Writing Prompt #6

Her life was far from poetry. Patchwork epitaphs tattooed across her frame to form catacombs of Romeos that left her conquered.

On a Tuesday, written like any other, she slinked, wet-headed, into the kitchen for some coffee. She grabbed a cup from the sink, regarded the dark rings left from the day before, and shrugged to herself. No cream, heavy sugar, and out the door she snuck.

She drove with the windows down, drying her hair naturally, sipping her coffee cautiously: multitasking in a malaise. 

She pulled into the mostly empty backlot of the strip mall, a scene already hazy from the midday heat.  Her eyes watered when she stepped from the car, lengthening streaks of eyeliner painting her cheeks. But these weren't tears of sadness, they weren't of any emotion, it was the heat and the dust, nothing more.

She opened the door and, without pausing to allow her eyes to adjust to the dim restaurant lighting, turned to find the rack of aprons, quickly fitting herself with one. She punched the clock and slogged elbow-deep through her shift of back room cleaning duties.

The squeak of the door behind her bid the evening's lone farewell, wishing her solace on the ride home. As the shadows from the tree line crept across the road into her lane, her thoughts wandered back to where they stay after the sun goes down: him.

He was the last to see her laugh and the last to make her cry. She'd tried to project her thoughts of him onto other men since they'd lost one another, but she hadn't yet found one who could bear such heaviness without breaking her. These incorporeal memories of him, still as real as they are now distant, were enough to keep her pushing through the daily moil, just so she could afford to come home and be with him for a bit longer, to drift off to sleep with him at least once more.

She woke on a Wednesday, a morning like any other, nuzzled in his shirt, smiling at his lingering scent.

Writing Prompt #5

Opinion-Editorial

by Wallace Taylor

So, you know how I hate amputees? Well, it's not like it's a notion that comes from just out of nowhere. It's a calculated prejudice. A little or a lot, it doesn't matter the amount of flesh and bone that's gone, all that matters is that what was once there is no longer. The absence of a limb's not all it, though. It's that it's held over the heads and thrown in the faces of those of us that are still whole.

      You mean to tell me that I'm supposed to talk to some fellow and just flat ignore that stump he's wielding? It ain't natural and there ain't tolerance enough for it rattling around in this head of mine. And, hell, I know it's got to make a person self-conscious as all get-out knowing that there's people like me looking down on them for something they most likely couldn't help, but that's not for me to deal with; that's their's and their's alone to shoulder.

      I have to give a hand to those that strap those prosthetics on and move an inch more back toward normal, though. A valiant effort, for sure, but that don't solve the problem. Hell, there ain’t no solution. Matter of fact, some plastic or rubber piece like that probably makes matters worse. Think about it: you see two fellows side-by-side, one with no leg and one with a fake. Now, I'm no authority on such matters, but I'd say the guy who didn't bother covering his shortcoming is probably being dealt a better hand than the other guy. I mean, whether you got no leg or are wearing a fake one, folks are gonna notice. Either way, eyes will be constantly trying to avoid looking but unable to stop stealing glances. Now that's undoubtedly a heavy lot to deal with, but just how much tougher would it be to keep talking, talking, talking about the whole ordeal? I mean, the guy with no leg just handles the folks pretending like they ain't noticed nothing wrong, but that's not all ol' Fake Leg’s got to wrap his head around. People see that prosthetic sticking out like a sore thumb and think he's made his peace and is trying to move on. They presume some sort of public therapy with a stranger will help the healing and that he’s ready to field questions about the mess he’s been through to get here - Firecracker? Car wreck? Diabetes? What’s the story? And make it juicy! Like  he wants to live it all over day after day with complete strangers.

      Dammit, it’s a sad thought that people have to deal with folks like me judging them when all they want is to live their life the best way they can with what they got, but I am me and I ain’t near about to bite my tongue so some lesser man don’t feel all that left out down at the VFW.

Writing Prompt #4

The first time I saw her, I knew I wanted her. Those legs! High heels and a sharp business skirt suit. A high-fashion woman, classy. For six weeks we patronized the same little coffee shop on the square, seeing one another frequently but only in passing, she hardly tossed a glance my way, while I answered her presence with lidless gawking. Despite having shared no interaction of note – aside from an erstwhile, meek comment about the headline of a newspaper she held one day early in our history, a half-hearted folly of an icebreaker (met by her whole-hearted dismissal) – she was keeping me up nights with speculation on our future. Perhaps we would continue our coexistence as ships passing in the night, as coffee shop clientele with merely our good taste in common. But perhaps Fortuna will spin her Wheel favorably, landing us in a feverous mutual heat. While the former seemed most tenable, yet not so terribly undesirable – I was, after all, enjoying the fantasies that our daily tangencies urged – the latter was decidedly preferable.

           

            Over time (and without intent, mind you), I began to notice how her Friday morning routine stood out from all the rest: along with her usual caffè latte, she ordered a multigrain bagel and optioned her usual rush for a half-hour residency in the hushed back corner of the shop. Having nothing more than the paperwork of my office desk calling me away, I began to afford myself a similar weekly luxury: an additional half-hour spent with my coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a view of a brilliant piece of living scenery. Aside from the nightly trysts that I took the liberty of imagining for us, the Friday morning quiet-times we shared presented the ideal setting for me to strategically engineer each step toward our future. Having stewed over the minutia for weeks, I felt that my plan covered all facets and possibilities, but my success ultimately hinged on her routine remaining intact.

Our Friday morning dawned and Fortuna afforded me a favorable delight: my lady arrived at the coffee shop without deviation from schedule. I had the high ground, poised for a clean capture of her heart. How could she (or any woman, for that matter) resist the charm I had manufactured for the upcoming display?

I sat patiently waiting for my moment, the first sip of her latte after the last bite of the top-half of her bagel, the moment I felt most opportune as it distinctly signified the halfway point of her morning escape. The last bite went the way of those before it. My time was now, the telltale sip was next. I watched her as I confidently slid my chair away from the table, ready to engage. Rather than reach for her cup, however, she sat tall and tossed her back hair over her shoulder, adjusted the tiny watch that hung perfectly loose around her wrist, and glanced at the time. Suddenly, with a smooth jerk, as I stood half-erect like a stooge, all of her angles ironed out. She shouldered her handbag and marched haughtily across the lobby to the door. The river of folk flowing along the sidewalk seemed to flash a collective smirk back at me as it gobbled her up without so much as a taste. Here I lay in wait, my Wheel still spinning.

Writing Prompt #3

It was a cold, grey day. It suited my mood. As I stood there on the bridge with the sky pissing down upon me, I thought about the night before. Only a few hours removed, yet sleeplessly delirious, I had to embellish the details to account for my own arrival here. A fight, tears here, a drink or two there, a drive to clear my mind; and it all grew somewhat linear.

     Cinching the hood tighter around my face, I stepped back from the railing. The fog was thicker below the bridge. The river was heard but unseen, same as the morning's traffic. Passersby could be heard on their approach and retreat into the distance with very little differentiation. Even at this distance, I could only glimpse a brief, lighted indication of each vehicle’s immediacy. It was a comfort at first to feel an isolation of sorts in this weather, but some level of worry began to creep in as I thought that, even along the highway, this weather has reduced my entire world to near-nothing beyond arm’s length.

     I've read that smell is the sense most closely associated with memory. You can take this as my testimonial. The fog hadn’t lifted, and wouldn't for hours yet, but the scene is seared in my memory. The sound was a booming combination of twisted metal and broken glass, but the fog stood stagnant, the smell of rubber, smoke, and gas lingered. The flames were bright enough to see from my side of the bridge.

     I could hear no cars approaching, so, even in my perceived solitude, I felt safe crossing the road to the accident. The smell grew strong in my nostrils and my eyes burned. I could taste the fuel and feel the heat on my cheeks as I neared the mangled mess. The sounds of the driver’s futile struggle to escape the cabin became apparent as the rear bumper came into view, the personalized license plate frame I bought her for our first anniversary staring me in the face.

Writing Prompt #2

She stared down the barrel of that shotgun with ice water in her veins. And while she was on the business end, he was the one that was shaking like a Chihuahua shitting peach seeds. The sweat on his trigger finger threatening a premature climax, she scolded him for all his wrongs at once: "This is exactly the kind of thing that put you here tonight. Big man with a gun, no dick without."

His convulsions, although slight were growing less controlled now. Loose. The barrel appeared to bend in the way a pencil might in the hand of an elementary school trickster.

"That thing ain't holdin' no magic genie. You pull that trigger on me and your problems ain’t gonna just wash away. Matter of fact, you ain’t lived nothin’ like what you liable to step into if you keep at it."

He knew she was right – she breathed nothing but facts – but backing down now would be an admission to the both of them that he wasn’t ready to make. For the first time in his life, quitting was not the easiest option. This evening was a runaway locomotive bound to end in blood.

The truck stereo was still audible from this distance. She was a rock, unmoved, but the grainy public radio airwaves were washing over him. Tchaikovsky swelling in his ears, Symphony No. 6. He had listened hundreds of times before but had never been inspired to this particular answer, then again, this question had never been one he’d asked. The plan was set: escape, join the symphony, achieve the dream: musician on stage.  The feverish harmonies were leading to the ultimate outpouring of emotion, his audience rapt.

On stage, his big moment was approaching – all eyes now attuned to him. Questioning glances darted from face to face throughout the hall. Calm yourselves, he thought. Sure, a mallet is your typical percussionist’s weapon-of-choice when faced with a gong, but I’m improvising for the 21st century: preceding the brass with steel.

His time was here! He sounded the funeral gong with a blast.

Pathétique.

Writing Prompt #1

I always knew I hated the zoo, but I didn't know why. I've been going to the damn things coast-to-coast for nearly three decades and they're all the same: no matter the weather, it's uncomfortable, typically sweltering, and devoid of shade when it's not a miserable soaker out; costs are less than affordable, yet continually rising; the food sucks; and the facilities and exhibits just don't spark a yearning for future visits. Yet, no matter the city or season, I still return.

     For years I supposed the ventures were urged by an awe that draped around me when I witnessed such foreign natural wonders up close. In fact, these thoughts are what steered me toward that biology major I shot for on my first go-around in college, realizing midway through freshman year that that wasn't the case, though. A decade and nothing to show for it later, I've finally figured out what it is that keeps dragging me back, and I guess that original awe that pawed at me so many years before wasn’t all that far off after all.

     My great epiphany: it’s the people! These people, they're so unlike me in all ways but shape, but I manage to keep to myself, watch curiously, and blend in for a short while. They are creatures so seemingly similar to me - all of us there for what would be reasonably assumed by most as the same reason - but I know this not to be quite the case. They are most assuredly there to enjoy what is truly foreign to them, but only in reference to the animals and plants from places far enough away to be thought other-worldly in their minds. I'm there, however, to walk amongst a mix of the people with which I do not share commonality; foreigners to some extent as well, I guess.

     It's just that when I visit the zoo, I attack it at a different slant. Who gives a shit what's on the other side of the fence? Look at this thing standing right here!, rubbing elbows with me, flashing that shit-eating grin every time that kid of theirs does something, anything. But, while my experience is indeed altered from that of the rest, it thrills me on some level to recognize that there’s a tangency, an unspoken, albeit slight, solidarity, between us: the idea that we're all gaining something personal from throwing ourselves into that which we are most unfamiliar.

Welcome: An Introduction

Welcome, all.


I've established this blog as a place for sharing my slowly growing collection of writings inspired by first line prompts provided by people from my circle of friends, extended family, and all points in between. You see, I have good intentions when it comes to creating: When I listen to music, I long to perform; when I read literature, I wish to write; I just want to contribute!, but between a full-time career during the day and loving husband/father duties at night, I'm strapped for time; a feeling I'm sure many of you know all too well.
Creating art, along with consuming it, makes me happy, though, and, as I am sure it is with a great many of you, it's my desired (required?) personal catharsis.


A peek into this blog's backstory:
Being far less than professional and having no attainable writing goal in sight, I've found it hard in the past to sit down and pound out much work. Fifteen minutes of "free time" here and there throughout any given week is just simply not conducive to creating any solid piece of work. However, I feel that, provided with recurrence of these brief moments to myself, I can manage to put together something small each time. And what better way to establish a starting point for each piece than to let you do it for me? It's lazy, sure, but I embrace it.


I welcome you to peruse this site, check back regularly for updates, and join in the conversation - after all, I'm looking to you for my writing prompts. I cannot guarantee that I will offer enjoyment or entertainment, but my hope is that somewhere along the line I will strike a chord with you.


Thank you, Namaste, and Good Luck.
Kane


P.S. For the more brevity-minded readers among us, the 140-character-or-less version of me can be found at Twitter.com/kaneharrell.