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.
Showing posts with label prompt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prompt. Show all posts
Monday, March 24, 2014
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."
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
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."
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