Writing Prompt: Failure

Have you ever failed any anything? We sometimes forget that with failure comes unique opportunities to learn and observe our reactions (or the reactions of others). It can be a job interview, a failed relationship, a bad date, a wardrobe malfunction, a failed exam, a botched driving test or a missed opportunity. Think about times when you have failed. What happened? What did you learn from the experience and how did you react? What did you feel and how did that failure affect your life or the lives of others? With failure comes a wealth of material for story telling. Write some examples of either personal or witnessed failure. Create a 300 word narrative describing the conflict, reactions and resolutions.

Enjoy!

Writing Prompt: Texture

Beige, brown, shades of creamy white, magnolia and dark wood. These were the colours I chose for my first house. They were safe colours, practical and inoffensive. They go with everything, I said. I was around 29 years old when I bought my first house. It was a new build in a housing estate outside of Edinburgh with a mock tudor set of windows that gave the house a bit of character, but apart from that, it was as cookie cut out as the rest of the homes in the three blocks that made up the neighbourhood on that hill.

I chose the colours because I didn’t really know what I liked and I didn’t dare put a foot wrong, not when there was so much money at stake. Looking back, I could just as easily painted the house blue or red or added splashes of colour to give it warmth, but the truth is, it never felt like home, I never believed it was really mine. It felt temporary, like it wasn’t worth inserting anything of myself into it because at any moment, I could leave and my tastes would no longer apply. It would sell easier as a blank canvas, I though, not really know when or to whom I would ever sell it.

As it turns out, I stayed 10 years. Too long, too too long in all than lifeless interior and beige.

I’m planning some construction work on my current house, the next one I bought, but not the next one I lived in. The next one I lived in was a rental, but it was only a year. When I chose this house, I fell in love with the openness of the kitchen, the brightness and green of the garden. It was bathed in sunlight and I could picture myself sitting on the grass or on the patio having BBQs. This is not something I ever wanted to do at my old house, there was too much rain and cold and it was too remote for company.

As I look at the construction plans, I can picture the finished room, the new kitchen, pictures on the walls and coloured and quirky cushions on the sofas. I see a huge TV and a cabinet with a hundred vinyl records. I see reds and dangling lamps, a hole in the wall fireplace, a skylight, folding glass doors into my bright flower-filled garden with iron bird feeders. I see a hard tile floor of dark grey ceramic textured tiles and a shaggy rug of light grey and flecks of red woven into the soft material. I tiptoe in the room then plant my shoeless feet firmly on the tiles and they’re warm from the underfloor heating. There are pictures in frames and images mounted on canvas. I run my hand along the shining countertop of the kitchen that smells of coriander, basil and parsley, from the red pebble textured pots on the window sill. There are comical pictures of movie posters or an artist’s interpretation of them. There are magnets on the fridge from all our travels. The cats are curled up on the light grey sofa, curled up on the throw of burnt orange and yellow. One of them sits on the red poof of my reading chair, next to the fake but warm fire produced by the electric fireplace. There are bookcases with all of my treasures on either side of the overstuffed chair. There’s a light hanging over it producing a warm glow from the energy efficient bulbs. Amongst the soft finishings and sleeping cats, there I sit, in a room of my design and at last, I feel at home.

For this prompt, try to focus on different textures and colours. Describe a room or something will multiple textures. Have fun.

Writing Prompt: Bookcase

I’m getting ready to rip up my house and add an extension. I’ve been in denial about how disruptive this is going to be to my life for three-four months and I’ve buried my head in the sand with regards to how much this is going to cost, but the builders are engaged, the movers are booked an I’ve started packing my things into cardboard boxes that are being recycled from my last house move. They’ve survived the elements in the garden shed, though I had expected them to deteriorate, they seem to be able to handle the books I’ve stacking into them.

This exercise is making me aware of how many books I have (and in some cases multiple copies of particularly loved works) and how many I have yet to read. As I’ve been putting them into boxes, I’ve been creating a little pile of books I’m not prepared to part with during the demolition.

Among the books I can’t bring myself to store for three months are the following:

  1. Candide – This book is one of my favourites and I think i’ve read it about 10 times To be fair, it’s short, but that’s not the point. It’s funny, sad, crude and manages to convey everything about the nature of human beings. It flashes a mirror into the face of mankind and forces us to acknowledge that we’re never satisfied, are hypocritical, unforgiving, petty, ignorant and yet, we can also be romantic, charitable, ironic and mindlessly optimistic in the face of all the other reprehensible characteristics. It’s a perfect little book that reminds me that sometimes, you just have to laugh.
  2. Dracula – It’s one of the most original, well craft stories of all time. The narrative is unique in that it tells the story from all of the main characters points of view through a collection of note, diaries, journals and audio recordings. Dracula is evil incarnate and the characters that fight him, both men and women (unusual for that time) are heroic in a way I’d like to think I’d be when faced with a monster.
  3. Lolita – This controversial book stands out in it’s twisted 1st person narrative. The main character, “Humbert Humbert” is one of the classic voices in modern literature. His opinions and thoughts are sickening, yet compelling. There is something sympathetic in his tale but taken as a whole, it’s shocking, sad, drives me to anger and although I hate Humbert Humbert as a character, there’s a fucked up comedy to the story and how he delivers his case to the reader. I think I know every word of this book. It reminds me of what human beings are capable of and what a precarious world we live in. Unlike Dracula, Humbert Humbert represents the real monsters among us and that’s worth a spot in the list.
  4. The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy – There is nothing I don’t love about this book. The characters are funny and original, the plot stands above the rest as one of the most imaginative science fictions books of all time and it never fails to make me laugh. There’s nothing I can really add to this. I’ve read it and listened to the audio book countless times and it never gets old. There is something comforting in the familiarity of the story and I think it’s safe to say that although I’ve probably covered it 20 or 30 times, I think I’l be reading it 20-30 more before I check out.
  5. The Age of Innocence – never mind that it’s the first Pulitzer Prize winning book by a female author (though that’s a strong recommendation). It’s tragic, beautiful and makes astute observations about American society (late 1800s) that makes you feel like you’re there watching the splendour, riches, hypocrisy and subtlety of the New York upper classes. As you read it, you feel like a fly on the wall, willing our hero and heroine to drop kick convention and do as they please. On more than one occasion, I’ve practically yelled at the pages with full knowledge that there is nothing anyone can do to change the inevitable car crash that our characters are heading for. Yet, I love watching the struggle unfold and wonder if, under the same circumstances, I would behave in the same way? It makes me think of our 21st century sensibilities and I wonder, are we really better off or have we just managed to disguise our prejudices better? I can go on about this one for ages, but it’s better if I leave you to read it or watch the beautifully crafted film adaptation by Martin Scorsese.

So, that’s my bookcase. These are the books that never leave my side and I can’t store away. If you had to cling to only 5 books, which would they be and why?

The Playing Field – A Short Story

The field stretched out four acres behind the schoolhouse. Two long rows of evergreens spanned from one end of the field to the other, creating a sense of protective separation from the school grounds and the outside world. It had been snowing incessantly for three days so that the grounds were white. The tree branches, heavy with snow, hung close to the ground and occasionally dropped heavy clumps of it forming high mounds that almost reached the branches that created them.

As the children returned to school, they walked quietly. Some of them in groups of three or four, others in pairs and one alone with his head down and hands buried deep in his pockets. A group of three girls stood around whispering to each other in front on the boutique across the square. As they shared their chewing gum and gossip about the other girls in the class, they watched the other children walk past through the main gate and into the playground.

Justin walked alone up the tree-lined street beyond Janet’s Café and up the path to the school. He heard the girls huddled by the boutique giggle as he passed them. He dropped his head lower so that his eyes were almost hidden behind the rim of his woolly hat and shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. He willed his feet to moved faster while trying to make as little noise as possible. When he reached the door to the classroom, he paused, listening for a moment to the voices beyond, then pushed open the door and slipped inside.

Most of the class had been assembled. At the front right corner of the room, Mrs. Lawson sat facing the class with her hands folded on her desk. The tidy desk spread out before her held neat piles of paper in four stacks, waiting to be distributed. Her dark, emotionless face glanced frequently towards the clock, waiting for the three minutes remaining for class to start to pass. As Justin took his seat and the last students stumbled into the room behind him, she began to speak.

“Good Morning, Class.” She said.

The class responded in unison, “Good Morning, Mrs. Lawson.” Their even voices filled the room.

She glanced around at them without smiling. Most of them hand their hands on their desks and some on their laps, but all of their eyes were forward. She liked what she saw; polite, obedient children with polished shoes and combed hair. Most of their mothers made sure that their uniforms were carefully pressed and their white shirts well starched. One or two had less breeding and looked a little ragged, but that couldn’t be helped, she supposed.

“Today we are going to start with a spelling test.” She said, and then sharply looked around, hoping to catch one or two children showing their disapproval. All eyes stayed forward and fixed on her except two. Justin’s eyes dropped and concentrated on his lap. He could feel her looking at him. She continued to speak.

“There will be twenty-five words. When I call them out, please write down the correct spelling. Please print your answer so that there is no mistake about handwriting. This test will be graded.” She said, and then walked around the room while the children prepared their papers. They each took a fresh piece of paper from their notepads and numbered them from one to twenty-five. When she was satisfied that they were ready, she wandered up and down the rows of desks and called out the words to be spelled.

Justin leaned over his paper, carefully writing down his answers. Beside him, he could feel Billy O’Kelly staring at him. The large boy leaned towards him and whispered.  “J. P., how do you spell successful? Is it one “s” or two?”

Justin ignored him. Billy tried again, “Psst…J.P…J.P….” Justin gave him a sideways glance then turned his head back quickly. He had no desire to be caught cheating.

Billy raised his head and glared at Justin in comprehension. Justin heard him whisper one last time. “You’re dead at recess.” He hissed.

When the test was over, Mrs. Lawson went to the front of the room and addressed the class.

“Please pass your papers forward. Do not speak until the papers have been collected. Once I have them all, please open your reading books to chapter five and read quietly while I grade your papers. You will be required to write a summary of what you have read after recess.”

She took the papers from each of the children sitting in the front rows then sat at her desk to grade them.

Justin sat rigid in his seat. His left had cradled the book on his desk so that Billy could not see his face behind the cover. Recess was in an hour.

When the spelling test had been graded, Mrs. Lawson handed them back to the students. Some quiet moans spread throughout the room as the students saw their grades. Billy received a 44%.

Justin looked at the mistakes on his paper and noticed an error in the grading. He raised his hand and his eyes to the teacher. Her eyes darted towards him and she sighed heavily.

“Yes, Mr. Pierce? What is it?” She said. The class turned and looked at him.

“Mrs. Lawson, I…Well…”

“Yes, what is it boy?” She said impatiently.

“There seems to be a mistake on my paper. I spelled recommendation right. It’s one “c” and two “m’s”.

She couldn’t believe it. This shabby, little boy was telling her how to spell. “Pierce, I graded these papers and all papers very carefully. I’m sure you’ll find that you are mistaken. It’s double “c” and double “m”.” She said then turned away and began to write the next assignment on the blackboard. Billy looked at Justin and smirked at him.

Justin looked at his paper. He was certain he was correct. He had studied. He always studied.

“Mrs. Lawson, “ He said quietly. “I’m sure I’m right. Could we double check in the dictionary?” His voice was shaking.

 

She turned around with the chalk in her hand and glared at him. She looked at his trousers, faded at the knees and the scuffed black shoes on his awkward feet. His black hair was always in need of a haircut. She resented the fact that the school had allowed such scruffy child from “that neighbourhood” to attend their school.

“Very well. Please yourself.” She said then turned back to the blackboard.

A moment later, Justin walked up to her and showed her the entry in the dictionary. She looked at it, but the stern expression on her face never changed.

“I see.” She said. “I’ll make the change in the grade-book. Now go back to your seat.”

Justin obeyed and went back to his reading assignment until the recess bell rang. The children slipped out of their chairs and went out the back door of the classroom and into the playground.

Justin walked toward the open field where he could sit on a stone bench and watch the others play their games. He had been daydreaming, not really paying attention when he felt his arms being pinned behind him and someone’s arm around his neck as he was dragged from the bench. It took only a moment to realise that Billy had made good on his threat. Adam Fisher, a gangly, profusely-freckled boy held Justin’s arms while Billy choked the air out of his lungs.  As Justin tried to free himself, Adam laughed till tears rolled down his cheeks.

Justin looked around the playground while he struggled. The other children were at the far end of the field enjoying a game of tag. Across the field he could see the classroom door and the window beside it. For a moment, a woman’s face appeared and he felt a surge of relief at seeing her, but it faded as she raised her arm across the window, her eyes fixed on him until they disappeared behind the curtain.

Finally, as his began to faint, Billy let him drop. As Justin slid onto the snow, his chin hit the edge of the stone bench. Blood poured from the wound as Billy and Adam walked away arm and arm. Justin put his hand to his chin and was sure that he would be left with a scar.

Writing Prompt: YA Fiction

I’m currently doing a course that focuses on Young Adult fiction and one of the interesting exercises we’re doing is going through a listing the most influential books we read when we were growing up. For my part, Judy Blume played a big part in my reading enjoyment as a young adult and the themes are still relevant today. (Loss, religion, friendship, bullying, conformity, siding rivalry, etc).

For this exercise, think about the types of books you read growing up. What is it you liked about them? What were some of the common themes? Are they still relevant?

Next, try writing a short outline for a story based on a teenage experience. Write it in the 1st person and from the point of view of your younger self. Next, read it back, what would you stay to your younger self based on the experiences you’ve had as an adult? Have fun strolling down memory lane.

 

Writing Prompt: Your Opening Line

Grabbing your reader is perhaps one of the most difficult things to do it writing. How do you get someone to stick with your narrative? Having a brilliant story is great, but if you don’t get your reader’s attention, you’ll lose them and they’ll never get to the end.

So, having a strong opening line is critical to inspiring your reader to plow ahead with your story. Try this, have some fun writing compelling opening lines and see what story springs from them. Here are a few of my attempts.

  1. The phone rang just after midnight.
  2. He stood at the end of the road waiting to cross when he spotted her.
  3. As she stood at the hearth tending to the fire, the chain around her neck fell into the flames.
  4. The evening bloated with wine and high spirits started well enough but soon to an ugly turn.
  5. Effy sat on the window sill every afternoon, staring through the glass, watching the world go by and waiting for her human to come home.

Enjoy.

Writing Prompt: Scene and Memory

Nabokov once wrote, “There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open […]; and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark innerside of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face…”

As time and distance separate me from those I care for, I find myself staring off into the distance, or a blank space on the wall, trying to recall my last moments with them, piecing together our words, gestures, our attire and surroundings to bring back what I was feeling when we last met. I sometimes doubt my memory and struggle to recall their features and although I can tell tell myself that I love their eyes, their smile or a signature gesture, I cannot recall it. It is not until I close my eyes and fix on one key detail, that the whole picture re-forms in my mind’s eye. When the image is complete, it’s like I’m there with them, sharing a laugh or an embrace. In some cases, it takes the generation of the memory of a twisted frown, an argument or a flash of sad eyes to bring them back to me. From there, I can trace the steps to the features I adore and the person attached to them .

For this exercise, close your eyes and recreate the face and expression of someone in your life. Try to recall everything about their features, If you want to expand, try to remember the last words you exchanged or the circumstances of your last meeting. What were they wearing? Where was it? Were you sitting, standing walking? Be as descriptive as you can and try to do it for a couple of people. You’ll be surprised how much comes out. Don’t forget to try to write what you were feeling.

Example: When I close my eyes, I see her quite clearly, a pretty-nosed girl of sixteen. She sits on a stool in the kitchen with her slashed black jeans tight against her slim frame. I feel at once pride and envy, remembering my figure at her age. I glance down and realise I’m wearing the same jeans and chuckle at the stark difference. She’s tapping away on her phone and her head is low with her brows furrowed in concentration, the hood of her black hoodie back and her long brown hair tucked behind her ear. It occurs to me that my niece is beautiful. I’m filled with both admiration and fear and a sudden protective flash of preemptive hatred for anyone who ever dares to hurt her. Then, in a wink, the calm voice inside my head reminds me of who’s daughter she is, what a strong and sensible character they have raised and hate turns to pity for the imagined future enemy.

When she turns her head and notices me standing there, only a few seconds later and a few feet away from where she sits with her back to the kitchen door, the precious phone drops from her hand and her face bursts into an endearing grin. She hops from the kitchen stool and reaches for me, arms outstretched, and as I pull her to me in a rib-crunching embrace, I release she is taller, nearly matching my height. She’ll pass me and be model height I think. I look at her intelligent face, and clock the row of subtle freckles across the bridge of her nose, her lovely long lashes framing her brown eyes and the English rose complexion of her cheeks.

“How’s it going kid?” I ask and we pour ourselves into adjoining kitchen stools for a good gossip. The other grown ups melt into the background and begin to chatter while we, 16 and middle-aged talk movies, books and music, my favourite subjects in good company. My sister in law offers Prosecco (though more to me) and we nod assent in unison.

 

Example: We walked into the room and closed the glass door. Even before I reached the chair, the words where forming in my mind, “I owe you an apology.” I went on with what I had to say, trying to focus on the response, looking for some sign in his face that I would be forgiven. We sat on opposite sides of a small round table, in low green plastic chairs. He leaned back lazily as he so often did, with his legs stretched out before him with a posture of such nonchalance, it was hard to feel anything but warmth, ease and the genuine desire to be forgiven, for us to go back to the nervous yet friendly demeanour that so often categorised our talks.

As he spoke, I listened for the tone of his voice to provide me with some clue as to our future. Although we were discussing serious matters, when I met his eyes I could see they were smiling.  As we took turns talking, it was as though we were both searching for some understanding from the other.

With the awkwardness melting away, I too began to lean back and relax. We talked of things that matter to each of us and that sharing gave way to the equilibrium that we had temporarily disturbed through misunderstanding.

I now see the scene of our parting quite clearly. He, turning to walk in the opposite direction with his white-shirted back angling itself towards to door. I, quickly moving to leave the scene, while muttering a final disclaimer until we turned and looked back one last time. “See ya, Mate.” were my last words to him, uncertain if we would ever meet again, but with a flutter of hope in my chest that time and circumstance would allow it. He smiled, a subtle, knowing smile, and there his face remains frozen in my mind, complete with short, dark beard, the smiling eyes and an almost imperceptible expression of relief.

 

Pomegranate Juice (short story)

Jayne stood facing the window and watched the room behind her through the reflection in the glass. Helen slept, tucked up in the hospital bed, tilted ever so slightly so that her head was elevated from her neck. An I.V. drip pumped clear fluid into her slim arm and a breathing tube hung from her mouth. Whenever Jayne tried to look at her directly, she found herself hanging her head and watching her through half closed eyes. Somehow, looking at the world from the top floor window made it easier. She could see behind her or focus her gaze outside if she needed a distraction.

A priest came in moments before and she had sent him packing. He was trying to be comforting, but his talk of heaven and God’s will annoyed her. He tried his addresses at poor sleeping Helen and that had been too much. She wasn’t awake to defend herself, so Jayne did it for her. “Helen’s an atheist.” Jayne said. “God talk bugs her, so if it’s all the same to you, go away.” He had tried to protest, but the look in Jayne’s eyes convinced him he was going to lose the argument, so with a quick blessing, he pushed off.

The doctor told her to go home, that there was nothing more to do but wait. Jayne thought of going back to her apartment in the city and it depressed her. She would go crazy waiting there, but she hadn’t slept in a 36 hours and the weight if it all was too much.

The doctor had tried to comfort her, but his tone was grave as though trying to prepare her, to tell her she had done her best.

“It’s close.” He said. “If you’d found her earlier, I could be a bit more certain, but we got to her late. You did everything you could. It’s not your fault. The only thing we can do is wait and hope she comes out of it. We’re watching her ever minute.”

“What if she wakes up and I’m not here? Someone should be here.”

“Her husband finally reached us. He’ll be here soon. Why don’t you go home, get some sleep, have some food and come back in the morning. We’ll call you if anything changes.”

Jayne took another look at Helen. She looked so small and peaceful as she slept. She remembered the time they had stayed up all night watching films lying on Helen’s parent’s bed while they were away. The sun was coming up and peaking in through the curtains when they finally nodded off. Jayne had looked over at her friend sleeping, mouth slightly open, a soft snore like a purr coming from her. They were thirteen. Twenty years had passed, but to Jayne, Helen looked the same as she did then.

Suddenly, Jayne remembered Helen’s cat. She would have to go around and feed it, she thought. In truth, she wanted to get out of that room to think.

“When did Graham say he’d be here?” She asked.

“Soon, within the hour.” The doctor said.

“I’ll be on my cell phone if you need me.” Jayne said, and grabbing her coat made her way past the doctor and out the door.

When Jayne arrived at Helen’s house, the sun was starting to set. She pushed open the door she had been too panicked to lock when they left in the ambulance and wandered in towards the kitchen. Vester, the cat came running at the sound of her opening a cat food sachet and buried his black and white face into the cat food bowl.

Jayne knew the house so well. She wandered through the house towards the bedroom where she had found Helen, face down in the bed, the empty pill bottle beside her on the nightstand. Jayne looked at the rumpled bedclothes, half on and off the bed. It all happened so fast. It felt like she had only been on the phone to emergency services for a minute before she could hear an ambulance coming up the street. Could she have moved faster, she wondered.

Back in the kitchen, she looked out the window into the garden. Helen and Graham had a vast garden and a small orchard beyond the patio. From her vantage point, she could see the six pomegranate trees in a tidy row at the edge of the lawn. Grabbing a basket that hung on a rack from the ceiling, she went outside into the warm evening.

She examined each fruit as she filled the basket. To make pomegranate juice, she needed at least ten of them. The trees had been planted in the first year of their marriage and in the first season of bearing fruit, the three of them had gone out to pick some. Graham threw one at Jayne and it had split, spilling irremovable red juice onto her white shirt. When she swore at him, he laughed and said, “Come and get me. I dare you.”

When the basket was full, she went back to the kitchen and taking a cutting board from the rack laid each of the pomegranates side by side. Helen had taught Jayne her own method for creating the perfect glass of juice. Splitting each of the fruits in half with a sharp knife, she squeezed the plump red seeds from the white, hard flesh of the pomegranate.

As Jayne did this, juice ran from the seeds through her fingers and into a bowl that waited to catch it. Her mind wandered back to the telephone call the day before. Helen’s calm was what alarmed her. The softness of her voice like an arrow to Jayne’s heart telling her everything was fine.

In slow, soft whispers she said it. “It’s ok, you know. You can have him. I’ll be fine, just fine, Sweetie. When he gets back from Seattle, he’s all yours.”

At first, Jayne’s heart jumped. Helen knew, but then her words and her tone were not Helen. She was too calm and Jayne wondered if the revelation had made her hit the wine rack before making the phone call.

A hundred thoughts raced through Jayne’s mind. How did she find out? Did she speak to Graham? Could she lie her way out of it?

“Jaynie, it’s all good. We always did share everything, right? I guess you figured, why not this too, right?” Her words were slurred.

Jayne tried to think of something to say quickly, a denial, anything to buy her time to figure out what to do. Then Helen hit her with the words that truly scared her.

“I’m just going to take a little nap now.”  With that, she heard Helen drop the phone.

Jayne froze for a moment, then grabbed her keys and her cell phone. She would have to speak to Graham, to figure it all out on the way over to their house. Damn, she thought. Graham was away for the week. She rang his number over and over and got his voicemail.

 

When she reached the house, she let herself in with the key Helen had given her for the times she needed a cat-sitter.

They would talk it out, she thought. Whatever happened, they could figure something out. She went from room to room calling Helen and receiving no reply.

Jayne found her on the bed. The same bed they had shared with the same man and Jayne felt sick over what she had done in a moment of madness.

It was only the one time, she thought. No one would ever know and they could go on as if nothing had happened. How could she know? She played the incident out in her head. Had she left something there? Did Graham confess?

She moved to Helen’s side and it was then that she saw the empty bottle. The phone beeped angrily in Helen’s hand.

 

When the bowl was filled with seeds, Jayne took a mortar and pestle from the counter and transferred the seeds over from the bowl for crushing. As she ground the seeds, the doctor’s words rang through her head. “It’s not your fault.” Then who’s, she thought.

She transferred the juice into a tall, thin glass jug and added a tablespoon of sugar. As she stirred the liquid with a long wooden spoon, a thought occurred to her.

She rinsed her hands at the sink and went quickly to the living room as she dried them with a dish towel.

In the corner of the room there was an antique rosewood desk. On it were some files, a couple of magazines and the computer they shared. The screensaver was on, displaying digital tropical fish swimming across the screen.

Jayne nudged the mouse and the screen came to life. Her words to Graham starred back at her. The only communication about the incident that existed and he had not the sense to delete it.  Jayne read and re-read the email. Stupid, sentimental Bastard, she thought.  She wanted to grab the machine and throw it to the floor, to stomp on it and batter it with a fireplace poker until nothing was left but bits of glass, plastic and circuit board.  Instead, she selected the offending email and clicked the delete button. It disappeared, but the queasiness in her stomach remained.

She stood, resolved to put everything away and return to the hospital. There had to be some way to make things right.

She cleaned the counter, tossing the empty shells of the pomegranates into the garbage bin under the sink.

As she poured the juice into a glass, she heard the front door open.

Graham stood before her, surprise clearly marked on his face. Through her rage Jayne could still feel the closeness and familiarity that came from so many years of the three of them together.

“Hi.” He said.

“Hi.” Jayne didn’t know where to begin.

“I’ve been to the hospital for the past few hours.”

Jayne looked at the clock, then out the window. Hours had passed without her notice.

“Helen?” She asked.

Graham stood, his shoulders hunched and shook his head. When he tried to reach for her, Jayne recoiled. She placed the glass on the counter beside her and gathering her things, walked out the door towards the cool grass of the orchard.

 

Writing Prompt: 13 weeks to go

It’s officially Q4. We have 13 weeks remaining in 2017 and all I can say is that I hope 2018 is better because this year has been pretty awful from a global perspective. From Brexit to Trump, Hurricanes to Terror attacks, violent protests and casual racism, we need to do better next year.

With the time left this year, I want to focus on the positive and changes I want to make to help make the last 13 weeks of the year pleasant and constructive, not only for myself, but for the people around me. I want to be more positive, gripe less, be more future facing and not as negativistic.

To that end, I’m working on a few things to support people at work and hopefully the wider community. Closer to home, I’m doing little things. I’m cooking fresh food, cutting back on meat, learning to bake, playing with my cats more, leaving the TV on in the background less and actually trying to pay attention to only one thing at a time. I have a tendency to only half-listen to people when they’re speaking to me since I always feel like I’m playing catch up with my day. I intent to put an end to that. Life is too short.

At an even more personal level, I have a little challenge for myself. Here goes:

 

  1. I’m reading a book a week for the next 13 weeks. How you ask? Easy, I’m not bringing my headphones on the tube with me, but am instead carrying a book.
  2. I’m writing every day till the end of the year. How you ask? Easy, as I am now. I’m writing for 10 minutes at any point during the day, when to mood strikes and leaving the TV off while I do it.
  3. I’m limiting myself to 25 days of alcohol between now and the end of the year. With the hot toddy I just had for my cold, that leaves me 24. There are 92 days left in the years, so that should be totally do-able.
  4. Apart from what I have to spend to get to and from work, I’m only spending what I can find in the house from today. I’ve been going through my handbags, coat pockets and change purses and managed to find around £26 without even trying. That is more than enough to sort me out, especially if I’m cooking more, taking my lunch and excluding my travel costs.
  5. I’m getting 8 hours of sleep per night It’s going to take training, but if that means I go to bed at 9pm and it take a while to drift off, so be it. Sleep deprivation ages and does nothing for your mood or ability to concentrate. There’s a reason why sleep deprivation is often used as a form of torture.
  6. I’m going to do something nice for someone else very day. It might be giving up my seat on the tube, paying a compliment or helping someone carry their shopping up the stairs, but if you make the day a little better for someone, it in turn, can make the day a little better for everyone.

That’s it. Nothing too difficult, but as they say, sometimes the simplest changes are the hardest. Wish me luck. I’ll check in as we go.

Writing prompt (I almost forgot) what are you going to do with the last 13 weeks of the year to make your life better?

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