Distraction and Writing

Noteworthy Writing Prompt #6

"I have your next writing prompt." He said beaming. It seemed as if he was having as much fun handing out these prompts as I was finding stories to go with them. Then he took the REDBIRD strike anywhere matches, lit a match and blew it out in front of me. Then he grinned and walked away, leaving me behind in the puff of smoke to reflect upon what kind of creative story I could come up with this time. 

It was challenging. It took me a while, because all I could come up with were small scenes of everyday people in ordinary life. Not one story, but many came to mind. Because each of our lives is a light... a story... 

I couldn't choose just one, and I couldn't figure out how they all fit together. I was distracted by my own stories as well, the ones I was living out as a working Mom and it was hard to find some time to sit down and write. It took a few days... But, I decided to keep all the short stories together to make a bigger story. Enjoy!

Anuschka

Distraction

By Anuschka de la Court

Strike. Flare. Flame. A match is lit.

A newborn baby cries.

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Her 10-month-old son slept restlessly in her arms. Every now and then a hand would come up out of the blanket and touch her face. He was beautiful, this miracle of life, and he was her son. A gift. She just held on and stared in wonder.

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“Princesses don’t wear underwear!” His two-year-old daughter yelled at him then raced down the hall naked.

“Oh, yes they do!” they were already late for church. His wife was with the baby and it was his job to get the princess ready for church. He was having a tough time, but he couldn’t give in, he was the pastor. His wife and the deacons would not be too pleased with him if he brought a naked girl to church.

“A lesson in modesty for her,” he sighed to himself, “and a lesson in grace for me.”

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“I don’t want to pick up her poop.” She yelled at her sister as they were leaving to go walk the dog, “It’s your turn. I did it the last time!”

“No, you didn’t! I did.” Came the firm retort. “Rock, paper, scissors?” The door slammed behind them, then muffled bickering as they argued down the street.

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“Cancer.” He closed his eyes as he sat in the darkness of his living room. He felt defeated. The tumor had conquered and won over his wife’s fierce spirit. Now, she was gone. His partner, his love was gone.

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“Here’s ten dollars.” She tried to keep her voice calm as she handed these two ladies the last bit of money in her wallet, “so you can continue your conversation at Timmy’s without the distraction of the speaker we all came here to listen to.” She was furious at the ladies disrespect, not only to the teacher, but also for her fellow students. All night these two were on their IPhone's and holding a loud personal conversation at the back of the room while the teacher spoke about distractions keeping us from genuine, heartfelt and sincere relationships in our lives. It was what they most needed to hear; it was what she needed to hear, but she was too distracted by anger right now.

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 “I hate you!” she heard her daughter say. Even in the fog of the alcoholic stupor she recognized the words. It made her feel even worse.

“I can’t do anything right.” She cried out and stumbled into the kitchen. She poured out another glass of wine, of which half fell into a puddle on the floor. Loneliness overwhelmed her.

“Nobody loves me,” all she wanted was to not feel anything. She took a long sip from her glass. She longed for the darkness to overtake her, and pull her into oblivion.

“They won’t miss me anyway.”

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“I love you Mom.” She kissed her 84-year-old mother’s cold cheek. She was pale and frail looking; so different from a few months ago. Strong, witty, compassionate and full of life; this woman lived life to the fullest. Sure, troubles came and went in her lifetime, but she stood above them. Never letting the darkness get the best of her. She was grateful for each day God allowed her to live on this planet and she gave love each to everyone who crossed her path. Now, her eyes were sunken in, her cheeks were pale, and she had lost so much weight that she was just skin and bones underneath the covers. Life was leaving.

“I want to be just like you, Mom. I love you.” were the last words her Mom heard before her beautiful flame went out.

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Burnt out match. Smoke rises.

Our lives are just brief moments in time, snippets of life, flashes of light, some matchsticks longer than others. We are all but temporary flames and we are all extinguished within a heartbeat on this time line into eternity. Distractions make our flames flicker, and our light burns not as brightly as it should. You control your own response to the distractions.

How bright will your flame get before it burns out?

End

Thanks to:
- Rene for his prompts and encouragements

What is Creative Writing?

A grocery list is not creative writing. A receipt for a double double at Timmy's is not creative writing. A toe tag at the morgue is not creative writing. Your tax return?

Well... it shouldn't be creative writing. However, a novel, short story, script (for a play or film), or a poem can all be considered creative writing.

It's your choice. For any of these prompts. Try out a few different types of writing. Maybe, use the same prompt and write a short story and a poem with the same prompt, whatever moves you. Just have fun and get those creative juices flowing!

I received a short story from fellow novice writer, Janice Eaton, for our 2nd noteworthy prompt. I love the way she captured the naivete feelings of this sock as it traveled through life's uncertainties and adventures.

Noteworthy Prompt #2

"Write about one sock," my husband snickered, then added with a gleam in his eyes, "in the voice of the sock."

 

A Sock is Born

by Janice Eaton 

I remember the day I was born. There were many of us. Our nurses made sure we were paired up so as we wouldn't be lonely. I loved my partner. We were released after ensuring we passed the inspections and told we were going to a place that would ensure we were handed off to great caregivers. I was nervous but my partner soothed me and wrapped me up and put this cover over me, all along telling me I would be okay.

We arrived at some place where there were all kinds of species like me, but I felt unique. I was glad my partner was there. All us one kind stuck together and were in awe of the beauty around us. There were many things that came and caressed us and stroked us. Some were taken, where I do not know. I was told that these were our potential new caregivers and they were called people. People came in all sizes and shapes and that we were awaiting for the people who would allow us to sooth their feet in the way that they needed.

I was beginning to understand. I could only imagine our wonderful home once we were spoken for. There were times when the darkness came over and no people came. I questioned a lot but my partner said that we need to rest as the people need to as well. I wonder where my partner got all their strength.

Then the next morning, when all the lights came back on and people came by to stoke and feel us again, a people thing chose us. I was all excited and wanted to ask a million and one questions about what our new purpose was. My partner stated that it was time to do our work, the work that we had been born to do, to give comfort and support. I asked if I needed to know anything and my partner stated not to worry as the people would be our guide.

We arrived at our new home and were placed in our new resting place. There were others, but they were older and had their stories to tell of adventures while out doing duties. Some of them were worn out ans stated that they were tired and would hope we could carry on. I was puzzled but fell asleep while being wrapped by my partner.

The next day we were plucked from our resting place, I think they called it a drawer, and put on the people's feet. It felt good; it was like this was meant to be. We were going out, my partner said, and not to worry because shoes were going to protect us. They were out shields out in the elements. Shoes felt great, I couldn't have felt safer. Upon returning, I felt tired and sweaty. My partner and I were placed back together and thrown in something they called a basket. I asked what we were doing there. My partner stated that it was time to have our bath. When it was our turn, we would be separated and washed, dries, then put back together and placed in our resting place.

I like being a sock, no worries. I can't wait to be older and tell the new ones of their adventures to come.

To read more sock stories:
- http://noteworthywritingprompts.blogspot.ca/2014/03/too-busy-to-write.html
- http://noteworthywritingprompts.blogspot.ca/2014/03/left-is-missing.html

Thanks to:
- Janice Eaton for her "Sock is Born" story. 
- http://www.yarnharlot.ca/2009/11/ - for the image of the sock

Toenail Clippings and Sea Urchins

Response for Noteworthy Writing Prompt # 3

"Someone stepping on someone else toenail clippings"

This one was a pretty gross prompt but, Natasja Panchuk was able to turn it into a beautifully detailed  dream scape story.

It's been a real treat for Rene and I to read the wonderful stories coming back from these prompts. It's good to know you're having fun with them as much as I am. 

If you would like to share yours, please contact me below in the comments or email your story to wildwestdiaries@gmail.com.

Thank-you Natasja for sharing!

 

I awoke to grey sunlight falling through my window, landing softly on the white blankets that kept in the warmth. Reluctant as I was to leave my soft nest, I threw over the blankets and touched my feet to the cold hardwood beneath me. The pale grey walls made no contrast to the peace of the late morning and as I shuffled towards the bedroom door to reach out for the brass knob centimeters from grasping the cold metal, sudden pain punctured the sole of my foot. For one suspending second, I was still. The rush of my blood ceased and my train of thought came to a halt. I was flawlessly still with nothing more to move me but the soft light reflecting off the dust particles in space.

As my breath was stolen from me, so was my sense of reality. My eyes burned. Starfish crawled up the desk, while eels slid between my ankles and the twinge beneath my foot turned out to be a tiny sea urchin.

The light faded and when I looked out my window it was not faded grass or uniform houses that greeted me, but seaweed that snaked up from barnacle infested rocks and silvery fish to which I did not know the names. In that single moment, when the ocean flowers appealed to my eyes and when the water filled my lungs did I understand; waking up is more than a cup of coffee, but a whole experience that you can never take back. I gazed wonderingly at the ripples of sun coming down from the surface. It reflected off the grainy sand and across my skin, absorbed in my bones and consumed in my flesh.

I pulled in the water and pushed it out. As the pain in my foot dulled, my eyelids started to droop. When I opened them again, I was relishing in not the sea water but the dull sunlight that filtered through my window and washed gently across my room. Oxygen once again flowed through my body, and when I lifted my foot there was nothing there but a single, yellowed toenail clipping.

End

To read more stories from this prompt:

What's Hidden In The Dark?

Thank-you to Natasja Panchuk for her Toenail Clipping story and Rene for the unique prompts and encouragements.

Broken Lead Pencils and Healed Hearts

Noteworthy Prompt #5

He smiled, eyes shining, then took a newly sharpened pencil and pushed the point down on a paper that was scattered over a cluttered desk top. The pencil tip broke then he said, "It may save someone's life. That's all I'm saying." 

My husband used no words this time, just an action. Pencil tips breaking is the prompt this week. I must admit, this one gave me a hard time. It took five days for me to write a story to go with this prompt, it was a challenge. If you're just starting out, like I am, some of these prompts might be giving you a hard time, and that's OK. 

During those five days, I may not have been writing, but periodically throughout my day I was thinking about it. Putting different scenarios together, and seeing which ones worked well with each other, takes time. 

A good story takes time.

I was told by my husband, that this story was worth the wait. I'll let you decide that one.

Broken Lead Pencils and Healed Hearts

By Anuschka de la Court

“Schwein!” there was nothing but disgust in her voice, but her eyes told a different story. Anita knew the young German woman only shouted and hit her with the wooden club when the soldiers were around. When they weren’t, her actions were decent and Anita could tell she hated being there. This young woman hated the soldiers just as much as she did, but she was on the other side of the barrier between them.

“Probably just protecting her family.” Anita knew they didn’t belong in the nightmare that was WW2, they were kindred spirits, hoping for a better world.

It was in her nature to always see the best in people, but these past three years too many horrific things had happened, too much loss and it was increasingly difficult for her to see any kindness and humanity in people.

“There is always hope,” Her Mama would repeat each night in the darkness of the camp, “Remember, nobody can take this away from you.” But in the trauma and chaos that surrounded her, the naiveté she had hung onto for most part of her childhood was gone. Too much suffering had trespassed into her world and she was forever changed by the intrusion. The innocence of hope just couldn’t live in this hellhole, but Anita clung on to her Mother’s words, because it was all she had left of her Mama.

 “Why are they doing this?” She asked the young blonde woman as she cleaned broken pencil leads off an officer’s desk one day when they were alone. “My family has done nothing wrong. They were kind, giving and loving and now I don’t know where they are.” She tucked the broken pieces of pencil into her apron pocket, while the woman looked back towards the door.

“Hitler hates Jews,” the blond whispered turning back toward Anita, “I don’t know why.” She touched Anita’s arm gently almost guiltily seeking forgiveness and said, “But I don’t.” Footsteps in the hallway broke the brief moment of friendship and connection and Anita turned quickly away and began to clean the other desk. A German and a Jew were not allowed to be standing so close and she knew there would be repercussions for herself and this woman who had befriended her.

 “One day, you girls will change the world.” Memories of her Papa saying this one night before the evening family prayers came to her as she lay in the flea infested bed.

“Men have made such a mess of this beautiful world that God created,” her Papa would say often to her and her sister Sarah, “and one day you will fix it with God’s help.”

“Yes Papa,” she had answered him simply in her youth, and in her innocence she replied, “I will write stories that will teach people what God wants them to know.” He supported her dream of writing stories, even though there was a war raging around them. He brought home pencils and paper for her when he could, so she could write stories of love, hope and peace.

“How Papa?” she now cried out softly in the darkness of her miserable existence. “How can I do this?” In her innocence of long ago Anita could believe his words, but now she couldn’t.  It was in memory of him that she stole the pencil leads from the office; trying to hold on to the hope that one-day she may write words to inspire.

They had stripped them naked and hosed them down as if they were pigs that had rolled in the dirt. It was humiliating. The cries of the desperate woman around Anita were deafening.

“My God! Help us!” were the majority of screams that rang out in prayer, but not for Anita. In the chaos of the unknown, she visualized the dream she had of her father the night before and it gave her great peace. This vision, she believed was from God, was a gift to give her strength for this moment in time and she held onto it with all her might and faith.

Anita stood naked cowering in a dark room. Her father arrived with a bright, beautiful light that could light up a whole block. He brought her pencils and paper then wrapped his arms around her and told her not to forget that she was Gods light. “Through you Anita, Gods light will shine.”

She could feel her father's presence with her now as the soldiers closed the door to the chamber they were in. Approximately 60 anxious naked women squished up against one and other. As she was shoved into the back wall of the chamber Anita spit out the pencil leads she had saved.

“Jerusalem, get up and shine,” Anita calmly spoke out her fathers favourite verse in the book of the prophet Isaiah, “because your light has come, and the glory of the LORD shines on you. Darkness now covers the earth; deep darkness covers her people. But the LORD shines on you, and people see his glory around you.” The women around her began to calm down, and then they repeated the words of Isaiah over and over again as Anita wrote down her final words.

Elke walked slowly into the chamber where so many people had died. She didn’t know why she needed to see it before she left, the soldiers forbade it, but she snuck into it anyway. At this point she didn’t care what the consequences would be.

“I need to make peace before I leave,” she knelt down on the concrete floor inside the chamber and prayed.

“God forgive me,” there were some awful things done there and she could hear the ghosts of those women screaming out to her. Tears streamed down at the thought of all the bloodshed caused by her people. She didn’t know how God in heaven could forgive her for playing along side that evil. Fear kept her playing that horrible game, but she knew God had wanted her to be bold, and steadfast in her morals even if it would have cost her, her life. But she had a daughter at home to protect and there was no one else to look out for her.

“Forgive me Anita.” She whispered and as Elke opened her eyes and wiped the tears away she saw three broken pencil leads and she knew Anita had been in that exact spot.  There was a secret kinship between Anita and herself. Elke knew the signs of a writer at heart, because she was one as well. She hated the thought of Anita not being able to write, so it was she who broke the pencil leads on the officer’s desks before she brought Anita in to clean them and it was she who looked away and prayed that her friend would be able to hide them safely from the officer’s eyes.

“My friend, forgive me.” And as her gaze lifted, and she stood up to collect the three pencil leads, she saw the final smeared message of her friend.

“I forgive you.”

Too Busy to Write?

I have had such an amazing time, these last 2 weeks, with these prompts my husband has been giving me. The response and the conversations that have flared up with other novice writers has been heartwarming and encouraging as well.

Some people have mentioned to me, that they want to write, but they are too busy to. May I just say...
Life is busy and there are many hats we all wear in a day. From taxi driver to chef and cashier to mediator it doesn't matter if we are a parent or a student, distractions are all around us. Things fill our days, some are important and need to be done and some could wait a day or two. That being said, these prompts are not meant to consume you and keep you at a distance from your regular daily life. You should not be sitting staring at a computer while the dinner is burning on the stove and the baby is crying. However, while you sit there in math class (okay maybe not math class - wherever you are), you could be thinking about the prompt and if you come up with an idea, jot it down in a little notebook you can pull out later, when you have time to sit and write.

If creative writing is about as much fun as doing your taxes. Don't do it.

But, if you feel compelled to share stories, and get excited to create word pictures, then do it. Find some time. It feels good, and who knows, maybe your words may encourage someone.

"A good writer is always a beginner, because writing is a process of continual growth." 

Laurie E. Rozakis

We are all in continual growth, lets help each other grow!

I have a response from another writer who would like to share their work from Noteworthy Prompt #2. It's exciting to see how unique each story is, although the prompt is the same. Thank-you for sharing them!

"Write about one sock," my husband snickered, then added with a gleam in his eyes, "in the voice of the sock."

By Natasja Panchuk 

An ominous purring sound could be heard in the darkness, drowning out my last crumbs of courage and forcing out the last rays of light. Burning water poured in from an unknown source, like liquid fire, flooding the cramped space and muffling the silent screams that never escaped their hosts. The water level was rising, and so was the level of panic in the atmosphere; watery white bubbles started to foam, choking me, and a horrible whirring sends us all spinning, slowly and uncontrollably further down into the soapy blackness.

I've started to feel numb. Water sloshes around violently, passing through the very threads of my being, the chemical suds stinging the fibers of my core. And then, the cycle stops. The searing water drains away. And then we are spinning, flattened against the burning metal confining us to this torture. We are spinning, spinning, spinning until all the water has been sucked from the inside out. Spinning until we know nothing else.

Eventually, it gets too sickening to endure, consciously, and slowly I fade from this reality, creeping away to my own dark water, far from hoping to ever catch a mere glimpse of light again.

Thank-you for sharing Natasja! Your use of descriptive words was great and I could really feel the fear this sock had. Well, done!

If you have a story to share, I'd love to read it.

To read more stories from Prompt #2:

- Left is Missing
-  A Sock is Born

Thanks to:

- Natasja Panchuk for her unnamed sock story.

- Alpha Books for the quote by Writer Laurie Rozakis

In The Light

Noteworthy Writing Prompt #4

"Write about a light that sometimes works, but mostly doesn't."

Do you have a light that sporadically works? Is it the light bulb or the wiring? Or perhaps it's not a physical light at all? It's all up to you... but remember, more than a paragraph and no more than two pages!

Don't stress about it... Just enjoy the creative process!

Here is my humble effort:

In The Light

By Anuschka de la Court

To some, darkness overwhelms and they die in the shadows. To others, it’s a challenge to find and fight for the light, to live.

“Damn!” she muttered softly, to no one in particular, “That stupid light!” she stumbled a few steps into the front foyer of the 3-bedroom townhouse. There were no lights on and the switch for the hall light didn’t work. The dim-witted light only worked sporadically. It seemed to work only when it was convenient for it, and not for the people who actually needed the tool to see in the dark.

“I think it’s the light bulb.” Her husband uttered balancing on top of the ladder that morning when he took apart the light to inspect why it switch on and off erratically. He was going to go to Rona that afternoon to see if a new light bulb would work.

“I guess it didn’t.” she tried the switch a few more times. It was midnight and her family was asleep, so it was imperative that she be as noiseless as possible.  She had just come in from a wonderful night spent with her sisters. Dinner and good conversation, it had been awhile since they last connected with one and other and she was grateful for the evening and the amazing time they shared.

“Tonight brought back a lot of memories,” she realized, “and lots of laughter too.” She found herself singing and laughing out loud in the car ride home. She was in great spirits, that is, until she got home.

“Ow!” she whispered under her breath as her baby toe hit something hard and steely lying on the floor in the hallway. On closer inspection, as she knelt and felt her way around, she found the unyielding object to be her husbands red tool case.

“Why can’t he put his things away!” she limped her way into the living room, tripping over an empty bag of chips.

“Kids!” Exasperated, she felt around for the light switch on the 1960’s traditional styled table lamp, inherited from an old friend of her mother’s, and turned the old fashioned switch to the right. Nothing. Complete darkness still engulfed her.

“What the…” she flopped down on the sofa beside the lamp and rubbed her sore toe.

“What did he do now?” She wondered, “Did he damaged the electric circuits of the house while trying to fix that damn light?”

“No,” She thought, “If he had, he wouldn’t have just left everything un-fixed.” Her husband was the MacGyver type and he would have duct tape something together to make things work. That’s the type of person he was. He wouldn’t give up on something.

“He never gave up on me.” She sighed and thought back to a time where he very easily could have given up on her. She felt the all too familiar strings of depression pull her down into a place she didn’t want to visit. Not even for a moment. She hated the dark. No, that was too kind a word for it. She loathed it.

“Why?” she thought and then realized it was because it reminded her of her depression ten years ago. A horrid time when her mind and soul were engulfed in darkness with no way out. She lived for years without hope, without any light inside of her. Only dark thoughts of wanting to die, a suicidal Mom parading in a mask of happiness and well-being.

“My post postpartum depression may be over,” she thought, but her fear of living like that again was not. It still hung in the air close to her psyche and it was a daily fight to keep it at bay.

“I’m never going to live in the dark again!” and in her determination, she got up, reached for the flashlight on the bookshelf and turned on the light.

What's hidden in the Dark?

Noteworthy Writing Prompt #3

"Someone stepping on someone else toenail clippings"

I don't know where my husband comes up with these idea's, but this one is kinda gross. Definitely, got the creative juices flowing though. I tried thinking out the box for this one. I didn't want the story to be in a bathroom, the usual place perhaps to find toenail clippings, so I found myself thinking about a box. A box full of toenail clippings that were hidden. Then I had to ask myself, "what type of character would be hidden in a closet that had a box of toenail clippings in it?" 

Anyway, see below for the result. Have fun with this one! 

What’s Hidden in the Dark?

By Anuschka de la Court

He was terrified, like he’d never been scared before in all his life. He sat in the dark clutching his Spiderman super hero figure tightly to his chest trying not to breath too heavily for his nemesis was near and the hero needed a moment of rest before tackling his enemy once more.

She was near. He could hear her huge feet pounding up the stairs shaking the floorboards with each weighty giant step. This monster was huge, at least twice his size and she was close, very close. His heart beat wildly in his chest; he had no more control over it than he had over the thunderstorm beating out its fierceness outside.

“Tooommmmyyy?” she hissed softly singing to him gently as if she were sweet, kind, and gentle being trying to coax him out of his hiding spot.

“Where are you?” she sang again. He could hear her moving around in the bedroom next to where he was hiding. He knew it wouldn’t be long now; he had only moments before her hideousness would reach him and he would be forced into battle.

“I can’t face her just yet.” He took a step deeper into the closet where he was hiding and he stepped on a box and broke the lid with a loud thundering crack. His shoulders slumped in defeat.

“The gig was up,” he thought to himself, “It was over. I’m dead.”

His foot was caught up inside the box he had stepped on so he bent over to pull it off. Tiny pieces of hard half mooned shaped objects stuck to the bottom of his foot. He wished he hadn’t forgotten his Spiderman flashlight on this horrid play date his mother arranged, but he couldn’t help but feel curiosity as to what his nemesis had hidden in a box in her closet.

“Feels kinda weird.” And he peeled off one of the half moon shapes off his foot and took a step closer to the crack of light coming from around the edges of the closet door.

“HA!” the door whipped open. There stood the ugly creature that was desperately trying to kiss him all morning. He felt it before he could fully see it because his eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. The kiss was disgustingly wet and slimy and he had to hold back the reflex to gag. He shoved her away and in the enthusiasm of the thrust, the box he was holding on to went flying towards the smooching beast.

“Ew.” He said out loud once he was able to focus on the half moon objects, “its toenail clippings!” and they were spread out all over the top of his enemy. There were hundreds of them as if she had saved every toenail clipping from her entire seven years of life. He flicked the one he was holding in his hand in her direction then promptly ran to the bathroom to wash his hands and locked the door until his Mom picked him up.

Later on, lying safely in his bed at home. He realized he had forgotten Spiderman in Toenail Chicks closet.

“Sorry buddy.” He shook his head, “There’s no way I’m going back for you. You’re on your own.” Then he switch off the bedroom light, turned on his Spiderman flashlight, grabbed his comic book and read in bed.

End

To read more stories for this prompt:

- Toenail clippings and sea urchins