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.

© Ash Huntley

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.

© Ash Huntley

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.

© Ash Huntley

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.

1. © Ash Huntley

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

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."

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

© Ash Huntley

3/642 Things to Write About

Tell a story that beings with a ransom note:

"You have 24 hours to give us $10 in pennies, or your penguin gets it"
Written with individual magazine letters accompanied with a picture of the 3 foot tall light up plastic penguin my father kept outside, wrapped in rope and duct tape. This is what I came home to from school in the winter of 2002 when I was in 7th grade. My father's peaceful penguin was taken by my older brother's friends. A fun prank that sparked a something in me. A wish to have many friends and them doing clever silly things.

I was recently post-thyroid treatment, it had been less than a year since I had my 'problem'. I had lost all of my friends, a lot of weight, and a good deal of my hair. I still felt alone and abandoned, though making amends. I dreamed of the future - a mature teenager, skinny again (I gained nearly 50 pounds after my thyroid was destroyed), with true friends and an understanding of who I was going to become.

I was never angry at what happened to me, only angry at how others treated me for it. Not my family - they were the only ones there for me, taking care of me, loving me. It was how my friends treated me, or at that point, lack of friends. Teachers treated me horribly, I failed every class in the 6th grade. I should of been held back, but my parent's wouldn't let it happen. I had ADD in a different form, when they gave me riddlin it made my condition worse. I don't remember most of that year, but I excelled in academics afterwards. I looked to a time where it would be forgotten, where I could make up for my illness and know who I was. At 12, I was lost.

I always wanted silly, simple adventures such as 'The Penguin Incident' to happen to me, something my family would always remember and smile on. I'm still learning thought, you can never plan or predict such moments. I will always be my own person with my own friends. I can't push for adventures unless I go out there and live. Being me isn't easy, being anyone isn't. Living is hard work, and that's ok, as long as we know it and work at it. I believe this is our one life, we shouldn't live it in fear.

Most regret comes from the regret of not doing something, rather than doing something. I always try to remember that. Do more things, try more things. Live.

Remember the penguin.

© Ash Huntley

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.

© Ash Huntley

Things to write about

Here is the book I was talking about. I've done a few more, longer sections. I'm really excited and enjoying it! Perhaps I'll share them :)

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