Tag: creative writing

Accursed Alarm Clock

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57. Alarm Clock: Write about waking up.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Every. Damn. Day.

Every day it is just so hard to wake up.

Even the days I get to sleep in. It’s always a battle to drag this ol’ bag of bones out of bed.

I’ve Tried Everything

Going to bed early (that is also really hard). No screen time before bed. No coffee or tea too late in the day. Exercise earlier in the day, rather than later…

And yet, no matter what I do to ensure a good night’s sleep, it’s a struggle to wake up in the morning.

The Snooze Game

When the alarm goes off at six, I immediately smash the snooze button. Ten more blissful minutes.

The radio turns on again at 6:10 and WHAM! Snooze again.

By 6:20 I’m starting to feel a bit guilty, so this time I leave the radio on, but turn the volume way down.

Now I start to have some really weird dreams. Snippets of the radio come through and suddenly I’m having trippy dreams about the news stories.

I’m only startled out of these strange half-dreams at 6:45 when my kids run in and jump on the bed.

Nothing Helps

I’ve tried a simple buzzing alarm, bird song, wind chimes, classical music…

Waking up still sucks.

It’s not like I’m a night owl, either. It’s just that I could easily sleep 10 hours a night and still feel like I’m not getting enough.

What To Do?

I dunno. Any suggestions?

A change of diet perhaps? Or am I simply not a morning person and never will be?

Whatever the case, man. Waking up is hard to do.

Challenge Accepted

Jane Leave a comment

56. Photograph: Write a story or journal entry influenced by a photograph you see online or in a magazine.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Wait, What Challenge?

What is challenging about taking a selfie and posting it online?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve posted mine. But how many of the black and white “Challenge Accepted” Instagram photos you’ve seen in the last few days really say anything?

There is nothing challenging about putting a selfie on Instagram and writing some feel-good words about the women we love. It is just that: feel-good. It’s nice to see.

It’s not a challenge.

The Challenge is Facing Reality: Femicide

Why are these photos in black and white? It stems from a practice in Turkish media of publishing black and white photos of murder victims.

https://twitter.com/imaann_patel/status/1288080743198068736?s=21

The rate of femicide in Turkey, according to an article published in the Guardian, is shockingly high.

Most of these women have been murdered by a close male relative or acquaintance (husband, father, ex-boyfriend). Several individual, community and societal factors contribute to this high rate of femicide and violence against women.

This Problem Isn’t Just in Turkey

It might be easy for someone reading this in Europe or North America to think that this isn’t a problem here.

That is absolutely wrong.

According to the UN, rates of violence against women and girls have increased the world over since the beginning of the pandemic.

This isn’t just happening in Turkey, or in some other faraway country.

It’s happening in your home town.

A New Challenge

I’m no influencer. No celebrity. I’ve jumped on the bandwagon and participated in these largely meaningless “challenges” before (anyone remember the black square from a couple months ago?).

But I do have this modest platform, and so I am challenging all the strong, beautiful, intelligent and wonderful women I know and love who read this to take action.

Donate to your local women’s shelter. Take food. Do some research into your area. Volunteer (where it’s safe, what with covid and all).

Also, if you buy frequently on Amazon, consider shopping at smile.amazon.com. There are hundreds of charities listed through smile.amazon and you can choose from national to local groups to support. Each time you purchase on through the smile.amazon url, a portion of your purchase is donated to the charity you select.

But Don’t Forget the Pics

I do love seeing the photos of the women I know and love.

Please keep ’em coming!

I’m just asking we add substance to the feel-good nature of the exercise.

Holding Hands

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55. Holding Hands: The first time you held someone’s hand.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/=

At first it was a tentative touch,
Soon our hands reached for each other
Seemingly without thinking.
Mine tucked nicely into his.

Hands cradled together,
Hands on each other’s backs.
Hands thrown up in frustration,
Hands clasping each other, seeking forgiveness.

Hands held together in prayer,
Before family and loved ones.
Hands joined by the priest,
His ring on mine, my ring on his.

Hands on my growing belly,
Feeling little wriggles and kicks.
Hands squeezing through pain,
Relaxing with relief.

Little tiny, brand new hands,
Closing tightly around ours.

Two more little hands,
Little hands I watch grow.

Little hands I never want to let go.

The Dinner Ring

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33. Jewelry: Write about a piece of jewelry. Who does it belong to?

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Oh, the indignity!

That I, a fabulous dinner ring, should be trapped here on your left hand! Mashed up against your wedding band!

This is NOT where I belong!

Time was when I was a show-stopper, only worn for the most special occasions. I was a dinner ring (not to be confused with my rather gaudy and tacky cousin the cocktail ring).

While a cocktail ring was worn in the speakeasys of the 1920s and designed to be so blindingly bright that you wouldn’t notice how terrible the moonshine was, I was born of a much classier generation.

The Origins of Dinner Rings

My kind came about in the 1930s and 1940s when the dinner party came into vogue. Back then, you know, people actually dressed for a dinner party.

I was given as a gift to Frances Reid (nee Cardo) by her husband, then Col. Samuel L. Reid, in 1943 or 44. I can’t remember. It was before the end of the war, I know that.

I was worn on the right hand. My job was to catch the eye and communicate class. I was not designed to stupefy with my brilliance, but rather to say, “Here you see wealth and taste flawlessly combined.” Unlike other dinner rings, I am a diamond surrounded by smaller emeralds. Normally, it would have been the other way around. But the fact that my diamond is my largest stone shows my value!

And now… Now!

The glory days of the 1940s, 50s and 60s faded. Fashions became more casual. As Frances became ill in the 1970s, I spent most of my time in my box, nestled in her vanity table. I longed for the clink of crystal classes, and the ringing of true silver on fine china.

When Frances died, I feared I would be forgotten and passed along most indignantly. I was relieved to find myself given to her daughter. Resized to fit a rather larger hand (she had been a basketball player, after all), I once again saw the light of day.

But this time, I found myself in the strangest situations. At the theater! Playing bridge! What?? These are not the scenarios I was designed for! I am a DINNER RING! I was meant to catch the light reflected from a chandelier!

It Got Worse

I should have counted my blessings then, though. At least with the daughter I was worn at rather more formal occasions.

Now, I’m with the granddaughter. With her, there’s not even bridge! Has this woman EVER been to a dinner party? Judging from the way she holds her fork, I should say not.

These days I’m lucky if I don’t get smeared with hand cream or worse, butter. I’m worn daily, but on the left hand! I’m supposed to stand out on my own on the right! Instead, I’m shoved up next to a plain little wedding band (who has more cheek than such a simple ring ought to have).

Frequently I am removed and placed in a tray high up on the raised kitchen counter. At least from here I can watch and don’t have to feel the flour, dish soap and other kitchen elements rubbing into my old joints.

I’m exhausted. I don’t belong here.

But when I cast my memory back to those long years, closed in the box in the vanity table, sometimes I tell myself this isn’t so bad.

So I’m not being treated with the dignity and reverence I deserve. I seem to have been mistaken for an engagement ring. All the same, I must tell myself that at least I am being worn.

And what is a ring, if not to be worn? And to bear witness to the lives of those who have worn me?

(If only she’d clean me once in a while!)

End of the Nap

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25. Dread: Write about doing something you don’t want to do.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Suddenly, I realize I had been
Asleep.

I can tell the light is dim
Behind my shut eyelids.

What time is it?
I’m disoriented.

My eyes are still shut
But I feel a presence
In the room.

Awareness creeps in.
I remember
I’d been napping.

The presence is coming closer.
I screw my eyes shut tighter.
Move the sheets up over my head.

“Mama?”
I grunt.
“Mama, nap time’s over.”

I groan.
Just because you’re up
Do I have to get up, too?

What Comes in Threes?

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24. Numbers: Write a poem or journal entry about numbers that have special meaning to you.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Bad things always happen in threes.

That’s the old line, at least. But three is also a lucky number. The Holy Trinity. One, two, three, go! Third time’s the charm. Third time lucky.

But then again, three is a crowd. And deaths come in threes.

GOOD LORD. Number three! Make up your mind! Are you GOOD? Or are you BAD?

One of Three

I’m one of three. The third, actually (and in my case, yes, it was third time lucky because they’d hoped for a girl).

And here I am. The mother of two. Two boys, to be precise.

I always thought I’d have three. On an early date with my Chico, we talked about family expectations. I said I’d always pictured myself with three kids. He said, “Where there’s three there’s four.” (For context: he’s the youngest of four.)

“You’re not the one squeezing them out,” I muttered. Four seemed excessive.

What About a Third?

But now that we have two… Now that we have two wild and wonderful boys who fill our days with exasperation and joy, I’m just not sure.

I’m not sure I want a third.

I don’t feel anyone is missing. Our family feels complete and happy as it is.

Also, I don’t know if I want to put myself through the physical trial that is pregnancy and childbirth again. Granted, I managed both like a boss in my previous pregnancies and deliveries, but I’m nearly 35 now. My body has taken a long time to recover after the birth of our second son, and it will never be the same.

It sounds selfish, but there it is. I don’t know if I have the stamina and energy needed to carry another child, birth another child and then raise another child.

(Just the thought of going through potty training and the terrible twos again gives me great pause.)

Two’s Good, Too.

So maybe it won’t be three. Maybe we’ll leave it at two. For now, we are deciding not to decide. And if that goes on much longer, the decision will have to be no.

Tick tock, you know.

So I may have to start mourning the idea of three. Give up on the idea of a girl (though, Lord knows with my luck if I got pregnant again it’d be with twin boys).

But then again… They do say that third time is the charm.

Warning: I’m on a Rant

Jane 6 Comments

Many of the posts in this writing challenge series have been either fiction, or ficitonalized reality. Today’s prompt set me off on a rant about our actual current situation. It’s grumpy. It’s griping. It’s how I feel right now. The GIF of the naked dancing gnomes made me feel better.

22. Smoke, Fog, and Haze: Write about not being able to see ahead of you.

How can anyone see ahead of herself in the fog of this pandemic?

Our current living arrangement was supposed to be temporary. By this time, we were supposed to be house hunting and preparing to settle into our own home. It’s the first time as a family that we want to settle somewhere longer term, and here we are, unable to do so!

I must preface my rant by saying that we are extremely lucky. My Chico just so happened to be here in the States (legally!) when things started shutting down, and he has been able to remain here (also legally!) this whole time. We are together. We are healthy. We are lucky.

And yet…

Even before the pandemic, the United States (the country of which I am a citizen, just in case that wasn’t clear), made it damnably difficult to get my spouse into the country.

As anyone who has experience with these things will know, the U.S. immigration process is one of the most opaque and exasperating in the world. It is really, really hard to come to the States. The pandemic has made it worse.

This is not our first move. We’ve moved to Canada, to Germany, and to Spain before this. The process to bring our family to the U.S. has been hands down the most stressful, the most complicated and the most convoluted immigration process of all.

The process of moving the spouse of a U.S. citizen to the United States (I emphasize this so the absurdity of it can really sink in) has taken us more than one year. And we’re still not done. We’re not even sure if we’re half-way done.

Talk about fog!

Each time we think we’re a step closer, we learn of another step we have to complete.

We are constantly anxious about what the next phase is, as it’s never quite clear how we have to move forward. Not to mention further barriers thrown up in the meantime by He of the orange face and fake hair Who Shall Not be Named.

And also thanks to He Who Shall Not be Named, I now have to prove that I can support my immigrant husband financially. I have to demonstrate that I have at least $100,000 in assets and must undertake to REIMBURSE THE GOVERNMENT should he ever require government assistance (unemployment, Medicaid, etc.).

I’m a homemaker. My assets are my husband’s assets—we share everything. But can shared assets count? We don’t know. We may have to take another step to ensure they do.

Let’s let that sink in for a moment, shall we? If you can’t see how deeply disturbing that is, then you need an empathy transplant, stat.

What about the U.S. citizens who cannot be financial sponsors for their immigrant spouses? How are they supposed to live here?

The downright xenophobic nature of the immigration process makes me feel unwelcome in my own country. And frankly? This pandemic is showing such huge cracks in the laughable social support system that compared to other places we’ve lived, THIS looks like the “shithole country.”

Doubts and Questions

It makes our future hazy. It fills my dreams with smoke and fog. It makes me wonder, do I really want us to move our family here? We can go other places. Why put ourselves through the stress and pain of moving here?

I cannot see clearly the path ahead. I am stumbling through the murk, trying to move forward.

But I am so thankful that I am not alone. The best man I know is stumbling forward with me.

Foreclosure

Jane Leave a comment

Back to the writing prompts for Day 21. After writing this I realized it’s not so much about someone who has lost their home as it is about a fictional version of me.

21. Foreclosure: Write a poem or short story about someone who has lost or is about to lose their home.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

“I thought the state had put a stop on mortgage payments and foreclosures during the pandemic?”

“I thought so, too.”

We stood at the curb, looking at the house. It looked like any number of the houses in the surrounding neighborhood. Probably four bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms. It was set into a hill, so like the nearby houses it had a walk-out basement. The front was brick, but we knew it to be decorative. All these houses are made of wood. A little portico covered the front step and a walkway led from the front door to a two-car garage, attached to the house. If I had to guess, I’d think it probably cost about $650,000. I’d seen other houses in the area for sale on Zillow.

Unlike the houses around it, a sign was sticking out of the front lawn. FOR SALE. Nothing unusual about that.

What was heartbreaking was the smaller sign dangling from the large one, with one very telling word: FORECLOSURE.

We often walked through this neighborhood. We would leave our development where we rented a townhouse and walk the leafy streets lined with single family homes.

This was the first time we’d seen a sign like that.

As we waited for our kids to catch up, we wondered about what was going on behind that front door, on the other side of those curtains. Just visible around the side of the house was a play set—slide, swing, seesaw. A glance at an upstairs window showed pink curtains, the back of a teddy bear’s head propped against the pane. One garage door was open, and we could see two children’s bikes inside. They were about the same size as the ones our children were riding on.

It was terrifying to see how very much like us this family was.

Maybe we’d passed them on one of our walks. Had we nodded politely, each family stepping off the path on either side to let the other pass? Had we intervened to stop the children from getting too close to each other?

I looked at that horrible word: FORECLOSURE. Are they legally obliged to put that on the sign? Why else would they hang it there like a badge of shame? Broadcasting your misery to all your neighbors. It seemed to me like adding insult to injury.

We walked on. I put my hand in my husband’s and gave it a squeeze. “There but for the grace of God go we,” I whispered.

He gave my hand what I thought was supposed to be a reassuring squeeze.

Great Minds

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Day 19 in my daily writing challenge. Feeling pretty good about how quickly I’ve made writing daily a habit.

19. Great Minds: Write  about someone you admire and you thought to have had a beautiful mind.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

There are few people who combine greatness of mind and greatness of heart.

An intelligent, discerning person who is also kind and caring is a rare person indeed.

The Dinner Party

You know that game, where you’re allowed to choose four people (alive or dead) to share a dinner party with you? The dead are miraculously brought back to life in the present time and you can have them all over to dinner.

Who would you choose?

I have thought of this game before, and thought of historical figures I’d like to meet. Jane Austen is usually my first pick.

But the more I think about Austen’s sharp commentary about the people around her, I wonder if I wouldn’t be disappointed to find her heart to be a little less soft than her mind is sharp.

Sharp Wit, Hard Heart

It has been my experience that sometimes the wittiest, funniest, smartest people can also be the cruelest. I don’t like cruelty and unkindness. I always feel bad whenever I find myself laughing at the expense of other people.

Why is it that great capacity of thought is often paired with a reduced capacity for empathy?

To me, the presence of both is what truly makes a mind great.

The Great Mind I Knew

I knew a person like that. She was interesting and interested. She had a lot to say, but also listened a lot. She had great superiority of mind, but was humble, caring and kind. She could speak with information on a wide variety of topics, but she also loved to learn and would absorb new ideas with delight.

Long-time readers and family members may have guessed by now who I mean.

She had her flaws, this is true.

But the greatest gift my mother gave me was to model both intellectual curiosity and compassion.

A Role Model Still

This is probably why, nearly three years after her death, her influence on me remains strong. Her death has allowed me to see some of the flaws in her character, and some of the less healthy aspects to our (rather co-dependent) relationship.

As I slowly take apart the stones of the pedestal on which she stands, I am delighted to meet her eye-to-eye.

And I am most delighted to learn that despite her flaws and despite her shortcomings, she is still a person worthy of admiration.

A person who had a heart as great as her mind.

The Housework Lament

Jane 2 Comments

18. Cleaning: Hey, even writers and creative artists have to do housework sometimes. Write about doing laundry, dishes, and other cleaning activities.

https://thinkwritten.com/365-creative-writing-prompts/

Even writers and creative artists have to do housework sometimes? Oh, please. Give me a break. I spend so much of my time doing housework that I’d really rather not spend the time I have to write even thinking about it.

Damn it, I’ve spent so much of today on housework that I’d nearly forgotten to do today’s writing challenge. I was sitting, folding laundry when I realized I hadn’t written today!

I’ll tell you about housework.

The worst part about housework, is that whether I am actually executing the work or not, I am responsible for it. What is so exhausting is not how much of it I actually do (a lot) but how much I have to think about it.

With some exceptions, if I do not ask someone to do a piece of housework, it will not get done.

I could elaborate. In fact, I had written nearly a page griping on about it.

But I’m tired. Any homemaker knows what I mean. The person who carries the family’s entire schedule and inventory of home supplies in their head is going to be exhausted.

A Vicious Cycle

The conversation that my husband and I have over and over again is how hard it is, what a weight it is, to be the one harping on everyone to do their chores.

But perhaps it’s a vicious cycle. Perhaps because I remind everyone of their chores, they figure they don’t have to remember because I will tell them. And I know that if I don’t tell them, the chores won’t get done.

How do I break the cycle? Can anyone tell me?