Writing Challenge (Day 13): “Where” Writing

Session 1 (5 minutes): Suburban Swimming Pool

The light from the comforting warmth cascading from the sky highlights newly tanned shoulders. The pages of books soak up discreet drops shot from the disturbed water. The pavement stings the feet of youthful souls reborn – a sharp pain dulled by the promise of chilled enjoyment. Leaving the pavement, I am surrounded by a glacial chill that soon subsides to algid serenity.

Session 2 (10 minutes): The Old Fishing Hole

Two old men sit above the broken sheet of safety – hoping, breathing, living. The line gleams with a driven purpose. The fisherman’s stomachs growl and heighten their need for satisfaction. The line descends into the murky depths below the frigid barrier that distinguishes the hunter from the hunted. The line jolts, and at once the fisherman’s hearts begin to race with excitement. A short battle ensures. A life is won.


Unsuspecting victims swim below – hoping, breathing, living. They are distracted by a mysterious glow above. Their lack of conscious thought is exploited and the glint heightens their instinct for survival. An inviting foreigner approaches the innocent pawns from the hole in the duped one’s sky. They approach the line and begin to examine it, soon after deciding to taking it for themselves; at once the fish’s body becomes tense with a confused apprehension. A short heist ensues. A life is stolen.

Session 3 (90 seconds): Under an Umbrella

I stand and the sky’s tears taint the outer edge of my linen pants. Their sensitive thread is frayed by the sorrow drizzling from the sky. The ineffective cover taunts me. I give up. I cross the umbrella in front of me and call the water to me. It receives this invitation gracefully…

Writing Challenge (Day 12): “Where” Writing

Session 1 (5 minutes): A Cliff by the Ocean

Stillness. The world around me shifts, and lives. The waves crash against the rocks below, and I feel it’s energy. But I am still. I can’t find my energy anymore. I can’t feel my life. I am alive. But I am not living.

The waves are so inviting. I taste the salt from the mist expelled from them and the grass is lush beneath the soles of my feet. I press myself against the Earth, harder, trying to anchor my soul to something concrete – something constant.

It’s difficult to anchor something when it barely exists.

I think therefore I am. Or is it I think therefore I am not. I can’t tell anymore.

Session 2 (10 minutes): Park Bench in the City

There is something really freaking frustrating about cities. I swear. Come, sit with me and look. Look around you. People. So many people. They all look real. But I don’t believe they really are. You can’t talk to them. That’s weird. Isn’t it? Approaching someone in a city to say really anything is so weird and disconcerting.

Well. That’s stupid. Why is that a thing. Why? I want to know people. I want to get to know people. Experience their experiences. And you’d think that a city, crawling with different personalities – different views of the tragedies of living – would be the best place to do that. But, these people aren’t real, at least not to you, or to me. Unless of course we are forced into someone’s life. But, why leave this to chance? Why let life control who you are surrounded with.

Don’t believe me that that is how you meet others? You may pretend that you choose who you talk with. But, life throws certain people towards you – life does – and all you get is a choice of whether or not you continue to surround yourself with them.

I love people. But I hate people. They aren’t real.

So here we are. Shut your eyes. Open your mind to what is real. What you know is real. What do you hear? What do you smell? How does the air feel on your skin? Is your heart beating quickly?

Embrace your senses and exploit them. Embrace what you know to be real. And then laugh, for “life would be tragic if it weren’t funny.”

Session 3 (90 seconds): Hotel Bar

The surface of the bar is sticky with the sweat of vagabonds. The room smells of regret and a unrest – a never-ending distaste for consistency.

Writing Challenge (Day 11): “When” Writing

Session 1 (5 minutes): Late Evening

I begin my trek home, and my legs ache with the memories of its travels of the day. They remember this path, but my heart can’t reason with the sudden darkness for its emotional depths are horribly incompatible with the love and happiness within my heart’s fragile body. My blood starts to pump and a slight dampness collects on my forehead. The film chills me and I suddenly shiver. Looking up.. a spiderweb coated in trapped bugs whose life force still shines through their encasement. The spider hides in plain sight emitting the brightest life force, quiet and inviting. He is a gentle spirit.

Suddenly my sight shifts and I realize the spider has been replaced with the moon. And I begin to ask myself if there was ever..

Session 2 (10 minutes): Loved One’s Funeral

There is a numbness that is building. I am outside of my body. There. I see myself crying. I am sobbing, but I can’t feel anything.. nothing is real anymore. The sorrow is external. The tears are external. Life is external.. for my body is a mere casing. The girl I was has left with him. Gone to another place. I don’t know where she went. All I know is that I can’t find her. I can’t feel her anymore. I can’t feel anything. And that emptiness is all-consuming.

I can see, though. But I wish I couldn’t. Because all I can see is his face. It is tattooed in the air in front of my eyes.

There are people talking to me too. I hear them. But they are speaking another language. Everything they say is like a poke in the eye, because they speak and I immediately start crying. Every time. But I can’t understand them. What is anyone saying. Why do they all feel the need to talk to me. I’m not important anymore. I can’t even feel anything, and I’m blinded by one image.

I can smell perfectly well. But I smell Oreo’s, Reese’s, and cheap beer. Like some indulgent fairy is following me around taunting me with foods that remind me of the rambling people’s malformed words, which leads me to my bitter sight, which leads me back to the numbness.

It’s a gruesome being that, instead of feeding off of me, takes me and throws me away. I am no use to anyone. I am just an easily disposable being. My innards are useless to everything – even to the parasite called apathy…

Session 3 (90 seconds): Crossing the finish line

600 meters, and now was the time. He picked up his feet with such power that it must be coming from outer force. It was as if his feet were being propelled forward – gravity had shifted and was now pushing him forward, closer…

Writing Challenge (Day 10): “When” Writing

Session 1 (5 minutes): Six in the Morning

I wake up at about 5:58, and the anger that flooded my body almost approached the intensity of my screaming alarm clock’s voice. Losing those two minutes of sleep was like tasting a bitter piece of dark chocolate. I tasted it, but knew it should be richer.. full of more life. Instead time broke its promise to me to be peaceful. With a swift punch to the gut, time became the wind.  So, I hit back, and thwarted it’s devilish intentions for 10 more minutes…

Session 2 (10 minutes): First Snowfall

He couldn’t make out what was coming from the sky. They looked like small gnats, somber, unable to combat gravity, for they’ve lost the want to try. But they land on his skin, and the sensation defines wonderment. These gnats have not lost the want to live – they have been infected with a chilled energy and their only mission in life, now, is to leave that energy elsewhere. Let others experience the chilled comfort in solitude. He notices his immediate surroundings. Life stunned to the white perfection. His feet disturb the perfect white layer that coats this environment. The clouds, he decided, must be experiencing a numb sense of serenity for their tears have become crisp chilled suspensions of the anguish within. He begins to ache for the flames inside his home, hearing crackling besiege his mind. He is drawn to it, for the chilled serenity is melting into the utter bleakness within the clouds and coating his skin, searching for a way to enter his soul. He feels himself becoming the clouds – lifting from reality and becoming consumed in his sorrow. Fear pushes him back inside the safety of his home and he embraces….

Session 3 (90 seconds): Easter Sunday

Room with a slight tint of pastel, reeking of sweets. The floorboards smudged with a light film of dirt and eggshells…

Writing Challenge (Day 9): “When” Writing

*In these sessions, I must focus on conveying some sort of time period. “When can be seasonal, a time of day, or even a special occasion.” I don’t really know what I’m doing so I am just gonna go with the random thoughts that pop into my head and hope they don’t terrify the three people who read my blog.*

Session 1 (5 minutes): Summer Rainstorm

The rain. It cools my weathered skin, yet the warmth of a summer night still kisses me. The loneliness that consumes me is drawn elsewhere, away from such a beautiful glow of euphoria. I mean, I know all to well that the loyal companion will always return.

But, the rain.

I feel reborn. The drops cover me in a coat of numbness. Untouchable, I forget about yesterday and am invigorated by not tomorrow, but now. Right now. My feet are bare – one with the earth below me. They embrace the muddy waters and…

Session 2 (10 minutes): Graduation

I am cold. So cold. But it’s 91 degrees outside. I don’t understand. I am shivering.

I never liked big events, and my graduation is probably one of the biggest I have experienced I think. So many people. People I never got to know. People I never wanted to know. People who never wanted to know me.

See, I’m average. I don’t really have any talents – trust me on that. I have spent my life avoiding eyes, hands, and voices. Voices especially. All I know about myself is that I am afraid. Of what you might ask? I haven’t a clue. And maybe that is a part of why I am so afraid.

Anyway, I am here, so I guess I did something right. Spent 12 years of my life or some ridiculous amount like that sitting and waiting from something immaculate to happen. School was just a placeholder, I felt. The future always seemed to have its hands on the collar of my shirt, ready to either throw me into an auroral space where I belonged and thrived or step on me and jump around until he got tired. Oops, sorry, until she got tired. I’ve decided that the future is a girl, or, I guess, a woman. She always makes me sweat and I don’t dare approach her. I just wait for her to come up to me and then I freak out and run until the source of energy leaving my body is depleted…

Session 3 (90 seconds): Wedding Rehearsal Dinner

His name was Samson, and just like his name, he was quirky and horribly bitter. Like the wrinkles etched into his face, his heart had many crevices…

Writing Challenge (Day 8): “Who Writing”

Session 1 (5 minutes): Cyclist

Ripping through the air as if each of its molecules makes up the tape at the finish line, he presses forward. Bystanders can taste his dense need for that physical snap of the promise of finite glory. His muscles are working on overdrive, and as the workers search for more coal, they find that he can drive through the dearth of power. He does the impossible and feeds the fire with no food. His mind takes hold of the machines and they become remarkable, self-sustaining wonders. The trees in the breeze begin to whip. The branches become a source of bombastic applause for his glorious efforts. He can sense the end approaching, and his sternum hungers for…

Session 2 (10 minutes): Ballerina

As if sculpted by a Greek statue recreating his own effortlessly inviting shape, he stands with a regal sense of awareness. Curious, ballerinas, for their aura breathes a lofty presence. He exudes power and strength – they soak into his pores when he moves through passionate instinct. Yet, this clout is contained in an essence of poise and allure. He begins his solo dance. I cannot comprehend the effort behind each move for it’s effortlessness false coats the man’s face. He leaps into the air with the force of the rising sun supporting each tensed muscle. While he paints the stage with the colors of his talent, I feel invigorated. I see the world differently. Life is no longer in four dimensions, and I begin to be able to sense.. almost physically see a fifth dimension made purely of emotion. As if the heat rising from the coals that superseded a vibrant fire, his fervor begins to leave his body and touch the outward beings of…

Session 3 (90 seconds): Puppy

Holy crap. Oh my gosh. Look at this bone. Look at it. I feel it’s deliciousness within my soul. My soul. I really love thinking about my soul. It’s full of happiness, a love for bones, and misunderstanding. HUMAN. HIIIII. HI hihihishsihfkgm. Human, human, human.

The puppy leaps onto the lap of his owner and sprays urine on his owners lap out of sheer bliss.

The puppy is thrown away from the owner because of his disgust.

Human, human, human.. Loving humans hurts.

Writing Challenge (Day 7): “Who” Writing

Session 1 (5 minutes): Balloon Man

He holds his breath for eternity. Born from a sudden burst of air, damp air that coats the inside of his body, the man grasps for life in his molten form. In moments, he becomes something of wonder – full of life, but lacking a true purpose. Suddenly, just after he meets the bloated calm of his full volume, he is manipulated by a man with false joy plastered.. layering.. his face. The shrieks coming from the balloon man are not interpreted as such to the masses. Children are brought to blissful giggles mocking the balloon man’s pain. As his plastic skin is stretched, the man becomes pale, and loses some of his initial brightness in color and spirit. But as he begins to take his true form, and the stretching subsides…

Session 2 (10 minutes): Homeless Child

He’s not seen as the kid in the screen, pleading for your help with his bloated belly and tear-soaked t-shirt. He sits alongside others in classrooms, carrying a stench around him so thick, it clouds the sight of those around him. From this, his peers cannot see his face.. only his clothing.. only the dirt on his elbows and underneath his fingernails attached to clenched hands. He is angry, and lonely. He acts out and becomes “that student” teachers talk about in the break room – the faculty joke. His bones protrude from his stomach, but he deserves that, doesn’t he.. such a hassle in the classroom. He is a punching bag, and no one feels the need to protect that kid who doesn’t shower. As all others leave school to return home, he comes to school to find home, the only home he knows to be true is one he shares with hundreds of bullies that don’t share his blood.

I look at him as he sits on the curb of his home, his head resting on his hands, his hands resting on his elbows, his elbows resting on his knees. His body tells a story of neglect, not one of disobedience. For just one look into his gentle eyes that bear all of his sorrow..

Session 3 (90 seconds): Trucker

He lives the life of the homeless. A vagabond with an unknown destination. His beard is made of smoke, beer, and stale breath. His skin is weathered in a way, unseen, but etched with…