642 Things to Write About: You are about to take a nap by a river, and as you are dozing off, the rush of the river begins to sound like words. What does the river say to you? What does it want you to do?
Spring arrives by thawed rivers and lakes, in the flowers blooming in every yard. I stroke the soft, cool, dark green grass and close my eyes. I feel myself drifting like the lazy river winding around me. Then I hear it. The bubbling, rumbling of the river over rocks sounds like a voice. Oh no, not here too. I'm napping on the riverside to escape the songs and voices that mumble through the box-fan at home.
I groan and try to ignore it, concentration instead on the suns' heat soaking through my lids.
"Sopphhiieee..." a voice whispers up like mist from the water's rippling surface. I don't open my eyes and I don't dare move. "Sophie," it says again, "I know you can hear me now. All this time I was trying to contact you through the fan. I should have known a more natural approach would be more successful."
I must be dreaming. I open my eyes and look around, I'm alone. There's a swirl of water spiraling in the center of the river. I swallow and take a step away. The swirl lifts up from the water and the voice returns. "You're the only one who can help me."
Showing posts with label 642 things to write about. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 642 things to write about. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Monday, March 31, 2014
City Raccoons
642 Things to Write About: Write a story from the point of view of raccoon. What is the city like at night? Why do you knock over garbage cans? Do you get along with other raccoons?
Fortunately, I belong to small tribe, the City Racs. It's easier that way. The lonely ones receive no help, they stick out and become loathed. They give raccoons a bad name, knocking over cans, causing commotion, mayhem, and awareness.
In a group you can create a raccoon ladder, quietly climb up the fury bodies of your fellow raccoons and remove thrown away food in a quiet and more dignified manner. Not that all is swell in the City Racs group. There are a lot of squabbles over scarps and fights to earn more stripes.
Not all are cut out for city life, either. It's busy and crowded. There's a lot of struggle for territory and a constant need to feel part and protected by and in the group. I wasn't always part of the City Rac group. I know how it is to be a loner out there. That's why I'll do anything to stay here, among the group. I'm the bottom of the ladder, I'm the bandit of the bunch.
Fortunately, I belong to small tribe, the City Racs. It's easier that way. The lonely ones receive no help, they stick out and become loathed. They give raccoons a bad name, knocking over cans, causing commotion, mayhem, and awareness.
In a group you can create a raccoon ladder, quietly climb up the fury bodies of your fellow raccoons and remove thrown away food in a quiet and more dignified manner. Not that all is swell in the City Racs group. There are a lot of squabbles over scarps and fights to earn more stripes.
Not all are cut out for city life, either. It's busy and crowded. There's a lot of struggle for territory and a constant need to feel part and protected by and in the group. I wasn't always part of the City Rac group. I know how it is to be a loner out there. That's why I'll do anything to stay here, among the group. I'm the bottom of the ladder, I'm the bandit of the bunch.
Monday, March 24, 2014
The Girl Who Saw the Universe
642 Things to Write About: you meet a girl who, when she closes her eyes, can see the entire universe. Tell us about this girl.
She hovers over the ground, toes pointed down, skirting the floor. Sparks, like stars, sprinkle in her wake. When she closes her eyes her body goes still and her lids light up purple and blue, rapidly swirling and morphing from one color to another. She opens her mouth and lets out a breath filled with spiraling galaxies and clouds of stars. Her eyes twitch under her colorful lids and her cheeks turn rosy.
She opens her eyes. She smiles and stars fall to her feet, floating above the ground with her.
She is the girl who can see the universe.
She hovers over the ground, toes pointed down, skirting the floor. Sparks, like stars, sprinkle in her wake. When she closes her eyes her body goes still and her lids light up purple and blue, rapidly swirling and morphing from one color to another. She opens her mouth and lets out a breath filled with spiraling galaxies and clouds of stars. Her eyes twitch under her colorful lids and her cheeks turn rosy.
She opens her eyes. She smiles and stars fall to her feet, floating above the ground with her.
She is the girl who can see the universe.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Magnetic
642 Things to Write About: One morning Jessica wakes up and realizes she is magnetic.
Fingers tingled again. All of Jessica's skin buzzed with something she could only describe as electric. Why did she keep waking up with such a strange feeling? When she reached for her metal framed alarm clock, always a hair's width too far to reach, it seemed to jump into her hand with a cold slap.
Well, that didn't happen the previous morning. Jessica turned the alarm off and shook it out of her hand. The buzz stretched out from her fingers like an electric shock from too much friction.
When she walked down the stairs, her mom humming in the kitchen, the keys on the walkway table rattled, fell to the floor and skidded to her feet.
"What the...?"
Jessica kicked the keys away and ran to the kitchen, only to have her stomach smacked by a spoon. Her mom turned around to see Jessica pulling it away and it stick to her fingers.
"I see it's started," her mom said with a glee, a smile wide on her thin face.
Fingers tingled again. All of Jessica's skin buzzed with something she could only describe as electric. Why did she keep waking up with such a strange feeling? When she reached for her metal framed alarm clock, always a hair's width too far to reach, it seemed to jump into her hand with a cold slap.
Well, that didn't happen the previous morning. Jessica turned the alarm off and shook it out of her hand. The buzz stretched out from her fingers like an electric shock from too much friction.
When she walked down the stairs, her mom humming in the kitchen, the keys on the walkway table rattled, fell to the floor and skidded to her feet.
"What the...?"
Jessica kicked the keys away and ran to the kitchen, only to have her stomach smacked by a spoon. Her mom turned around to see Jessica pulling it away and it stick to her fingers.
"I see it's started," her mom said with a glee, a smile wide on her thin face.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
The Hummingbird
642 Things to write about: A bird has been following you everywhere you got for a week. Why is it following you?Whom does it work for?
Is it the same bird again? How many could there possibly be in my apartment on the 11th floor, and in the city? I only ever see it in my peripherals when I'm not thinking about it, when I turn my head to get a look I see a flash of green and it's gone. And of course, I hear it all the time, like a large bee buzzing on my shoulder, driving me slowly, ever further, into insanity.
In the elevator on my way down to the street I feel a sharp flutter on my neck, like a mosquito bite. I don't even have the urge to swat or smack it. When I turn my head to look, a long, thin beak is pointed up at me and a tiny green and blue body shuddering with the energy of its wings. A soft blur. A hum.
I'm staring at it in awe, my mouth open.
Then it speaks. "I knew it, I said to them, I said you were the one. They had me follow you all week to make sure but I knew and I was right." The bird's voice was a mixture of song and whisper
"What?" I said, dumbfounded.
"The majestry of birds, of course. She is looking and I found you. You're the one, I knew it. I can smell it on you like sweet honeysuckle in your blood. You're the heir."
Is it the same bird again? How many could there possibly be in my apartment on the 11th floor, and in the city? I only ever see it in my peripherals when I'm not thinking about it, when I turn my head to get a look I see a flash of green and it's gone. And of course, I hear it all the time, like a large bee buzzing on my shoulder, driving me slowly, ever further, into insanity.
In the elevator on my way down to the street I feel a sharp flutter on my neck, like a mosquito bite. I don't even have the urge to swat or smack it. When I turn my head to look, a long, thin beak is pointed up at me and a tiny green and blue body shuddering with the energy of its wings. A soft blur. A hum.
I'm staring at it in awe, my mouth open.
Then it speaks. "I knew it, I said to them, I said you were the one. They had me follow you all week to make sure but I knew and I was right." The bird's voice was a mixture of song and whisper
"What?" I said, dumbfounded.
"The majestry of birds, of course. She is looking and I found you. You're the one, I knew it. I can smell it on you like sweet honeysuckle in your blood. You're the heir."
Monday, January 21, 2013
10/642 Things to Write About
A four-year-old child is afraid of the dark. Write about the child's fears and what you might say or do to help the child overcome the fears:
Curtis's over-active-imagination allowed him to hear scratches and growls. The scratches might have been squirrels on the roof, the growls mere groans of the settling house. But to Curtis, it was the scratch of a bee the size of Curtis himself, its stinger dragging on the floor as it approached his bed. The bee smiled wide and vicious.
"Hush, Curtis." I whispered to him, cuddling him in his small bed. He whimpered about the bee, the moans of monsters hiding in the shadows of his room. I stroked his hair away from his sweaty face. "Sometimes our dreams seem real, they try to follow you from the dream world into the waking world. It takes just a dash of courage to banish the monsters." I got up to demonstrate, Curtis clutched his blanket up to his eyes, peeking out to watch me, "Walk up to the odd shapes to prove there's nothing there." I approached where he said the bee sat, "Then turn on the lights." I go to the door and flip the switch. The room was basked in a bright yellow light, each crevice and corner lit to reveal nothing but toys and books.
"There's nothing in the dark except the inability to see what you know is truly there." I explained, "Everything scary will disappear in the light of the truth."
Curtis jumped from bed and ran to hug me. This was a turning point.
Curtis's over-active-imagination allowed him to hear scratches and growls. The scratches might have been squirrels on the roof, the growls mere groans of the settling house. But to Curtis, it was the scratch of a bee the size of Curtis himself, its stinger dragging on the floor as it approached his bed. The bee smiled wide and vicious.
"Hush, Curtis." I whispered to him, cuddling him in his small bed. He whimpered about the bee, the moans of monsters hiding in the shadows of his room. I stroked his hair away from his sweaty face. "Sometimes our dreams seem real, they try to follow you from the dream world into the waking world. It takes just a dash of courage to banish the monsters." I got up to demonstrate, Curtis clutched his blanket up to his eyes, peeking out to watch me, "Walk up to the odd shapes to prove there's nothing there." I approached where he said the bee sat, "Then turn on the lights." I go to the door and flip the switch. The room was basked in a bright yellow light, each crevice and corner lit to reveal nothing but toys and books.
"There's nothing in the dark except the inability to see what you know is truly there." I explained, "Everything scary will disappear in the light of the truth."
Curtis jumped from bed and ran to hug me. This was a turning point.
© Ash Huntley
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
9/642 Things to Write About
You are a serial killer. What TV shows are on your DVR/Netflix list? Why?:
Suzy wanted to be inspired. She had an acquired taste in killing and enjoyed shows that reflected her hobby and darkened thoughts. She didn't know where to start: Dexter, American Horror Story, or something on the lighter side of perception and intensity? Perhaps BBC's Sherlock Holmes, or the American, Elementary. Something to allow her insight, to learn from the mistakes of fictional characters. If that is even possible.
But, what else did Suzy have to do between cutting off limbs and burying bodies beside churches? She needed to be inspired. She needed something new.
Suzy wanted to be inspired. She had an acquired taste in killing and enjoyed shows that reflected her hobby and darkened thoughts. She didn't know where to start: Dexter, American Horror Story, or something on the lighter side of perception and intensity? Perhaps BBC's Sherlock Holmes, or the American, Elementary. Something to allow her insight, to learn from the mistakes of fictional characters. If that is even possible.
But, what else did Suzy have to do between cutting off limbs and burying bodies beside churches? She needed to be inspired. She needed something new.
© Ash Huntley
Monday, January 7, 2013
8/642 Things to Write About
My grandfather's girlfriend:
She's ancient! Holly didn't expect her age to be quite so...old. She imagined a young blonde, a gold digger. Though Papa was not rich. All he owned was his small home and charm. Old and kind Papa, his wife, Holly's grandmother, died before Holly was born. This was the first person Papa had seen since then. So late, so old.
Mom looked utterly stunned, open-mouthed staring agape at the woman standing beside her father. Speechless, Holly and her mother stood together, staring at the pair of them.
The old woman's face was wrinkled. Her wrinkles had wrinkles, her lips had wrinkles. Her eyes folded in, hidden within even more wrinkles. But, her smile was small and sweet, bright bubblegum pink lipstick smeared beyond the lips with her shaky hands. She made an effort. Her face remained tilted, eyes looking down.
"Welcome to the family!" Holly finally blurted out, starting to hold out her hand, but taking it back, unsure of protocol.
She looked up into Holly's eyes. Her smile widened. It dawned on Holly how long this woman had lived, all she knew and had done. How good it was for Papa to have her around, good for all of them.
Holly could not contain the sudden burst in her heart and she went right up and hugged her. She hugged Holly back without hesitation, arms surprisingly strong.
Family already.
She's ancient! Holly didn't expect her age to be quite so...old. She imagined a young blonde, a gold digger. Though Papa was not rich. All he owned was his small home and charm. Old and kind Papa, his wife, Holly's grandmother, died before Holly was born. This was the first person Papa had seen since then. So late, so old.
Mom looked utterly stunned, open-mouthed staring agape at the woman standing beside her father. Speechless, Holly and her mother stood together, staring at the pair of them.
The old woman's face was wrinkled. Her wrinkles had wrinkles, her lips had wrinkles. Her eyes folded in, hidden within even more wrinkles. But, her smile was small and sweet, bright bubblegum pink lipstick smeared beyond the lips with her shaky hands. She made an effort. Her face remained tilted, eyes looking down.
"Welcome to the family!" Holly finally blurted out, starting to hold out her hand, but taking it back, unsure of protocol.
She looked up into Holly's eyes. Her smile widened. It dawned on Holly how long this woman had lived, all she knew and had done. How good it was for Papa to have her around, good for all of them.
Holly could not contain the sudden burst in her heart and she went right up and hugged her. She hugged Holly back without hesitation, arms surprisingly strong.
Family already.
© Ash Huntley
Sunday, January 6, 2013
7/642 Things to Write About
What you ate for breakfast:
I went fishing for the first time.
I wouldn't say it was a smart idea. It didn't go spectacularly, but at least a fish was caught.
What made me think I could go fishing? The romance.
A small wooden boat with a box of colorful bait and a rolls of string. A long smooth pole and an empty lake. Ripple free, people free, full of thoughts and breaking light. Cold.
It lasted but ten minutes. I didn't have a box or a nice pole, I didn't have live bait either, just one piece of a translucent blue blob. But it worked, it caught a large grey fish, an unidentifiable type the length of my forearm. Dense and intimidating, its mouth opening and closing in silent calls for help. I too felt the need to call for help. I fight the urge to flail, to stand up and pace. Can't risk tipping the boat! Holding the heavy fish away from my body, hook still in mouth, my arm aching, I search the small lake lined with trees and homes. Alone. I look back to the suffocating fish and set it on the floor where it flops helplessly. I did not think this through.
As I quickly row back to shore, arms screaming with the urgency of not knowing what to do, the fish died. I cry. The suffering was cruel. I was been stupid, not romantic.
Only six in the morning by the time I arrive home. The fish fresh in a cooler of ice. I open it and carry the fish. It freezes then numbs my sore arms as I hug it to my chest.
Another dilemma as I stare at the dead fish on my kitchen counter. I know I have to scale it. Run a blade gently across the body over and over. Swoosh. A cut, red pools around the fish. I swear, flinging the knife into the sink and picking the fish up with my uninjured hand, away from the pooling blood. I set it aside, throw a towel on the blood and take care of the cut.
Minutes later I'm back. Again staring at the fish. Retrieving the knife, I start again. I will not give up on this fish.
This better be one hell of a fish breakfast.
I went fishing for the first time.
I wouldn't say it was a smart idea. It didn't go spectacularly, but at least a fish was caught.
What made me think I could go fishing? The romance.
A small wooden boat with a box of colorful bait and a rolls of string. A long smooth pole and an empty lake. Ripple free, people free, full of thoughts and breaking light. Cold.
It lasted but ten minutes. I didn't have a box or a nice pole, I didn't have live bait either, just one piece of a translucent blue blob. But it worked, it caught a large grey fish, an unidentifiable type the length of my forearm. Dense and intimidating, its mouth opening and closing in silent calls for help. I too felt the need to call for help. I fight the urge to flail, to stand up and pace. Can't risk tipping the boat! Holding the heavy fish away from my body, hook still in mouth, my arm aching, I search the small lake lined with trees and homes. Alone. I look back to the suffocating fish and set it on the floor where it flops helplessly. I did not think this through.
As I quickly row back to shore, arms screaming with the urgency of not knowing what to do, the fish died. I cry. The suffering was cruel. I was been stupid, not romantic.
Only six in the morning by the time I arrive home. The fish fresh in a cooler of ice. I open it and carry the fish. It freezes then numbs my sore arms as I hug it to my chest.
Another dilemma as I stare at the dead fish on my kitchen counter. I know I have to scale it. Run a blade gently across the body over and over. Swoosh. A cut, red pools around the fish. I swear, flinging the knife into the sink and picking the fish up with my uninjured hand, away from the pooling blood. I set it aside, throw a towel on the blood and take care of the cut.
Minutes later I'm back. Again staring at the fish. Retrieving the knife, I start again. I will not give up on this fish.
This better be one hell of a fish breakfast.
- © Ash Huntley
Thursday, January 3, 2013
6/642 Things to Write About
What a character holding a blue object is thinking right now:
What am I supposed to do with this?, Jay wonders, holding the object up toward the light. Staring at the creamy sky blue glass eye as the shop's bare bulb casts a yellow sheen over the oddities of the store, giving the white of the eye the appearance of suffering jaundice. Jay's stomach rolls, the churn echoes through his emptiness.
He stares into the eye, through the pupil and to the other side of the sphere, What is this? A wonder creeps through his mind and tightens, he can think of nothing else. A dark blue tints the world. Jay holds the cold eye closer in hopes of getting a better look. The musk of mold on the walls, the dust coating all but the eye no longer matters. Further he pushes, harder he pulls the eye closer to his own, captivated by the shades and shapes of blue the glass eye has turned world into. He presses the eye against his own, it numbs and melds. Harder and harder he pushes until he falls right into the inky pool.
The eye bounces on the tiled floor with a ding.
© Ash Huntley
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
5/642 Things to Write About
The long-lost roomate:
"I haven't seen you in two years!" I wail, "And you walk in here, keys in hand and dump you bag, your ONE bag onto the floor and sit next me on the couch like what? Like you didn't disappear for two years? Like no one thought you were dead or kidnapped, like the cops didn't search for your body? You come back after all that time like nothing. You didn't know I would still live here. What the hell happened to you Kara?! I was so scared. I missed you..." Looking at Kara, tears streaming down my face, I try to see the best friend and roommate I used to know so well. At the girl who is no longer a girl. The woman sitting before me is a stranger. I look at her face, tanned, happy and free.
Finally,she speaks, her first words after returning, "I fancied a bit of India."
"I haven't seen you in two years!" I wail, "And you walk in here, keys in hand and dump you bag, your ONE bag onto the floor and sit next me on the couch like what? Like you didn't disappear for two years? Like no one thought you were dead or kidnapped, like the cops didn't search for your body? You come back after all that time like nothing. You didn't know I would still live here. What the hell happened to you Kara?! I was so scared. I missed you..." Looking at Kara, tears streaming down my face, I try to see the best friend and roommate I used to know so well. At the girl who is no longer a girl. The woman sitting before me is a stranger. I look at her face, tanned, happy and free.
Finally,she speaks, her first words after returning, "I fancied a bit of India."
Monday, December 31, 2012
4/642 Things to Write About
Something you had that was stolen:
First off, I should say I assume it was stolen. Part of something being stolen is generally not knowing what happened to an item. I know there are several things and instances where a person would know their object was stolen, why it was stolen, and who it was stolen by. A lot of times you watch someone do the stealing.
I guess what I'm saying is that my small story is more of an assumption. I generally like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I just can't come up with another explanation.
Something I had that was stolen. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire DVD went "missing" when I was living in the dorms in college. it was in its case, and then it wasn't! I know there was a lot of borrowing of dvds and things, I never expected to not have my movie returned to me. I'm guessing someone borrowed it in honesty, then someone took it from them. I still have the case.
Harry Potter! Don't mess with my HP collection. Ok, they did, and got away with it. But, I got a new one from my parents as a gift, they became pretty cheap after all. I'll never forget, though. Someone took my Harry Potter film.
--
Ashley
First off, I should say I assume it was stolen. Part of something being stolen is generally not knowing what happened to an item. I know there are several things and instances where a person would know their object was stolen, why it was stolen, and who it was stolen by. A lot of times you watch someone do the stealing.
I guess what I'm saying is that my small story is more of an assumption. I generally like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I just can't come up with another explanation.
Something I had that was stolen. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire DVD went "missing" when I was living in the dorms in college. it was in its case, and then it wasn't! I know there was a lot of borrowing of dvds and things, I never expected to not have my movie returned to me. I'm guessing someone borrowed it in honesty, then someone took it from them. I still have the case.
Harry Potter! Don't mess with my HP collection. Ok, they did, and got away with it. But, I got a new one from my parents as a gift, they became pretty cheap after all. I'll never forget, though. Someone took my Harry Potter film.
--
Ashley
© Ash Huntley
Saturday, December 29, 2012
2/642 Things to Write About
You are an astronaut. Describe your perfect day:
As an astronaut, oddly yet of course, my perfect day would be the day I came home from being in space for an extended period of time. I would be with my husband parents and brother at my parent's home where I grew up and spent most of my 25 years of life. Also the place where my husband and I got married. It would be a simple day, a day I consider normal by any standard compared to the way I live presently. I would have drunken noodles for dinner and play Cosmic Encounter with my family. Watch a Studio Ghibli movie and end the day with a tall bubble bath and a good book. A perfect conclusion to any day. I could go for this day right now! I want drunken noodles, Studio Ghibli, games and a bath!
But, in not being an astronaut and imagining being one, I think most of us would consider a normal day to be a perfect day. Ironically, the perfect day would be the day I WASN'T an astronaut. In imagining being an astronaut, I'll move to the wonders it could bring. I'm inclined to talk about the perfect day being in space.Waking up to the bright Earth as my sun, the vast infinite space spreading out before my tiny window in inky velvet. The universe before me splattered with sparkling lights and swirls of matter that even while I'm in awe of it, living within it, living the life of wanting to understand and be a part of it, I can not quite grasp, understand or believe it.
Or perhaps I haven't been to the space station in over a year. Life and finances happened to me and the rest of the world. But, I received a call a week ago and am scheduled to go back into orbit. Nervous and excited, I can't wait to see our glorious planet, my true home, from my isolated floating box - my second home. Sitting in my heavy second skin, I hear the countdown, halfway through 5...4...3... I'm finally going back, I hold my breath and close my eyes, imaging the view, wondering if it was ever real. 2...I'll see everything I know and everything I dream of in a strange disconnected way. Where I belong. 1. The rockets explode as a far away voice declares "Take Off!", fire gushes toward the earth as we move up slowly at first, hesitant, then completely free. We sing toward the forever open sky. This is the perfect moment of inbetween-ness, of both worlds as one, flying through the threshold of both what I understand, can't comprehend, and yearn for. This is the perfect day as an astronaut.
As an astronaut, oddly yet of course, my perfect day would be the day I came home from being in space for an extended period of time. I would be with my husband parents and brother at my parent's home where I grew up and spent most of my 25 years of life. Also the place where my husband and I got married. It would be a simple day, a day I consider normal by any standard compared to the way I live presently. I would have drunken noodles for dinner and play Cosmic Encounter with my family. Watch a Studio Ghibli movie and end the day with a tall bubble bath and a good book. A perfect conclusion to any day. I could go for this day right now! I want drunken noodles, Studio Ghibli, games and a bath!
But, in not being an astronaut and imagining being one, I think most of us would consider a normal day to be a perfect day. Ironically, the perfect day would be the day I WASN'T an astronaut. In imagining being an astronaut, I'll move to the wonders it could bring. I'm inclined to talk about the perfect day being in space.Waking up to the bright Earth as my sun, the vast infinite space spreading out before my tiny window in inky velvet. The universe before me splattered with sparkling lights and swirls of matter that even while I'm in awe of it, living within it, living the life of wanting to understand and be a part of it, I can not quite grasp, understand or believe it.
Or perhaps I haven't been to the space station in over a year. Life and finances happened to me and the rest of the world. But, I received a call a week ago and am scheduled to go back into orbit. Nervous and excited, I can't wait to see our glorious planet, my true home, from my isolated floating box - my second home. Sitting in my heavy second skin, I hear the countdown, halfway through 5...4...3... I'm finally going back, I hold my breath and close my eyes, imaging the view, wondering if it was ever real. 2...I'll see everything I know and everything I dream of in a strange disconnected way. Where I belong. 1. The rockets explode as a far away voice declares "Take Off!", fire gushes toward the earth as we move up slowly at first, hesitant, then completely free. We sing toward the forever open sky. This is the perfect moment of inbetween-ness, of both worlds as one, flying through the threshold of both what I understand, can't comprehend, and yearn for. This is the perfect day as an astronaut.
© Ash Huntley
Thursday, December 27, 2012
1/642 Things to Write About
For Christmas I got a book 642 Things to Write About
One of the many ways I hope to become more active in my writing life. I did my first one yesterday. A very short one, some of them don't require to write much, or give much space. I was thinking about relaying what I wrote in the book, here. I might expand on it. I want to encourage myself to write in all different ways, including this blog. I'm not sure how much repeating something will help me, but I don't know exactly what this blog will entail. So, for now I will do this.
The worst Thanksgiving dish you ever had:
Although not a dish, I remember the worst thanksgiving I ever had.
My Mom was on a medical liquid diet for the holiday, possibly only on her second or third day. It was already rough, only able to eat broth and jello (as if that is not suffering enough), she still cooked each wonderful Thanksgiving dish, set the table and served the family a wonderful meal.
Though I felt guilty that she could not enjoy the food, and that she had no help from me (or others) in preparing the meal, I did not falter in gorging myself on turkey, yams, mashed potatoes, Lebanese stuffing (of rice, rice noodle, ground beef and pine nuts) and cranberry sauce (I admit to loving the canned stuff). Not to mention the yeast rolls that need to be prepared the night before or the many beverages my family enjoys throughout the day - chocolate milk, orange juice, pop and apple cider. A wonderful day on all accounts, to be quietly and sadly disrupted only by the small sips of broth my Mother was taking while we piled our plates high with her hard work.
A selfless wonderful woman. She only ever gives the family we want instead of asking for any small thing she may prefer for herself. That moment will always stand out as the pinnacle of understanding the kind of person my Mom is, and the kind of person I would strive to be.
--
Ashley
One of the many ways I hope to become more active in my writing life. I did my first one yesterday. A very short one, some of them don't require to write much, or give much space. I was thinking about relaying what I wrote in the book, here. I might expand on it. I want to encourage myself to write in all different ways, including this blog. I'm not sure how much repeating something will help me, but I don't know exactly what this blog will entail. So, for now I will do this.
The worst Thanksgiving dish you ever had:
Although not a dish, I remember the worst thanksgiving I ever had.
My Mom was on a medical liquid diet for the holiday, possibly only on her second or third day. It was already rough, only able to eat broth and jello (as if that is not suffering enough), she still cooked each wonderful Thanksgiving dish, set the table and served the family a wonderful meal.
Though I felt guilty that she could not enjoy the food, and that she had no help from me (or others) in preparing the meal, I did not falter in gorging myself on turkey, yams, mashed potatoes, Lebanese stuffing (of rice, rice noodle, ground beef and pine nuts) and cranberry sauce (I admit to loving the canned stuff). Not to mention the yeast rolls that need to be prepared the night before or the many beverages my family enjoys throughout the day - chocolate milk, orange juice, pop and apple cider. A wonderful day on all accounts, to be quietly and sadly disrupted only by the small sips of broth my Mother was taking while we piled our plates high with her hard work.
A selfless wonderful woman. She only ever gives the family we want instead of asking for any small thing she may prefer for herself. That moment will always stand out as the pinnacle of understanding the kind of person my Mom is, and the kind of person I would strive to be.
--
Ashley
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)