learned to ask questions when she didn’t know a thing or needed help. But the mountain helped her discover her limits while at the same time expanding the horizons of what she or anyone else thought was possible for a woman to do. 

Often there was not enough money for the equipment she needed. So she made her own things. Waterproof gloves out of the cover of her car and trousers from old curtains. People are often surprised at how small she is given her accomplishments. She is just as surprised that they care so much about her physical form. She did not climb to be seen in any particular way by one person or another. She just wanted to be with the nature and ecosystem of the mountain. 

This is why 12 days after surviving an avalanche, with her Sherpa guide, she finally reached the summit of Everest. Some of the tensest moments she’d ever had on a mountain where during that trip. Having to leave behind others from the expedition who were buried in the snow during the avalanche. Crawling along a ridge of ice that caught her by surprise. She moved forward with focused determination. The same forward progress she’d been making since her childhood when she first discovered the beauty and majesty of the mountain.

When she was greeted upon return to Japan by people cheering, she flushed with embarrassment but grinned from pride. The accomplishment for Junko was the journey — not the fame. “I am the 36ths person to summit Everest,” she said. Being a woman or first was not her intent; it was not the song of her heart. 

Later, she returned to the Everest with her husband and children to collect garbage left by other climbers. She believed that we must care for these places that keep our own hearts beating. She spent the rest of her life living by her personal integrity, dedicated to conservation and protection of the mountain. 

53/100

My life up until now has been pretty soft. I was the youngest daughter in an affluent family, in a famous city. I had all the little things that made life easy and pleasant. Perhaps, I was even a little spoiled. I didn’t know it, I mean does a goldfish know it’s in a fishbowl if it’s lived its whole life that way? But it all came to an abrupt stop when we were in a car accident coming home from a night celebrating my brother’s graduation. I lived, barely, but the others are gone. And so is the beautiful world I lived in.

My older brother worked for Mr. Romano. He was an antique dealer and was teaching my brother to restore pieces in the back shop. While I was recovering he came to visit me at the hospital. He offered me a job, and a place to live, so I could finish growing up. Those were his words. I remember staring out the window, in shock. I was slightly annoyed that he was implying that I was still a child. I was 17, and old enough. But by the time I was well enough to leave, I didn’t know what else to do. So, I went to work for Mr. Romano. 

He didn’t put me to work in the back, like my brother, instead, he had me running errands and making appointments. I was his assistant. That was how one night, I happen to learn about Mr. Romano’s real trade. He was a hitman. The store was just a front. It was a good front, we did sell furniture. But really it was a way for him to clean the money he made while taking on risky jobs for important people. He was frustrated when I confronted him about it — he didn’t want me to know that part of his work. But I was persuasive. I was tired of feeling weak, and ineffectual, I wanted to prove that I could be more than a soft girl. 

So, he’s started training me. “It starts with the physical,” he said. “You’ve got to have dexterity, and strength but mostly quickness.” So we work, drilling the moves — from lying to standing on one foot, crawling like a bear across the room, kettlebell lifts with one hand, pull-ups. It’s some of the hardest stuff I’ve ever done physically. He says mental is next. Cold showers, sleepless nights, tests of problem-solving under stress. I feel that my body and mind are changing. Like I’m being molded into something new, someone new. Someone harder to kill. 

52/100

The reason people keep secrets is to build social currency with the people you are willing to tell. 
Truth is a compelling love potion, that creates an instant bond with others. 
Is the idea of vulnerability scary, or is it sacred and intimate? 
Out beyond the usual banter is a landscape of potential connection and love. 
There are some things we can only share with the people we want to keep close — secret things that transform our bond into something lasting. 

51/100

She walked through the door, shoulders slumped, and dropped her bag on the floor. Not even bothering to hang it on a hook. The room was dark, but there was no reason to turn on the light. She shuffled into her bedroom and fell face-first onto the bed. 

Her mind was static-y like an old television set turned between channels. Not really quiet, just buzzing with the load of the days’ thinking. She felt heavy and lethargic. Just wrung out. Nothing left to give. She briefly thought of dinner but it was there one moment and gone the next. She was weary but not yet sleepy. 

Beep beep beep, she punched in the number to a take out place on her phone. Wonton Soup, some dumplings. Then she closed her eyes. Tried to relax. But there were a few things that needed to be taken care of. Some detritus from the day that if she didn’t do now would not get done in time. 

She got up with a groan and made her way back to her bag. Back in her room, she opened her laptop and drafted some required emails. Swoosh. They were sent. Just in time for her dinner to arrive. Unpacking the food from paper containers, she also opened a bottle of wine. A glass or two, dinner and then bed. Nothing else left to give. No journaling or workouts. No phone calls with friends. Just the end of a long, long day. 

50/100

I watch my father check the door. Night was coming on, and the air outside was still. Eerily still after hours of a storm that blew and howled. Dad was anxious but in a sort of weary worn-out way. He wanted to check on the fence. “Can I come out with you Dad,” I asked. He glanced over his shoulder, “Stay near the house,” he said. “I don’t know how long we’ll be in the eye.” 

Outside it was quiet. There was still a light drizzle of rain, but it was no longer windy. The sky was just one shade past dusk. The leaves on the trees were ripped up and broken but didn’t move at all. The stillness felt heavy. Laying over me like a blanket, it reminded me of the way I felt when I thought about my mother. Some times, when I think of her, I feel so heavy that I don’t want to get out of bed. Maybe Dad feels that way too. The two of us quietly laying in our own beds. Alone, but together, missing Mama. 

I picked up a few small limbs from the trees and walked around the yard. As I moved I felt better. We’d been hunkering down for hours and my body was stiff from waiting and anxiety. I started to jump around a bit. Dancing this way and that. Dispelling the energy that was backed up with nowhere to go. While we waited, the wind was so loud and I heard the crack of tree limbs. Dad made me go sit in the closet in the middle of the house, just in case any of the trees came through the windows. The windows were boarded but better safe than sorry. While I waited in the dark. I wondered if like Dorothy, we’d wake up in a new place. 

Everything was the same, but a bit messier as far as I could see. Dancing in the yard, my feet getting muddy, I thought mama would like this. She loved to dance. “What are you doin’ Cherie?” Dad said suddenly. I stopped. Breathing hard. “Nothin’,” I said. “Wash your feet off before coming in the house,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was mad. But he seemed tight, like a strung bowstring. 

It was hard when he was like that — I didn’t think it was my fault, but I never could tell. He sometimes drank. Then he’d relax, which was better. Like the pressure release valve on mama’s cooker — letting off steam. He was funnier then, for a bit. But it also got messy. Like the leaves in this storm, dishes and bottles in piles. I’d have to fend for myself which was okay, but potato chips for dinner got old. He’d sit on the porch for hours. Later it got, less I liked talking to him. If he was tight like a bow now, he was like a floppy washrag after a few hours of drinking. I’d just hang out in my room and read. 

I washed off my feet with bucket of rainwater next to the porch and stood in the door watching the night. Still. Quiet. Heavy. I knew the storm wall was coming, you could feel it building. 

49/100

Light rain falls from a grayish-green sky. Fred Rogers, or rather a clone of Fred Rogers, changes out of his red sneakers and cardigan and into his outside sweater and dress shoes. He pats his thighs and stands up, saying to the room, “Let’s go visit the market today.” He waggles his eyebrows and grins. By the door, he picks up an umbrella, before heading out. 

It’s a black umbrella with the usual umbrella look to it. But unlike an ordinary umbrella, when he opens it up outside his hi-tech hi-rise the edges emit a faint glowing that extends down, creating a bubble of atmospheric protection. This will keep Mr. Rogers not only quite dry but also safe from the acid in the raindrops, which is necessary for the year 2120. The safety bubble created by the umbrella also keeps out microbes, and germs. It’s only the most modern in personal proactive equipment.

Mr. Rogers waves to people as they pass. “Beautiful day,” he calls to them. The people he passes are dressed mostly in tech-fabrics that wick and repel either sweat or microbes depending on the need. They all carry personal proactive gear not unlike Mr. Rogers’ umbrella. 

Fred Rogers is not the only celebrity from the 20th century cloned and brought back. The clones are part of a social engineering program run by the Unified World Conglomerate, which was formed after the United Nations disbanded. The clones serve in pacifying and calming a populace that had grown more cynical and frightened over the last 100 years. Anderson Cooper was brought back for media literacy. Steve Erwin for environmental sensitivity. Albert Einstein to help us solve the time-continuity problem that started after the Large Hadron Collider was bombed by terrorists. 

Mr. Rogers was brought back to influence the children who’d turned violent and gang-like in the 21st century. Pranking noobs, and causing havoc with their impromptu virtual-reality laser battles. “We need to bring back literacy and civic-mindedness,” leaders cried from their media pulpits. And so, here was Fred Rogers intact with all of his memories, making his way through the neighborhood in acid rain to buy groceries. 

People normally did his shopping for him. But today was no ordinary shopping trip. A film drone, known as a floatlens, followed him as he waved to people, said kind things, and smiled affably. At the store, the video streamed live on TikTok as he made a selection from the touchscreens in each section. Choosing produce and talking about how UV filled the fruit with vitamins and goodness. Choosing non-animal based protein and talked about how it was produced and its limited impact on the environment. Choosing from the bread selections, with fortified wheat. It streamed his conversations with fellow shoppers, conveniently placed teachers, mail delivery people, and politicians. 

Every conversation was in the signature of Fred Roger’s style — slow, curious, and polite. His media coaches worked with him to increase his tempo. “Kids today need a faster pace, Fred,” they explained. “I understand,” he said patiently, “But I think it’s important to slow down and to give each word a bit of weight and value. The kids won’t mind slowing down if we can let them know how important they are to us.” His TikTok followers were in the millions, so his coaches didn’t press on him too much. But if the numbers slipped that was the first thing they were ready to change. 

After the shopping show was over, and Mr. Rogers was back in his condo. He sat still, and watched the rainfall on his window cam. He missed his wife. He missed the wide-open spaces of his own time. It was a strange world indeed, and every day he looked for the helpers, the people who could help him understand and navigate this time. But mostly he thought of the children and hoped he was helping them. 

48/100

Big beautiful clouds floated by the window. Beyond his imaginings of castles or dragons, the boy watched them float. Boats with pirates sailed by.  Bats and potions made of the softest white cloud. By all accounting this was his favorite pastime.

Boys in his class loved video games. But his mom didn’t let him play often. Believing instead that he should get so bored. “Boredom is good for you,” she’d say as she ruffled his hair. Blessed by her wisdom, he’d go and watch the clouds, turning them into his own intergalactic game. Blurring the lines between his imagination and his dreams. 

Before he knew it, he was on his feet. By far past the time when he should get going. Bounding out the door, he grabbed his bag. Bus stop in front of him, he raced to catch his ride.  “Barely made it,” the bus driver, Ms. Snell said grinning at him. “Barely,” he agreed. 

Back to the first open seat, he made his way toward his friend. Billy sat grinning at him. Bound for school they road, catching up on their weekend activities. “Battlefront, released a new chapter this weekend on xBox,” Billy said. “Better tell me more,” the boy said. Basically, he wanted to build up his reservoir for stories he could play out himself later. 

Because, he may not get to play, but he could certainly imagine the possibilities. Building his own empire of fun. Block by block, and cloud by cloud. 

47/100

Mary Poppins failed her driver’s test when instead of using a blinker to make a right-hand turn, she drove the car into a chalk painting with talking animals. The test administrator was treated to a lively musical number that failed to impress her. “There are specific rules we expect our drivers to follow, and Ms. Poppins missed the mark. Her singing is lovely,” said Mrs. Cheryl Hanson of the Connecticut Department of Motor Vehicle, New Haven CT. “She is also missing 3 requisite pieces of identification.”

Poppin’s explained, “I don’t have a phone bill or any utility bill for that matter. My address is transient as I divide my time between the home of those I serve and, well, the sky.”

Poppins was visibly perturbed, pressing her lips together and looking skyward. “Good heavens,” she said. “I’d advise they all take a spoon full of sugar, but even for me this place is a bitter pill.” 

After tugging her jacket him, she left the DMV. She walked outside, popped open her umbrella, and floated up and to the left. “See,” said Mrs. Hanson, “she failed to signal her turn again. It’ll be a windy day before that woman gets a driver’s license in Connecticut.” 

46/100

Is the pain you experience when someone you love dies correlated to the number of unanswered questions you have about that person and their death? Or maybe it’s more about the number of layers to the questions.  Starting at the top with the basic logistics: Where is the body? What was he doing? What was done to him? Where was he going? Where has he gone?  Moving into the questions that you never got to ask: Do you think I’m alright? Are you proud of me? Do you know how much I love you? And then descending into the deep, unfathomable questions: Were you happy? Did you die in pain? Did you live in pain? Can you see us now? Where are you now? 

It’s like the deeper these layers go, the harder it is to mourn. You just get stuck on the questions, and you can’t move through to the next part of grieving. People look at me sadly, pat my arm, and tell me that grief is tricky. Mine seems to linger, twisting like leaves in the wind. A question is written on every leaf. 

They found his car abandoned on the side of the road somewhere near El Paso about six months ago. There was blood on the seat and blood on the door handle, but no body. The last time I saw my brother was 2 years ago. It was in December the year he graduated from High School. He and mom got in a big fight about smoking pot. The screamed at each other. I hid in my room. I heard him tell mom she was a shit mom, never around. She said he was 18 so he could make his own way. So he did. He left. And he left behind a big brother shaped hole in my life. 

After he left, he sent me postcards from the road. They weren’t detailed, just little lines of poetry, or literature. Stuff from Kerouac and Bukowski. I think he was trying to take care of broadening my horizons like he used to do with the things I ate for dinner. 

Our Dad took off after we were born, and our mom was left to raise us on her own. She worked a lot. A night nurse. Which meant my brother and I had to look after ourselves a lot. And the truth is a lot of the parenting fell to my brother. He made sure I ate more than pop tarts and tried a tomato now and then. He helped me with homework. He did his best, but he was a kid too. 

So, when he was 17 and started smoking pot with his friends, I tagged along. In it together for better and worse.  They thought it was cute to see a kid get high. He watched my back, and didn’t let anything bad happen to me. And I watched his back. Making sure that everything was picked up and tidy before mom got home so she wouldn’t catch him. I guess it set us against the world together.

The postcards he sent made a map of his travels – Idaho, Washington, Oregon, Nevada, New Mexico. I missed him, but it helped to know he was out there somewhere.

Then postcards stopped coming.

Mom blames her self. She lost her job at the hospital when she kept missing work. She’s working at the corner store to make ends meet. At night I watch her chase her guilt into a bottle of vodka. She’s around more, but she’s hardly here. I’m left sorting through these questions that remain. 

The body may be the physical remains of person who dies, but the questions are the psychological remains. I’ve got neither a body to bury nor the answers to help me grieve or to move on. Frozen in time, waiting for one more postcard. 

45/100

After the rain, the sun came out. All along the road, frogs jumped and played. Answer and call. Answer and call. A symphony of croaks filled the air.

A small girl, in rain boots watched them play. Awed by their songs, she sang along. Afternoon light slowly fades along the road. Alone, no cars, the girl was not afraid. A country road can be that way, both public and private. 

After a while, she headed home, knowing her mama waited. Around the bend, she plopped her boots as she walked. A puddle, yes! A splash she made. 

And finally, she saw her house, warm lights aglow in the twilight. Approaching with a song on her lips, she saw her mother in the window. Apron in hand, she moved to start dinner. 

A swelling of peace, filled the girl’s heart. Another sweet song, like the song of the frogs filled her mind. Always here, always now, this was home. A place of solace and peace. A place where mama makes dinner. A place where frogs sing on the road after the rain. 

After twirling under her favorite tree, the girl went inside. A frog croaked in the woods near the house. Almost like he was saying good night. 

44/100

Dear Casey,

I’m the letter your Dad wrote to you between bouts of chemo. I am one of three. The other two were in his desk, but he kept me tucked in his pajamas next to his heart. He wanted to give it to you in person before he died. But one afternoon when he was sleeping through the pain meds, I slipped out and fell between the bed and headboard. He was too sick to notice and you never got me. I’m here waiting for you.

Sincerely, 
A long lost letter

P.S. Here’s what he wrote:
Casey,

It’s really hard for me to write this particular goodbye. I remember holding you when you were born. Something inside of me shifted, profoundly. I have a daughter. Nothing would ever be the same. Your tiny heart face looking up at me, both broke my heart and made it whole at the same time.
 
In a flash, I can see our lives together. When I taught you to ride a bike. When you learned to tie your shoes. I was so looking forward to scaring off your first boyfriend. And walking you down the aisle. This cancer, it’s taking that from us and so I can only say I hope that you know that if I can, I’ll be there in spirit. 

Maybe they will let me be your guardian angel which is basically what all Fathers are anyway. It’s my job to keep you safe and lift you up. I can’t do it physically anymore but I hope these words can do that for you. After my body is gone, please know that my love remains. You amaze me. You delight me. And I love you.

All ways, 
Dad 

43/100

Wake up. Get out of bed. Make your way to the bathroom. There is a mirror, but you don’t look into it yet. You take your medication. Use the toilet. Then put your glasses on or contacts. Look at yourself for the first time. You look like you were in a windstorm while you slept. Do something about that. Then get dressed. Make coffee. Go outside. Stare at the trees, while considering your day. Go back inside. Log into your computer and check your schedule. Spend 4.5-6 hours on video calls. Try to take notes. Try to squeeze work in between video calls. During some video calls multi-task. Log off. Or at least shut the lid to your laptop. Try to find something for dinner that doesn’t require actual cooking. Listen to your kids talk about video games. Try to engage. Then disengage. Scroll on your phone for 1.2 – 3 hours. Bath the kids, if it’s an odd day. Brush your teeth. Put on your nightgown. Consider all the things you could be doing to improve your life. Get in bed. Try to fall asleep. 

Wake up. Get out of bed. Make your way to the bathroom. There is a mirror, don’t look. You look like you were hit by a hurricane in your sleep. Use the toilet. Take a shower. Put in contacts. Take your medication. Log on right away, meetings starting early today. Spend 5 hours on video calls. At lunch, get up for 20 minutes and cram a sandwich in your mouth. You really only want potato chips but you’ve made a rule for yourself that you only get chips if you eat the sandwich. Eat the chips. Get back to work. Multi-task during calls. Close your computer. What’s for dinner? No one knows. Heat up leftover soup for everyone. Hug your kids. Learn about the boss level in red ball 3. Go outside, stare at the trees. Consider all the things you should be doing to improve your life. Get in bed. Fall asleep. 

Wake up. It’s the weekend. It looks just a weekday, except there are no video calls. Don’t fix your hair for 2 days straight. Consider all the things you could be doing to improve your life. Read some. Watch your kids play Minecraft. Get ready to go for a hike, and wonder where your shoes are — it’s been a while since you’ve worn them. Find your shoes. Go outside and discover it’s hot as hades. Hike. Listen to complaints about the heat. Try to make a game of it. Touch a tree. Laugh at your kids. Come home. Consider all the things you are doing to improve. Pat yourself on the back. Thank your husband. Get ready for bed. Fall asleep. 

Prompt: Write A Story Set in the Second Person

42/100

Ode to a Towel
Thread by thread, your counts are divine 
Tightly woven against some heady sea vapors
Wholly useful all of the time 
When traveling the interstellar skyscrapers 
Nay, chill of Jaglan Beta moons 
A handy towel keeps me warm thread around my form
And blinds me to the rot Bugblatter Beast of Traal 
And swift catches the wind on sunny afternoons 
Serves as a roof, or as designed, to dry post-storm  
Oh towel, oh towel, a threadbare hitchhiker’s catchall 

Prompt: My 42nd entry is dedicated to Douglas Adams. 

41/100

Once upon a time, there was a man who decided to try something new. It was a gamble, but he had faith that the risk would pay off. His early concepts piqued the interest of investors. But it was just an idea. Little more than something sketched on a napkin. He had a few prototypes and tests in mind. He ran test after test and built a minimum viable product. Then he came to the dip, the lull. Interests in his experiments were starting to drop off. 

He needed to build a bridge of dedicated investors to get him across the trough of disillusionment. At this point, his idea could take off like a star or plummet to earth like a falling asteroid. 

It would take vision to get them across. Like a golden arrow, he pitched his new vision. He was able to paint a picture of success so stunning and clear that his investors unlocked their coffers. The project could continue. 

When the product finally launched, it was deemed an innovation that could improve the world. The inventor was able to build a strong reputation and a credit to his field. His success was a magnet to emerging new ideas for generations to come. 

40/100

It’s been 15 years since I last saw Tony. It was at a graduation party for a mutual friend. We were baby adults being released into the world. Full of hope, and spitfire. Ready for whatever. Tony and I used to sing duets in choir. Never really dated, he always had a girlfriend and I was hard to pin down. But we had a mild flirtation. 

So, yeah, when I got his text to meet up, I was curious. He’s in town on business and he heard from his Mom that I lived in the city. Rooftop bars can be pretty douchey, but on a nice summer night, there is a reason everyone flocks to them. I’ll be honest, I wanted to impress him a little with my cosmopolitan ways. Frankie all grown up. I go by Frances now. 

As I arrived, stepping out of the elevator on the terrace, I didn’t see him. Scoring a white wine from the bar, I looked for a good spot. That’s when he walked up behind me, “Frankie?” Turning I took him in — yep Tony. His eyes were the same but he looks different. Like a man. The change between 18 and 33 for a man is much more shocking than it is for women. Women may get less lean, more round, but we look the same mostly. Boys transform into men, and it’s like they are completely different people. 

“Tony!” I said and we hugged. “Look at you,” He said smiling.  “Let’s sit down. Let’s catch up,” I said. 

We found a place with a great view, lucky really. Our conversation unfolded as expected. Jobs. Family. The usual. 

Him: Recently married, working in sales, they are considering kids. 
Me: Still single, working as a designer, never considering kids. 

He showed me pictures of his wife, Rebecca. They met in college. She’s a school teacher. I’m not super surprised. She’s pretty.  I’m happy for them. Not the life I want, but I’m happy for them. 

I showed off my bichon puppy.
“Never kids, huh,” he asks his eyebrows raised. “Puppies are just as hard.” 
“Yeah, but my fur baby isn’t going to grow up into a teenager,” I said. “Besides, I can’t settle down. I’ve dated a few guys, and a few girls,” he smirked at me.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” I said flatly. “I’m good, you know, on my own.” 
“Well, have it your way then,” he said. 
“I will,” I snarked back. 

Then the conversation took a swerve I wasn’t expecting. “I’m glad you could come out to meet me tonight,” Tony said. “I need your help with something.” 

“What’s up?” I asked. 
“You’re working for one of our biggest competitors,” Tony said. “Would you be interested in making some extra cash?”
“What?” I said, leaning in. “Like corporate espionage? I don’t want to get in trouble or lose my job.” 
“I’ve got a tech guy who can help you, mask you from the spyware. We’d cover you and you could make $50,000,” Tony said. 

Speechless, I listened to his plan. That kind of money can really help in a city like NYC. And it’s not like I live for my business. You know. I’m not a company man so to speak. 

I finished my drink and told Tony to let me sleep on it. My walk home was slow and long. An old friend, with a crazy offer. It could be too good to turn down. 

Prompt: Find a picture of a stranger (it could be one you took, found on Instagram, in a magazine, or even an extra in the background of a movie) and write their story.

39/100

Stranded at sea, sort of. I work for a cruise ship.  When the pandemic hit, there was some misunderstanding between our company and the country’s port of entry. They wouldn’t let us off the boat. The details are vague and the company says it’s the government’s fault. The government won’t budge on its requirements. The people on the boat are stuck in the middle like pawns in a red-tape showdown. 

I’ve been working for the company for about 6 months, but I’ve worked on other boats. I’m a sailor at heart. The open sea stretched across the broad blue horizon. A new view, and a new port destination every few days. True freedom, no mortgage, no traffic, just the water, the wake, and the wonder of novelty. The ship that has given me wings, has now become like a prison. 
It’s been 50 days since I last put a foot on dry land. It’s been 20 days since we’ve been isolated from each other on the boat. We are allowed to go out for exercise in shifts, like a prison yard but they keep us separated by the bulkhead and always 6 feet apart. We’ve had a few people get sick. The lower decks are quarantined for illness. They moved the rest of us up to rooms with balconies for our mental health. They say it’s a coughing sickness, something that attacks the lungs. At least two people have gotten sick enough to be life-flighted off the ship to a hospital with ventilators. 

The only interruption of loneliness is the fear of dying. It’s a surreal mix of boredom and anxiety. Everyone is exhausted. No one can sleep. Each day goes by, one by one. Confined to our rooms 21 hours a day, we pass our time reading books, playing video games if we have them, browsing the Internet. They feed us three times a day. It’s not great food, but it’s regular and includes freshies like fruit or salad. Each day looks like the one before it, with very little variety. This is hell on my wandering soul.

It’s late one evening, and I’m reading “Love in The Time of Cholera” for the 3rd time. It’s a favorite. The familiar characters feel like family. I feel less lonely when I’m with them. As Fermina regrets her angry letter to Florentino after her husband’s funeral, I hear a loud thump. It is coming from a nearby room. This is strange. The soundproofing in these rooms is very good. It’s not very loud. I might not have heard it at all if I hadn’t been quietly reading. 

I walk to the door and listen. My mask is hanging on a peg next to the door and out of habit, I pull it on. I open my door just a bit. Peering out, there is no one in the hall. I close the door and turn back to my room. Thump-thump. What is that noise? Leaving my mask on, I rush over to my balcony. 

The night is dark and foggy. Damp. I look over the rail left then right. Nothing. The barometric pressure says that a storm is coming. I look down. Vertigo hits me. My eyes swim dizzily. I hear a door open, 5 or so balconies down. Suddenly, white cloth flashes in the hazy night. Something large flips quickly over the railing. I watch it fall. It’s a person. There is no scream. It splashes, almost soundlessly, into the water. I gasp and I look up and there, another masked face looks back at me. 

The whole moment took no longer than a few seconds. But those seconds were frozen. They stretched long as I witnessed this horrific scene. The face looking back at me is only eyes. I can not tell who the person is — but when the eyes first raise, then lower in realization, the spell is broken. I bolt. I run through my room, and to the front door. “Wait, wait,” I think. “Could they tell what room I’m in? I don’t know. But I’ve got to get out of here.”

I whip open my door and run down the hall. The upper deck. That’s where security is. I need to get there. How? The elevators are shut down. I need clearance to get up there. I hear a small noise behind and throw myself into the alcove of another room’s door. Was I seen? Was I fast enough? I am breathing hard. Each breath sounds loud enough for the whole floor to hear. I try to calm myself but I’m starting to tremble. 

I wait. The killer could be walking right to me. They could be, just inches away. I have no way of knowing. Sweat trickles down my forehead. I wait. How long has it been? 5 minutes? 10 minutes? 1 minute? If they are walking this way, would they be here by now? Do I dare look?

I have to look. I inch forward and peer around the edge of the alcove. I see a person, turned away from me. Standing in front of my door. It looks like a man. I pull my head back quickly. I wasn’t seen. He’s maybe 150 yards down the hall. Is he far enough that I can get into the room behind me without being heard? I scratch at the door. I hear someone approach. I scratch and tap. “Is someone out there?” A woman’s voice calls. I whisper, yell, “Please let me in. Please.” 

The door cracks, open. “We aren’t allowed to be near each other” the woman hisses at me. I know her. Her name is Betsy, she coordinates children’s activities. I push the door in, overpowering her. And quickly close it behind us. “What are you doing!?” Betsy says her voice raised. She’s backed away from me, her eye wide and shocked. 

Holding my hands out in front of me in a placating way, I say, “Please Betsy. Look I’m wearing my mask. Just listen. I just saw someone get killed. A body went off the balcony.”  Betsy looks confused, “What? What are you saying?” 
“Out there, a person pushed or dropped someone off the balcony. I saw it. He saw me. I was wearing my mask, he may not know it was me.” I explain. “But I think he knows which room I was in. I was able to get out and get down here without him seeing me. I need to hide here. I need to try to connect with security!” 

The room goes quiet. The two of us looking at each other, when we hear footsteps outside the door. I put my finger to my mask. “Shhhh.” I mime. We both look at the door, there is the shadow of feet standing outside. Did he see me? Did he hear us? My heart thumps. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The shadow moves away. 

Betsy lets out a relieved sigh. She sits on her bed hard. 
“Okay,” I say to Betsy. “Let’s try to call the main deck.”
She looks at me sadly. “My phone is out of order, I put in a fix request today,” Betsy says. 

“Shit,” I say. I pace. “We are trapped, Betsy,” I say, “Surrounded by a virus that might kill us, and a person who most definitely will.”
“If he can figure out who you are,” Betsy says weakly, “Your mask protected you.” She covers her own face with her hand like a mask.
“Yeah,” I say. “Goes both ways.”

Then the rain starts. Falling hard. Pelting the glass of the balcony window, and the ship’s hull, while two women inside think to save their lives.

Prompt: Turn the real news into a fiction story: https://qz.com/1852646/tens-of-thousands-are-still-stuck-on-cruise-ships/

38/100

On a cold gray morning, a man sits alone on a park bench. He plays a familiar haunting tune on his harmonica. Where have you heard that song before? It feels like an omen. New York City can be that way. There are 8 million people, and there is always something strange happening. The whole city is charged with human intention and ambition, you can feel it. It thrums up from the sidewalk. The sensation can overwhelm you, leaving you numb to its power — one day you wake up and find you don’t notice it as much. But like David Foster Wallace said, “you get to choose what you pay attention to and take meaning from.” And for some reason, this lonely man playing a lonely song stands out to you. 

You begin to catalog the scenes in your mind from walking the city. A woman in a passing bus, who you made eye contact with for longer than normal. A man and a woman walking in front of you, impossibly tall, in clothes that manage to be both flowing and angular. Walking in an unassuming part of town and suddenly finding a series of brass placards embedded into the concrete, for no clear reason. Sunlight reflecting off a glass building onto an older brick one, like music notes. Graffiti on the ceiling of the subway that you just happen to see because you chose to look up that says “This is our moment.” 

And this man, on a bench. Playing your song. The song of your soul. The soul of the city. 

Prompt: Build off a one-line observation made while living in NYC. 

37/100

Esther
First beauty. Because she is. 
Behind a mask, her loveliness is dazzling. 
She is art. Blossoming in the craft of delight. 

Then regal. She stands solidly, upright. 
First, unnoticed and passive. 
Not timid, but covered, by propriety. 

Always love. A Venus in her own right. 
Deep calm rivers run through her.
Like a reservoir of passion.  

A warrior, interceding for those in peril.
Revealing herself, transformed for retribution.
The harbinger of justice. 

Your prompt for today: Write an ode to your name. Instead, I chose another name, not my own. This is for Esther.  

36/100

There is a jar of words we pull from to say a kind thing.
Such as “please” and “thank you.”

“I love you,” should not be in that jar. 

Love is more than just kind. It is a verb. A thing done. Not a thing said. When a body gives out “I love you’s” with as much ease as “thank you,” it fails to mean love. 

Please do not say “I love you” as I pass in the hall as if you said, “Excuse me.” Grab hold of me, and say, “I love you,” mean — like you mean it. 

Once, twice, but not all the time. It is not sweet or kind, said in a flood with all the nice words. 

So I’ll thank you to save “I love you” for a thing past nice. For a thing that is real and raw. No excuse. All truth. 

Prompt: Write at least one full page of prose or a poem. It can be a made-up tale, a scene, a thing you’ve just done or seen. It can be a dream. But the one thing you can’t do is use a word that’s more than one syllable. 

35/100

“Grandpa, tell me the story of the time you save the world again,” James asked.  “Oh yes, that’s a good story,” Grandpa said. “You’ve heard it many times are you sure you want to hear it again?”  “Yes, please!” James said. “Ok, well it was me and my older brother, and our two sisters…” 

It was a sunny day and we’d gone up to the school playground. We were going to play basketball together. Only, as we approached the school, a huge black vortex opened up over the school. We found out later that solar flares in combination with chemicals from a satellite created this vortex. It was big, almost as big as the whole school, and it spun like a black whirlpool in the sky. It made a terrible blowing noise, like a hurricane but coming from someplace far away, like through a radio speaker. 

The whole town went crazy, people were panicking. We just stood there, with our mouths open. I’d never seen anything like it. Our principal, Mr. Jackson, ran out of the school. And I swear son, I know it’s not nice to say, but he peed in his pants. Don’t laugh, he was scared. You might have too. 

The grown-ups told us to go home but there was no way we were going anywhere. The police and fire department showed up and went to the roof of the school. It turned out that every time they got close to the thing it would start to suck them in. I don’t know what was on the other side of that vortex but no one wanted to find out. We had to find a way to deal with it. We couldn’t just stay inside and hide from it. 

The FBI showed up. They brought in scientists and engineers. They tried magnets. They tried big wind machines to blow the vortex away.  They tried hitching it with a crane to pull, but the whole crane went in, with the driver. He screamed so loud as he went into the vortex, we could hear over the blowing. I will never forget that sound. 

Gina, my little sister, had an idea. We wondered if we could try throwing things into the hole and see how it responded. The adults didn’t want us near the thing but when they were dealing with the fallout from the crane disappearance, we snuck into the perimeter. I had a bucket of ice that I got from the cafeteria. We threw it into the hole, and it got a little smaller. Not much, but a little. 

We had to convince the adults to listen to us. They didn’t want to, they thought we didn’t believe us. But Gina yelled, “Look at the hole.” Just then a scientist walked up and said, “Sir, the hole is smaller.” So they brought in a blower full of ice and cold air. They pumped so much ice, I think like several tons, and the hole got smaller and smaller. When it was finally the size of a dime it exploded. A few people were hurt, but the vortex was gone. 

“That’s how we saved the world,” Grandpa said. “And that is why I always listen to your crazy ideas kiddo. You never know where the best ideas will come from.” 

James hugged his Grandpa and said, “Thanks for saving the world, and thanks for hearing my ideas.” 

34/100

I was driving to work today, and missed a turn, the same turn, 2 times. Each time I missed it, I’d realize what happened, then make a u-turn. Coming back around my mind would skip and I’d missed it. I should be home in bed, not driving about in circles. It’s been 11 days, I think. Maybe. Could be. Really time is starting to bleed around the edges so I am not sure if it’s been 11 days. Anyway, I haven’t slept more beyond 2-3 hours for any stretch for a long time.

Insomnia. It’s a soothing word. In-som-nia. InnnSaaaahhhhmmmmnnnniiiiaaa. Like a mantra for meditation. Damn, that’s three times I’ve said the word. I try not to because like Beetlejuice or Bloody Mary it will continue to haunt me.

I’m awake, and can not sleep but it’s also like I’m never really awake either. It’s like a being and not being. Like that T.S. Elliot poem, I read in college… “Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards…Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.” There would be no sleep, and there is only sleep.

People look at me like I’m strange when I speak. They expect to be talking to a normal person, and instead, they get a weird prophet from the land of non-nod. I am the ruler of that land, and what I say goes. So if it doesn’t make sense to you, stay up with me a while and I’ll try to make myself clear. You’ll come down to my level and I’ll go up to yours, and together we will both descend and levitate.

I’ve been given advice. No TV or computer use after the sun goes down. Try working out. Mediation, of course. Medication, of course. Don’t stay in bed. Stay in bed. Music. Silence. Warm milk. No dairy of any kind. No meat. No carbs. Coldwater showers. Long warm baths.

Create a routine that tells your body it’s bedtime. Oh! I like this one — I gave myself a warm bath, a sweet bedtime story, and tucked myself in for the night. And like a petulant toddler, my mind turned on the moment the lights went out. And I lay with my eyes closed, unsleeping for hours, like a parent waiting for the babe to nod off.

It’s good advice. I don’t mind. In fact, I have no mind at all. Perhaps I’m keeping vigil so everyone else can sleep. Like a sentry at the gates. So don’t mind me if I nod and wink. I’ll keep you safe darling dear. Sleep. If you can.

33/100

Mother, who’s body made my own, like a miracle. You have the power of making — you begin with some small matter and can weave it into something wholly new. You taught me to see what’s possible in all the wonders around me, and how to give new life. 

Mother, who gave me stars and structure, evening prayers, and plenty of curiosity. You have the power of goodness — you shine a light on the best parts of the people around you. You taught me to ask great questions and to love the family. 

Mother, who gave me company, deep laughter, and hours spinning tales. You have the power of remembering — you know the names of all people and places and the deeds and misdeeds that keep our legacy alive.  You taught me that time well spent is time we spend together, sharing stories.
 
Mother, who became my mother, spreading your arms to pull me in and make me one of your own. You have the power of service — you do for others, considerate of things you can do to make the load lighter. You taught me how to work hard, love properly, and to forgive. 

Mother, who’s body makes us all — animal, mineral, vegetable. You have the power of being — ancient, impartial, and the source of everything material in this world. You taught me to be patient, to breathe deeply, and to understand the connection we all share through you. 

32/100

Lena
When the news hit Studio Zone, I was at Desi’s house. He said I’d be safe staying with him a few days until I could figure out what I wanted to do next. I’m so totally used to being in the public eye, as a social media influencer. But I had no idea what a dumpster fire this would become. Fame is a flighty bae. 

Max
“I didn’t know where Lena had gone.” I said to my friend Howard. We had steak together every month. Tonight I was pissed and he could tell. It was a private conversation, or so I thought. 

“I can usually find her through her feed, but she’d been silent all day and she isn’t at home.” 
“Has she left you? There been trouble?” Howard asked. 
“Yeah, some, I mean she’s young. She doesn’t really understand things about the world as we would. I’m not trying to be hard on her but she’s precious to me. Maybe she feels restrained.” I told him. 

We talked for the next hour, not only about Lena but about women, about love, and about business. Everything is interrelated. The next day, when my executive assistant texted me a link to the story in Studio Zone, I was furious. Some snake journalist overheard our conversation and found Lena before I did, and now it was out there on the net. My private life exposed for anyone to read. 

Desi
The season is about to start. That means long hours in the gym and on the court. This Studio Zone bullshit and drama with Lena is too much. I just gave the girl a place to crash. Is she stunning? Yes. Would I like to be with her? Maybe. But I’m not, and that’s the point. I’m just trying to be a nice guy. This shit is getting out of hand. 

STUDIO ZONE: September 8, 11:48 pm 

Milos Plays “Ball” with Beauty Influencer, Lena, leaves Max Maynard Fuming

You heard it here first, Lena, the famous Instagram influencer has left her aged Mogul husband, Maximus Maynard, for Lakers Basketball ‘playa’ Desi Milos. Story developing. Tell us what you think in the comments. Are you shipping Desi and Lena, or are you team MaxLen?

(378) comments (1254) shares

Desi
I was at a party after a game. Spirits were high, we’d won. I was in a great mood. As I bounded down the hallway, I wasn’t looking where I was going, and ran right into this Betty — and of course, spilled my drink all over her. “Derp!” I thought to myself. Then, she started crying. 

“Shit, fuck, I’m so sorry.” Her friends started yelling at me. I said, “Come with me, let me help you clean up.” We got away from her brood and found a quiet spot. I could not believe how beautiful this girl was — damn my luck. 

“Please, I’m so sorry,” I said, “Don’t cry.” She took a deep breath and said, “No, it’s okay, not your fault. I mean, the dress, yes, this is your fault.” She gestured to her tiny white dress, with an amber-brown stain down the front. Very tiny. Mesmerizing. 

She continued, “But I’m not crying over spilled beer.” 
“I’m Desi,” I said, “Desi Milos.” I extended my hand, she took it. We shook hands like we were making a deal. 
“I think I know you?” I asked, “But I’m sorry, I don’t know where from.” 
“I’m Lena,” she replied, “I’m an influencer, you know, Instagram, social media. I have a lot of followers so…” 
“Right!” I said, slapping my forehead. “Nice to meet you Lena, and I’m so sorry about the dress.” 
“Thanks,” she said, “I need to go find my friends before the rumor mills begins. And don’t worry, I’m not crying about the dress.” 
“Yeah?” I asked, “What’s the bad?” 

She looked at me cautiously, then out at the hall where the party was carrying on loud. She nodded and told me about her husband. Mr. big-time Wall Street, always on her case about her life. I have no idea why she opened up to me, but I felt bad for her and she was such a looker, it wasn’t hard to just listen to her. 

Lena
I met Desi after a Lakers game. Max and I fought earlier that day. Something trivial, but it’s been an ongoing issue. Same shit, different day on what he thinks I need to be doing. I needed to blow off some steam and just be with my girls. Then this Bruh spills beer all over my Dolce and Gabbana white micro dress. It was just the last fucking thing. I kind of lost my shit.

After I calmed down, I wanted him to know it wasn’t his fault. I could tell he felt bad, I didn’t want him to carry that. He had such an open and sympathetic face when he said “What’s the bad?” I couldn’t help myself. I unloaded, told him about the trouble with Max. That’s it, we became friends. We talk now and then online, and sometimes grab a coffee. So, when shit flared up at home again, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I needed space. I reached out to Desi. I knew he’d understand better than any of my girlfriends. I just needed a safe space and a minute to think. 

Max
At first, it was just pouting. I’d ask her not to go to a party. Or to wear more clothes at Cannes. But now, 2 years into our ill-fated marriage and she was outright hostile. It was like a tug-of-war, the more I’d insist, the harder she pushed back.

I love the woman. I know we are from different generations and have different ideas about how to carry ourselves in life, but I thought our love would make it easy to soothe over. She had her choice of marriage material when we met. I believed we were meant to be together. I can’t believe that these small spats could push her into the arms of another man.

That swaggering, basketball player, with his sleazy grin. I am sure this wasn’t her idea. He must have forced her or brainwashed her against me. And I have enough money and power to make him regret it. He will regret taking Lena from me. 

Honey Hanah (@HoneyXX98 ) Ew, I’d leave that wrinkled money bag too. Lena doesn’t need him. Good for you girl! <3Xoxo<3 #lovewillfindaway #deslen
(567) likes (89) comments (3) shares

Jason Morel (@LABallerFan) Damn Bro! I’d let her influence me any day. #shipping #hotballer
(2356) ❤️(405) comments (23) retweets

Vanessa (@SingGod) Lena is a bad example to young girls. She should be ashamed of herself. Marriage is sacred. #hatetheplayers 
(2356) ❤️(405) comments (23) retweets

Wall Street Biz Review (@WallStreetBiz) Max Maynard distracted by love triangle, misses the mark in recent earning report. 
(42) comments (56) shares

Desi
Doxxed! I’m being hounded by a roving group of losers online who have nothing better to do. I was just trying to help out my girl. I didn’t expect it to fuck with my life. My manager called me into his office the other day. It’s getting so bad that the team wants me to consider taking a leave. They don’t want this drama to interfere with the fans or the game. I understand where they are coming from, but I can not believe this is happening to me. Lena is beautiful, and I think she is a sweet person, but I don’t know if being friends is worth it. 

Lena
Desi asked me to leave. My heart breaks that this is happening to him, to us, when all he tried to do was help me. I’m not ready to go back to Max, but I’m kind of scared if I don’t, this will never end.

Max is so sure of himself. It’s part of what made me fall for him in the first place. But right now I feel so resentful that my skin crawls when I think about him. And what if this keeps going even after I go home to him? The whole situation is out of control. My friends say go back. My mom even said, “Talk to Max, honey.”

But they don’t realize, the internet is like a mob, uncontrollable. I’ve got to get my side of the story out there. The truth maybe my only way to freedom. That’s all I really ever wanted. Not freedom to fuck around on Max, but just freedom to, like, live.  I’m not a teenager fighting a rebellious parent but damn, that’s how it feels right now. I am a grown woman. I need to find a way to show them all. 

Max
My company stock is falling. The things we’ve unleashed is backfiring. I just want to talk to Lena. Desi may regret taking my wife, but like a double-edged sword, I’m getting attacked too. Damn media, nosey journalist, fucking trolls — this is such a waste of time. But I miss Lena.

David M.  (@Trustinhim) She’s a whore if she breaks up her marriage for a new young toy. I have no respect for her. #marriageissacred
(78) likes (345) comments (903) retweets

RhondaRed (@RhondaRed) She must not be happy. She shouldn’t stay in a bad marriage. I’ve been there and it’s not healthy. #freeLena 
(89) ❤️(267) comments (23) shares

Babs (@BabsinHeartland) Who cares? These people aren’t important. Why is everyone talking about this? #betterthingstodo #likeknitting #knitterruletheworld
(75) ❤️(25) comments (400) retweets

Inside Wall Street (@insidewallstreet) Sources say that aside from marriage trouble, MM inc. has been struggling for years under pressure from new online competition. 
(12) comments (300) shares

Concept: Social media as a greek chorus in a modern take on Helen of Troy.  Note: All user names are made up, fake, not real. If I accidentally used someone’s real user name, chill, I made this all up. 

31/100

The scene opens on a woman at her desk. She’s typing quickly, occasionally stopping to drink cold coffee that’s been on her desk since this morning. The room is shadowed but there is a curtain open spilling in natural light to her work area. There are cups and vitamins on the desk, and piles of books with containers of markers and pens set on top of them. Things are neatly stacked but it looks like the day’s detritus has taken over her normally clean desk. 

The desk is pushed into the corner of the bedroom. The bedroom is divided into section, one for sleeping, one for sitting, one for working and one for reflection. It’s a small bedroom but somehow all of these worlds are in one place. The woman takes a deep breath as she considered all the aspects of her tiny room. She somehow longs for more space but also feels appreciative of the limitations of expansion. She likes that all these important parts of herself are somehow housed in this one room. 

The room is cool and there are sounds of laughter coming from the other room, as she hears her children playing. We are all here together. And again, while she may long for just a bit more room to spread out, she loves that we are all so close that we can never miss each other. 

Prompt: Describe the setting around you like it is a movie. Consider the lighting, mood, point of view, objects, sound. 

30/100

For years, people said breakfast was the most important meal of the day. My grandmother was especially fond of this maxim. She was of the school of “stick-to-your-ribs” food — like eggs AND toast. The carb and the protein together are the secret to rib-sticking. 

It makes sense. Her whole generation grew up when breakfast was followed, generally, by working hard all day long. Maybe farming, or working in shops. They didn’t have the modern conveniences we have and had to do what needed doing by hand mostly.  So, when I was little I had a nice stick-to-your-ribs breakfast, and sometimes a treat of milky coffee with lots of sugar. 

As a teen, I switched to quick grabs — breakfast bars, diet shakes, or toast. The goal was to sleep until the very last possible responsible moment, throw on clothes, pull my hair up in a knot,  and get out of the house fast. Sleep was the priority, not breakfast. My grandmother was aghast. She’d cluck at me. But I was a teenager, and you know how teenagers know everything. 

I don’t recall breakfast in college. Maybe a breakfast taco or a bagel on my way to class? That seems right. I do remember eating late at night after going to the bars. But breakfast is somewhat of a blur. I probably wasn’t awake a breakfast time. 

Then, as a young adult, I started doing breakfast right. A proper egg, some bacon, coffee, maybe even an omelet with spinach. Gotta get those veggies in wherever you can. Then I’d head off to my entry-level job — adulting. I discovered brunch before my kids were born. Booze and breakfast, can’t go wrong. Though, best reserved for days you can nap. A big meal, a mimosa, and a nap. Those were the days. 

Then, kids. Now, I don’t eat breakfast really. It is not the kids’ fault. I just found that I feel better when I only eat from around noon to 6 p.m. Getting old is hell. So, it’s black coffee and something for the kids. Still sometimes at night, I’ll have breakfast for dinner —  a real stick-to-your-ribs meal. Grandmother knows best. 

Prompt: Write about breakfast in a memoir format. Write about your breakfast habits, preferences, observations. Really try and paint a picture of yourself by talking about breakfast

Concept/Prompt:

29/100

The back door flew open with a whiff of scent — pencil shavings and bubble gum. Abby was home! I rushed to the gate to greet her. This is my favorite time of the day. 

“Fern!” Abby cried, as she pulled open the gate and dropped to her knees on the grass. I rolled over, and let her scratch my belly and my ears. “Oh pretty pig,” she cooed. “I missed you all day long.” 

“My new teacher is so nice, she said I could call her Grace. Her first name! Isn’t that cray, have you ever heard of such a thing?” I gave her a grin. I love hearing Abby’s voice. I don’t have many memories from being a baby but one of my earliest memories is her picking me up and pressing her soft face into my side, and calling me baby pig. 

Life has been confusing lately. The place that used to be my home, changed. I was packed in a crate, and it was dark and stuffy. Then there was a long period of jostling and it made me sick. Abby once told me a story about pirates, and she described the sea and boats. She’s a great storyteller, my Abby. She told me about rolling and rollicking waves. Well, I wonder if we were on a boat because it felt like rolling waves in my stomach. The only thing that helped was hearing Abby’s voice through the holes in the crate. Soothing me and telling me everything she saw while we rode. 

Now, I have a new pen. The air smells different here. But it’s okay, because here is Abby. A small girl, freckles, snub nose. She has long brown hair that her mom often braids. She always smells like pencil shavings and bubblegum, and sometimes like flour and sometimes like soap. She has taught me everything I know about life. I’m kind of the luckiest pig on earth. She talks like that, you know, “Fern, I’m the luckiest girl on earth.” We are the luckiest girl and pig on earth.

She tells me more about her new school. “I made some friends today too. Sarah and Nicole. They sat with me at lunch. At first, I thought it was because someone asked them to. I was feeling so lonely. I wished you could be there Fern. The kids all talk about shows I’ve never seen and games I haven’t played. I didn’t know what to say. I tried to tell them about you, but some of the boys started making fun of me.” Abby pulled some grass and tore it to shreds. “Boys stink!” 

I nuzzled her hand and put my nose on her lap as if to say, “Go on.” 
“Sarah and Nicole were super nice to me. They told me about the spelling bee coming up and offered to help me practice. I do like spelling, you know? But, I don’t know.” 

“During art,” Abby went on. “I saw the two coolest girls. Tiffany and Destiny. I mean, even their names are cool. They both had colored streaks in their hair. Mom would never let me do that. Destiny drew this amazing picture of a pony. I drew you of course! Mom hung it on the fridge.” 

Abby was quiet for a while, she scratched my back. I love when she does that, but I could see she was thinking too. She get’s a little furrow in her brow when she thinking, like right before she tells me the next part of a great adventure story. 

She sighed, “I don’t know Fern. I wonder if I could get Tiff and Destiny to be my friend too. What do you think little pig?” Then she laughed and rolled down to the ground, “Not that anyone could ever be as good a friend as you, my fernnifer. Fern fernnie fernnifer.” 

I snorted and rolled too. Abby laid on her back and watched the clouds shift and change. I watched Abby. 

I wish I had a voice to tell her not to worry. That she is cool enough, without streaks in her hair. To ask her for a story. But I can’t. I’m not a talking pig and I’ve never met a spider to talk for me, like the one she told me a story about. So, I’ll just keep listening. And maybe one day I’ll learn to draw and can make her a drawing to tell her about my love. 

Your prompt for today: Write a scene from an imaginary biography of a pet.

28/100

Diving deep into a grotto until your lungs stretch taut and you burst through the surface.

Sustaining a long sweet note on a wind instrument, then drinking in a deep quick breath to move to the next note.

A half breath, caught in the moment between, excitement and elation of a child telling a story.

Bright green, fresh and blue, a long deep breath of early morning air.

Sweet milky baby’s breath after nursing, asleep in your arms.

When you turned away, and I sigh to see you go.

Dancing with abandon, sweat dripping from your hair as you exhale and move.

The feeling when you touched my hand for the first time. Breathless.

Short burst of fast, deep breaths. In. out. Hold. Push through the pain.

Sitting with your thoughts falling like leaves around you while you breathe.

Returning focus to your breath.

Your prompt for today: Because breathing is essential for life, it touches every part of our existence. What does it mean to you to breathe? When was the last time you really noticed your breath? What were you doing? Was there ever a time when you realized you had taken your breath for granted? 

Source: https://www.suleikajaouad.com/the-isolation-journals-prompts/2020/4/23/mj8305vjgihj6mlpehuf12vwd7aslt

27/100

Close focus on a couple embracing, the man grips the woman from behind as he pulls her pelvis in tightly. They’re standing in the doorway as if they’re embracing to say goodbye. Or perhaps hello. The door belongs to a camp trailer, one of those aluminum campers that you can pull behind a truck. There’s no truck hitch to this one. In fact, this trailer appears to have been stationary for some time.

A broken-down couch with a colorful cover sits outside, and an assortment of chairs brooms and buckets lean against the outside wall. An old dog sleeps on his side, gray muzzle nestled in the dirt.

The scene unfolds against the backdrop of a beautiful blue harbor, fluffy clouds in a blue sky float above. Rolling hills and mountains cup the scene in shades of blue, green, and gray. The couple embracing in the door face away from the water. Secluded and private. You might imagine there’s a window inside that has a view of the sea and the mountains. The perfect location for a spot tucked away from the world.

But the people here aren’t thinking about boats or water or the majesty of the blue sky above. They are locked in a gorgeous raunchy embrace that leaves you breathless and shy. A cat approaches, not the least bit embarrassed by the acts of passion being played out — cats being brazen creatures themselves.

The day is hot for this part of the Pacific Northwest, a rare summer day, and the windows on the camper are fully open to the sea breeze. The boats behind the camper are busy, industrious. You can see that they’re doing essential work over there. Again, the couple is careless of these things. Their day is measured by languid moments and lusty looks rather than balance sheets and shipping labels. A long salty kiss in the doorway before their next moment of mundane ecstasy.

Concept/Prompt: Describe a picture.

26/100

The platform sways a bit, but it feels solid. Looking out across an empty spans 25 five feet in the air, the other side is visible. Your foot touches the steel cable, and as you shift your body forward you can feel the line press into your foot. Doubt rears its head, you look back at your trainer, down at your friends who are there to cheer you across the tight-wire. 

“Remember, don’t lean forward, focus on one step at a time, and keep your center of gravity low, bend your knees.” The instructor reminds you. We’ve talked about this and even practiced a bit on a lower line. Her voice is reassuring. “The pole will help you fight the cable spin. Use the tools. And don’t forget to breathe.” 

“You’ve got this!” Your friends cheer. Plus there is the harness and the rope to catch you if you fall. It’s scary but you’ve got the support in place to help you get across. 

You bend your knees, steady the pole in your hands, and step out onto the wire. And gravity begins to fight against you. The steady platform is replaced by a dynamic swaying cable, 25 feet in the air. You breathe. You take the next step. 

You can no longer hear anything but your own heartbeat. The sound from the ground is muffled. You are on the wire. And you are steady. You take another step. Then another. It’s not like walking. It’s like connecting with and becoming part of the cable. You shift with it. You spread your mass out through the pole, you lower your hips. You breathe. You step. 

You are out there, in the middle. There are somethings you can stop, once you start. Like falling in love. You can not trick your heart once it’s been committed, and you can not take back the steps that have brought here, on the wire, while your heart races. 

You start to think about what you are doing. Aware of the wire pressing into your foot painfully. You can hear your friends on the ground. They are cheering. You sway. Your concentration is broken. You are thinking about all the steps you’ve taken so far, and all the steps left until you reach the platform. 

“One step at a time,” your instructor calls from behind you. 

You find your equilibrium. You focus on your step. You breathe. You are walking on the tight-wire. 

25/100

“There is a man on the stairs,” I said breathlessly as I ran up to my mom and her friend Pam. “Are you sure, honey, no one is living up there right now,” Pam replied doubtfully. “Let’s go check.”

About half an hour earlier, my mom looked down at me as I tugged on her arm. The grown-ups were visiting and I’d already explored all the things that held my interest. There was a wooden doll, and some children’s books, but they only looked like toys. They didn’t feel like toys. The conversation wasn’t about me, and I didn’t understand what they were talking about. Sometimes they would laugh, and I’d tug on my mom’s hand “What’s funny?” I’d ask. She’d shrug, and pat my hand while continuing to talk with her friend. So I tugged again and she shooed me out. “Go play. Stay close. It’s getting dark out,” she said. 

My skin prickled. Something felt different and it was more than just the cool air, so unlike the heavy dense air from my hometown near the coast. Wind whipped my hair around my head, and I peered up at the tall evergreens that soared above the house. I wondered about what it was like to live in a place like this. I felt like I could fly. 

Just beyond the corner of the house were stairs. It was truly dark now and the light on the side of the house flickered on. I blinked, no longer able to see beyond the small circle of light where I stood. I was curious, “I wonder what I can see from the top of the stairs,” I thought. At the first step, something shifted. I wasn’t alone. I peered up and saw the red burning cherry of a cigarette. Startled I stepped back down. 

I backed away from the stairs and saw the lit cigarette move, as if away from an unseen mouth. I heard my mom call out for me, “Time to go.” 
Now, I stood with my mom and her friend, and no one was there. The grown-ups shrugged, and hugged each other, laughing as we walked to our car. 

But I know that someone was there. I could still smell the cigarette smoke. 

Prompt: Write about something you can barely remember.

24/100

A lot of people want to know about my job. I’m a Google Street View driver. I get two types of people — people who think it must interesting to explore every nook and cranny of a place, and those who think it must be damn tedious. They are both a little right. I find myself getting into a zone. I just drive for hours and let my mind wander. Don’t worry I focus on the road and being safe but I spend so much time driving that I can divide my mind into two, one for driving, one for just thinking. 

Sometimes, I think about the people in the area that I’m documenting. Especially in small towns. I drive during the day, and most people are working but I often see those who don’t work during the day. The elderly, the very young and their parents, and people working in the city like mailmen, delivery drivers. Many see me and light up and wave at me, like I’m part of their town and their community. I’m sure they are curious about my odd car and it’s big camera. 

Sometimes, I think about my life and how I got here. I think about my friends from high school and old girlfriends. Different mistakes I’ve made and things I would do differently. The things that I felt were unfair that I still stew on and wonder if it had gone differently would I be someplace else. 

In and out my mind wanders over the contours of my life and the world around me. In a way, I feel like an omnipresent godling. A tiny god, with a big eye, documenting everything around me while I rehash everything within myself.  I can see my moods reflect the conditions around me — from the derelict and run down, to the gentrified and suburban. I am myself and I am the world I’m documenting. As is above, so is below. 

I wonder if God feels this way if he is documenting every turn and every alley. Seeing the people wave and the people work. Seeing me drive down every street, and dissecting every moment of my own life. I’m sure it’s very interesting for him, and probably a little tedious. I wonder if he sees the patterns that I see, and if so, if it leaves him to consider the changes he would have made or could have made to lead to different outcomes. 

Prompt: Write a story about a Google Street View driver.

23/100

Advice to myself — people gather in insolation, separated from reality by computer screens. Frustrated and trapped by circumstance, we argue about the price of tea in China. I’ve read that 97% of cases are spread indoors. Go outside. Sunlight is an effective dose against short-sightedness. Turn away from the argument and consider the birds. 

22/100

“I had a dream last night,” Jane said. Her friend Emma leaned back in her chair.  “What?” Jane asked, noticing her friend’s blank expression.

Emma shrugged, “I’m sorry, Jane, in my experience, other people’s dreams are tedious.”

“I mean, it could be interesting to talk about the symbolism, but it seems like people get all into the plot and details. And it’s rarely riveting stuff,” Emma explained. “I’m not trying to be a downer. Tell me about it. I’ll try to follow.”

“This is why we are friends,” Jane said, smirking. “You could have sat there. Listening politely. All the while rolling your eyes at me on the inside. Instead, you just came out with what you think.”

“I’m nothing if not blunt,” Emma said and raised one eyebrow at her friend. “Okay, dream world, what happened?”

“Sure,” Jane said, “just the outlines, fair?”

Emma nodded and took a drink of her wine.

“I was at my own wedding, but the guy I’m marrying failed to share with me that he was marrying another woman at the same time. I discovered as I was walking down the aisle that I’m the second wife in line. My whole family was there. And I felt all this pressure to go through with it. I wanted to marry him, but I didn’t want to share him!” Jane continued, “I was going to just do it, but then my grandmother grabbed my elbow and said ‘honey, let’s go talk for a minute.'”

“Which grandmother?” Emma interjected.

“My mom’s mom, the one who died 2 years ago,” Jane responded.

“Ah brilliant, dreams and dead people,” Emma said blandly.

“I know, okay, let me get this out,” Jane said placating. “And so we are talking, and she tells me I don’t have to go through with it. And so, I don’t,” Jane shrugs, “I just tell the guy to fuck off. Then the reception continues for him and the first woman he married. That’s about when I wake up. And I feel… relieved.”

“Nice,” Emma says, “What do you think?”

“I think it means I can stop putting up with bullshit I didn’t agree to, just to get along,” Jane says.

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Emma says. “That wasn’t too painful, thank you for getting to the point. It’s damn profound too, my friend.”

Jane grinned and took a drink of her wine. “Yeah, I feel resolved too. Like permission from beyond, you know? I don’t know why its easier to hear in a dream. You’ve been telling me this for months. I guess I just wasn’t ready to hear it.”

“It’s okay,” Emma said. “Other people’s dream stories are dull, but they aren’t useless. This one was easy to untangle, it’s not always so clear. I guess we can thank Granny for that?”

“Damn straight,” Jane said, holding up her glass, “Here to Granny.”  
“To Granny,” Emma replied. 

21/100

It’s late at night. You are leaning against a comfortable pillow. You’ve been reading for hours, but time is an arbitrary concept. Because you have become a time traveler. You aren’t actually in your bed, holding a book, and it’s not really mid-night. You are…

Sailing on the open sea, the salty wind blowing through your hair. You watch the approaching vessel full of bandits and tremble with fear.

In your lover’s arms. Through all the misunderstanding you have finally found each other, and you know you will lose them again tomorrow.

Running headlong into an invisible magical portal in order to board a train bound for a secret school for wizards. Curious and fearful of your own worthiness to be let in. 

Fighting against a great injustice that requires resilience and stamina. You are winning. This is no time to flag or falter.

It may happen that you pause, sip your water, glance at your clock. The weight of tomorrow and duty, press down on you. This is no time to flag or falter.  You quickly slip back into your alternate reality, where the story is everything — time is meaningless. 

Prompt: Write about a time when you (or your character) experienced something that may be a common human event (for example: scratching an itch, sneezing, petting an animal, etc.), with concrete language that brings the experience to life. Try using all of the senses in order to avoid cliché.

20/100

The first few times I saw him, it seemed like a coincidence. At the grocery store, we were both shopping for fresh fruit. At the Apple store, he walked past me as I looked at new iPads. At the UPS store, he held the door for me. When I saw him in the rear-view mirror while in the drive-through at the taco shop, I started to really wonder. 

Who was this guy, and why was he always wearing the same clothes? Gray t-shirt, green pants, and a baseball cap. I saw him at the kids’ playground. At the ATM, he was getting cash. We were both getting sodas at the convenience store. I started to wonder if I was crazy. 

The last straw was when I walked into the house and he was making dinner. “Who are you!?” I yelled. He turned and laughed, “I know unexpected,” but I thought I’d make you dinner tonight for a change.” I put my arms around him and we kissed. Sometimes it’s nice to rediscover your husband. 

Prompt: Write a story about someone who keeps coming across the same stranger.

Source: https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/mystery/write-a-story-about-someone-who-keeps-coming-acros/

19/100

Anger is like a gag, but for the mind. My rage is blank. White-hot, and complete. 
Like the center of the hottest fire, what blue? No white, like ash. 

My vision becomes blurred and distorted, and when I’m really angry I can’t even see to spit. 
Furious, illogical to the point of silliness. But it’s not funny. At all. 

And when my vision clear, and my brain cools, it settles into a dark cold lump. 
Sorrow, and heaviness, like a rock in my chest. 

And at the center of that sad dark lump, is a tiny flame of lingering burning tender Just waiting for the next breath of oxygen to give it life. 

Fury feeds sorrow, feeds fury, feeds sorrow, feeds fury
Like a snowball from hell running downhill to flatten everything

18/100

Little girls pretending to be mermaid sunning themselves in a paradise garden filled with fruit. The smell of soil and the heat of the greenhouse. Rain on a metal roof. Tiny treasure tucked into delightful places that you’d find when you sit down. The little engine that could. Gold stars. Now I lay me down to sleep. The hope of the golden 1950s. Hair rollers. Pink lipstick. Spearmint gum. Blue and white pottery. Fried eggs and coffee with cream and sugar. Oreo cookies. Quiet. Calm. Mornings in bed with the paper and the news on. Fresh clean sheets and down comforters. Sunshine on the porch with a cup of tea. Squeaking porch swing in the shade on a warm afternoon. Cut grass. Home. Safety. A place to return to. 

Concept/Prompt: Meditate on places. Write down any images, details, or words that come to mind. Don’t worry about complete sentences. Don’t worry about describing the place as much as describing what it felt like.

17/100

The wide pane of glass frames a vista that’s ever-changing
Like a slow-motion movie, who’s plot unfolds in epochs
Today, the sun shines like a proud mother on her son
Yesterday, fog obscured the distant mountains like a cloak on the land

When I press my hand to the glass, it feels like cool water
But leaves no residue when the hand is removed
And when I turn my back to the scene, I feel it there
Lighting up my way forward and inward to my room

And later when I sleep the window remain a frame to the stars
Each star shines and reminds me that they too are windows
To distant plains of gases and rock, who stories unfold in epochs
Windows within windows, turning inward to rooms of their own

Prompt: My son’s homework today (I’m going to do this with him) Write a poem with:

15/100

I guess you could say I’m a wannabe. But I’m tired of just wanting to be something and ready to take action. I was a few weeks into a shiny new creative writing habit when I started to wonder why my writing was so flat. I was struggling to muster any interest in my own ideas. That’s the moment I came across Matt Bird.

His book not only gave me a map of the world but a compass to find my way through it. With super clear structure, and examples to illustrate his points, The Secret of Story, unlocked my writing. It’s as if introducing a few containing rules (or secrets) allowed me to be more creative than I could be with no rules at all.

Now, when I sit down to write I think it terms of problems I want my heroes to solve and the journey they will take to get there. Their voices are stronger, and my writing is crisper. I’m thinking about the concept, the theme, and the hook of my story. What is the big question my story is answering?

And most of all, I no longer dread sitting down to my blank page, because Matt Bird told me the secrets that make writing fun again.

Concept/Prompt: Write a book review as a narrative. 

• 1984 – Riding in the Car with My Parents (8 years old) – Heart of Rock and Roll, Huey Lewis & The News
• 1991 – Listening to a Bootleg Tape In the Shower (14 years old) – Territorial Pissings, Nirvana
• 1997 – On a Roadtrip to South Dakota with my Best Friend (21 years old) – Truckin, The Grateful Dead
• 2005 – Sitting on the Stoop, Talking To My Lover (29 years old) – The Pearl, EmmyLou Harris
• 2010 – Rocking in the Dark with My Infant (34 years old) – O My Luve’s Like A Red Red Rose, Choral Music

Spotify Playlist: