It’s the end of June, I’ve lost weight, it’s been sunny, and I got sick.
So, a mixed bag.
And now ten words that rhyme with June:
Spoon
Moon
Prune
Loon
Tune
Rune
Boon
Croon
Zune1According to Microsoft, this is totally a real word
Dune
Now, take these ten words and use them in a story! Surprise writing prompt!
I sat by the window, listening to a tune on the radio, staring out and up at the fat moon. I used a spoon to shovel up ice cream from a bowl, directing it to my mouth. The night was silent, save for the plaintive cry of a loon. I did not want to listen to it croon its sorrowful song, so shut the window.
I picked up my Zune, which still worked all these years later, quite the boon. I played a song at random and did not like it. Why had I bought it? I would need to prune my playlist. I laid back on the bed and closed my eyes, seeing before me in the dark an image of endless sand, one giant rolling dune after another. Had I been here before, or only in a dream? I opened my eyes and reached over to the nightstand, picking up a small wooden talisman I had been given by a stranger, a burnished, dark rune, whose etchings defied explanation. I held it up before my face and turned it over.
"Soon," I whispered. "Soon."2Bonus rhyming word for extra credit
As previously mentioned, I’ll be going through Bryn Donovan’s book, 5,000 Writing Prompts, doing each prompt as a super-short story (or sometimes not super-short, as you’ll see below). The last time I did this, with a book of 1,000 prompts, I made it through ten, or one percent of the prompts. We’ll see if I do better this time.
I will have a blurb at the bottom of each post explaining the whole thing. It’ll be fun!
Also note, these prompts will be appearing in my newsletter (sign up here).
Prompt 1: The arrival of a letter, email, or package
(NOTE: I actually used this prompt when I first got the book in 2019. The story was about writer’s block. I never finished it. The irony.)
Story based on Prompt 1:
Writer’s Block
Charles Smith-Jones was a boring man. But he aspired to be more. He wanted to be a famous writer. And rich. Rich and famous, as he cleverly thought. Fame alone would be insufficient.
Charles had a problem, though. His mind was an empty vessel, and when the great god Inspiration did deign to fill it, it was with clichés, stereotypes, ideas that, when transformed into words, were terrible, but not terrible enough to provide entertainment value through their sheer awfulness. They were just terrible.
He thought of praying for guidance, for wisdom, for dumb luck, but he was not a religious man and his prayers, mumbled half-heartedly while he made toast in the morning, were like partly-inflated hot air balloons, rising, drifting, crashing.
On this particular day, which was a Saturday and thus a writing day, the doorbell rang. Charles could not remember the last time it had done so. He never had visitors and door-to-door salespeople had long given up on that sort of thing, at least in his neighborhood.
He opened the door to find not a person, but a package. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and bore no return address. It was just big enough to be awkward to carry. He picked it up, anyway, and crabwalked it into the kitchen.
He carefully sliced the paper away with a razor knife, revealing an entirely unremarkable cardboard box. He carefully sliced the tape holding the top of the box together and pulled back the flaps, revealing wads of packing paper inside. He removed them, carefully putting them aside on the kitchen table, thinking he might be able to re-use them later.
With the packing paper removed, Charles found himself looking at a large, smooth piece of wood. He investigated further. It seemed to be a large wooden cube.
He used the knife to cut away the rest of the box, as he did not like the idea of doing more lifting than absolutely necessary. He had some paranoia about putting out his back and being unable to pursue his dream of being a rich and famous writer.
He hoisted the cube onto the kitchen table and tried to puzzle out who would send him such a thing, and why. The effort fizzled after a few minutes, but it made him hungry, so he made more toast, sitting down at the table and eating it while staring at the cube. He turned it to look at all four sides, and it was when he turned to the fourth and final side that he saw written on it the words WRITER’S BLOCK.
Cute. So it had to be a joke. But from whom? Again, no names came to mind.
He held up the knife, still partly smeared with peanut butter, and gently poked at the cube. He steadied the cube with his other hand and pressed harder. The knife dug in. He twisted it and a curl of wood peeled off. He couldn’t remember what the word was for a piece of curled wood.
He finished his toast, then got a larger knife and began working away at the cube, shaving away–that was it! The word was shaving!–more and more, unsure if he would end up with a huge pile of wood shavings on his table, which he would have to then dispose of, or if there might be something inside the block, like a Kinder surprise, which he loved as a kid.
It turned out the latter was the case.
After working away long enough for lunch to draw near, Charles at last came upon the hollowed-out center of the cube, like some kind of hidden treasure vault. What treasure would he find?
It was a typewriter. He could not remember the last time he had seen a typewriter. Maybe on a TV show set in the 1940s.
He pulled it out and took it into the dining room, setting it on the table there. It was blue and might have been a portable unit, as it was smaller than he imagined a typewriter to be. The name identified it as a Smith-Corona.
He cocked his head at it. Maybe it was a joke after all. He held out his right index finger and stabbed it down on the X key, secretly hoping to make the key stick. That was always fun to do as a kid. It did not stick. But doing this made him realize a sheet of paper was tucked into the roller. He cranked the knob to roll it up and read what had been typed on it:
Hello. Follow your dreams! Use this typewriter and you will become famous–I guarantee it!
Charles laughed, though he wasn’t sure this was actually funny.
He pulled up a chair and sat at the typewriter. He snapped the guide back onto the roller and began to type. Before he had finished his first sentence–another facile bit of dross–the typewriter erupted in a huge explosion. The windows of the dining room were blasted out. The fake crystal chandelier that hung above the table and which Charles rather liked, was blown up into the ceiling and shattered. Little was left of the typewriter.
Little was left of Charles. He was quite dead.
He did earn fame of a sort, though, his unremarkable life exposed briefly by the media, who dubbed him a victim of The Typewriter Killer, a moniker so bland and unoriginal that Charles himself might have come up with it.
About this whole prompt business
This is my attempt to do all 5,000 prompts from Bryn Donovan's book 5,000 Writing Prompts.
Generic photo because I’m pretending I’m writing on Medium or something. Also, accurately reflects how I operated a typewriter. Photo by Leah Kelley on Pexels.com
Yeah, it’s been awhile. I remember vowing to do every prompt in a book filled with a thousand of them. I did ten. Here’s the last post regarding the prompts from just over five years ago: 1,000 creative writing prompts: No more of 1,000
Basically, the prompts weren’t working for me. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Probably. Either way, I gave up after achieving a mere 1% of my stated goal. I feel like I could do better. That I must do better.
So I’m going to start again, and absurdly I am going to use a book of 5,000 writing prompts that I reviewed two years ago. Here is the Goodreads link to the book:
I feel these prompts will be better-suited to what I want to do, and I’m not necessarily going to try completing all 5,000 of them, though that would probably win me some kind of internet prize.
I am going to use the same parameters as I did back in 2016, so I will repost them here:
My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done, I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).
I will begin doing this in the next post.
UPDATE, December 15, 2021: Weirdly, it’s just one day later and the very book I’m using has shown up on sale in Book Bub again. It’s like this was meant to be. Or just a complete coincidence.
Note that below is just an image, not a link, since the sale will expire a few days after this post goes up, and I don’t want people crushed by being offered the book for full price.
I once had a cute little notion that I would work my way through the 1,000 writing prompts found in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2. Here is the blurb I attached to the end of each post for the first ten entries:
These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).
There were two problems with this plan. First, 1,000 prompts is a lot, even if I followed the rules I’d laid out (which I didn’t because brevity may be the soul of wit but my wit apparently has no soul). Second, most of the prompts lend themselves more to “What I did on my summer vacation” pieces and not so much fiction, which is what I’m attempting to write here. If I am writing about actual events I don’t need any prompting other than a sense of outrage over Trump being elected president to get going.
But I digress.
I am officially announcing, then, that I am changing my goal from writing all 1,000 prompts to writing the first 10, which I have done. It’s only missing two zeroes so I like to think in some way I came pretty close to my original goal.
I will endeavor to find other writing prompts to mangle and may even return to some in this book as I confess to not reading all 1,000 of them yet. Onward and upward. Or off in some direction or another, hopefully not spiraling down.
I’m at 1% complete. I should finish prompt #1,000 right around the same time I turn 1,000 years old. Come on, technology, keep me preserved so I may accomplish this tremendous literary feat.
Prompt 10
(from Chapter 1: Time and Place):
It’s been said that the negative events of the past will repeat themselves if we fail to learn from our mistakes. Do you agree with that statement? Why or why not? How might the statement apply in your life?
Answer:
Do I agree that if we don’t learn from our mistakes we will repeat them? Let me give this some serious thought here.
No, let me skip that because what a stupid question. This is a stupid prompt. It’s like asking, “If you stand at the top of a staircase and someone comes up behind you and gives you a hard shove and you tumble down the stairs and break many bones as a result, will you learn that tumbling down a flight of stairs kind of sucks?” Hmm. Maybe!
How might this statement apply to my life? I learned that eating barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds when you secretly have the stomach flu isn’t a good idea because you will barf those barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds all over the dining room floor, which, by some miracle, is the only room in the house that isn’t carpeted. By incorporating this lesson into my life I have never repeated the mistake of eating barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds when I secretly have the stomach flu.
Seriously, though, it did suck, though not as much as being pushed down a flight of stairs (the stairs were carpeted, too). I was ten years old, didn’t feel at all unwell, was happily noshing away on the sunflower seeds, and then suddenly the flu switch flipped to ON and everything in my stomach had to leave RIGHT NOW. And did. I went from no flu to very flu in a second.
It also left me sufficiently traumatized that I didn’t even touch barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds for twenty years. And then only once. (I didn’t throw up the second time.)
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
What is the most important lesson you’ve learned from studying your own past experiences? Would you consider teaching that lesson to others? Why or why not?
Answer:
The most important lesson I’ve learned from my past experiences is that you cannot change the past because it’s over there, in the past. Where you can’t change it. Yesterday will never come back. You can keep waiting like a faithful dog on the porch, wagging your tail, knowing master will be home any moment but he’s not coming back because he is gone, baby. Gone. Because your master is the past.
Unless you have access to a time machine. That changes everything. If you have a time machine then you’ve got the equivalent of a giant erase button on every mistake or ill-considered decision you’ve ever made. Of course you’ll probably screw up history in the process and inadvertently lead to the creation of an army of Hitler clones and you just know that’s not going to end well (unless you’re a Hitler clone).
So the most important lesson I’ve learned from my past experiences is that I can’t learn from my future experiences because they haven’t happened yet. No, that’s not the mot important. Actually, it’s probably barely in the top five.
The most important lesson is that you can’t change the past. And if you could, you probably shouldn’t (because Hitler clones).
Would I consider teaching this lesson to others? I just did.
Class dismissed.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
If you could send yourself a message several years in the past, what would it be and why? How might getting [a] message in the past change you in the present?
Answer:
This is easy. No, super easy.
Invest in Microsoft and Apple stock. Sell at the appropriate time.
Here are the winning numbers to a $20 million lottery jackpot (I could go bigger but I’m pretty sure I could manage on $20 million).
How would this change me in the present? It would make me filthy rich. I’d spend my time traveling, writing nonsense, painting sharks and dinosaurs or possibly a hybrid, the sharkosaur. I’d go grocery shopping and buy weird birthday cakes and I’d fill up the bin for the food bank on every trip with actual useful items. I’d donate money to schools and give more to family and friends. Sometimes I’d attach conditions, like “You have to spend half of this money on someone else before you can spend the other half on yourself.” I’d donate to Translink if they promised to scrap every one of those terrible original trains that have been tootling around since 1986. I don’t want to ride trains that were running when parachute pants were not an ironic fashion statement.
Maybe money can’t buy happiness but it can buy a ton of LEGO. That’s good enough for me.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
After nearly a decade of no contact, an important person from your past has come back into your life. What questions do you have for them? Would you welcome this person with open arms? Why or why not?
Story:
Our last meeting was brief and unpleasant. It wasn’t really a meeting at all, we only spoke over the phone. This was back when people actually spoke on phones. Today we would exchange a string of angry tweets, drawing in spectators who would take one side or the other, they themselves getting wrapped up in side arguments of their own. When we last spoke, the conversation went something like this:
Him: You made a promise.
Me: Strictly speaking, I didn’t make a promise.
Him: You’re just being an asshole now.
(I couldn’t deny this, I was definitely engaging in some rules lawyering here. If I had a chance to have the conversation again I would have simply admitted it instead of trying to word-game around what I’d done. Things could not have ended any more poorly than they did and likely would have gone better.)
Me: I had every intention of following through. You know me, I wouldn’t leave you hanging without a good reason.
Him: It’s not a good reason. It’s not a reason at all.
(At this point I fell silent, unsure what to say next. There were no good choices here.)
Him: Did a family member die?
(This completely blindsided me, it was so random.)
Me: No.
Him: Well, then. Bye.
And he hung up. After thinking for a moment I realized he was inferring that a sudden death in the family was the only reasonable excuse I could have had for not following through on my not-quite-a-promise. That seemed a bit extreme to me. I could think of other reasons that would be valid. It was really just bad timing on my part. I waited too long to say anything. I do that sometimes, trying to avoid conflict but only delaying it and making it worse. Turning a molehill into a mountain.
That was ten years ago. We had not spoken at all in the intervening time. I once caught a brief glimpse of him at a mutual friend’s house–Tom’s–when he stopped by, unannounced, to drop off something he’d borrowed. He didn’t see me, which helped avoid unpleasantness. Other than that there was no contact at all. His first child had gone from preschool to middle school, his marriage had celebrated its tenth anniversary and then some. Were they still married? I didn’t actually know. He blocked me on Facebook after the phone call, completely erasing himself from my Facebook presence. The only time I saw a hint of him was when he commented on some photo and another person alluded to the comment. He was trying to be funny.
He tried to be funny. He was not a funny person.
On this day a blustery fall wind was blowing through the trees, eagerly tugging off the last of the leaves, gathering them against sidewalk curbs, clumping them so they could clog sewer drains and create lakes at intersections that pedestrians would have to carefully navigate around. The weather conspires against us.
The message blindsided me as much as “Did a family member die?” had those ten years ago. I had a full beard back then and a full head of hair. I have neither now. I wondered if he would recognize me if we passed on the street. Probably. There are things you just pick up on–body language, the way you carry yourself. This message didn’t come via a phone call but it did come via phone–my iPhone, to be precise.
It was a Facebook friend request. It was from him.
It had to be a trap, but there was no way to know for sure. I accepted the request.
Three days passed and I heard nothing from him. I could see his Facebook profile again. Pictures of his wife and kids. Not much else. It looked like he didn’t post often. We were alike that way. I don’t really get social media. I’m old.
On the fourth day I got an invitation to an event he was attending. It was a reunion for a show he’d done–the show ten years ago that led to our friendship of thirty years ending abruptly after one brief phone call.
So it was a trap. I didn’t decline the event, I just ignored it. In six days it would come and go.
Those six days passed uneventfully. He did not update his Facebook feed in that time.
A few more weeks passed and still nothing happened. That was it, I supposed. I wondered if the invitation was his awkward attempt at reconciliation and not a trap after all. Odd as it felt, I experienced some pangs of guilt. They passed. It would be glib to say they passed like gas, but that’s not an entirely inappropriate comparison. It was ten years later, the guilt was fleeting, like a bad memory that resurfaces before sinking again as the events of everyday once again take over.
One night while sitting bored in front of the TV I launched the Facebook app and went to his profile again. His last post was a picture of his wife. The text was only two words: Beautiful girl. It had 16 likes. The date was from nearly a year ago. He posted even less than I did. His wife looked about the same, her hair was a little longer. Her smile was pinched, like she wasn’t in a good mood when the photo was taken. Maybe he had just told her a joke.
A notification popped up on the phone. Someone was wanting to start a conversation on the Messenger app. I’d never used it before. I forgot I had installed it. It was him.
I wasn’t sure what to do. All the notification said was “Hi.”
I tapped the notification and was taken to the app. I stared at the screen long enough for it to dim. I tapped on it and it brightened. I chose a reply.
Me: Hi.
A few moments went by and got the notice that he was typing. I felt strange and uneasy, knowing we were having live communication after so many years of nothing.
Him: you didnt go to the reunion
Me: No, sorry.
I fought the impulse to add a bullshit excuse like “I had a previous commitment.”
Him: thats OK. would like to meet for coffee and catch up
What a glorious minefield this was. I tried coming up with a reply, anything, and a headache blossomed, nailing me between the eyes.
Me: Sure.
Him: how about the Second Cup on Pender?
I knew the place. We’d hung out there many times. He never went to Starbucks because “they burn their coffee.”
Me: OK.
I would volunteer nothing more. I was already trying to think of how to get out of this. Were any family members about to die?
Him: thursday at 7?
Me: 7 p.m.?
Him: yes
Me: OK
Him: see you then
He immediately went offline. At the same time something was twigging in my head, fighting to push through the headache. I went into a kind of instant trance-like state and found myself opening the calendar app. I had a meeting Thursday night at 7 p.m. I legitimately had a previous commitment. This was the AGM for my condo complex and I couldn’t miss it because we were voting on a bunch of increasingly horrible things foisted on us by a strata council that was itself doomed to be voted out. I had to be there.
What would happen if I messaged him back and declined? Would it buy me another ten years of silence?
I kind of liked the idea, actually. I had three days. I could think about it.
On Wednesday night I pulled up the Messenger app and found his name in my Friends list. He was offline. That was good. I typed.
Me: Hey, very sorry about the last minute notice but I remembered my condo’s AGM is tomorrow at 7 p.m. Could we reschedule? Maybe Friday same time?
I hadn’t planned on suggesting a reschedule, it just came out and I sent the message off before I could change my mind.
I could see him typing a response. The dread manifested itself as a sour knot in my stomach.
Him: Did a family member die?
This struck me as equal parts chilling and absurd. He was trying to get to me. It was working. Just like ten years ago, I had no good choices here.
I was spared, though, as he disappeared offline before I could reply.
Thursday came and went and the AGM was everything I had expected–lots of shouting, drawn-out arguments, the veiled threat of violence that never quite got acted on. A vote to remove the council was postponed for two weeks, the equivalent of telling the firing squad to come back in fourteen days. I needed to sell my condo and get out, the place was the Titanic of property development and the iceberg was in sight. I furtively checked my phone midway through the meeting but no sign of him on Facebook or in the messenger app.
Friday came and went, too, and I still heard nothing. I felt something that wasn’t quite relief and on Saturday I welcomed the weekend, the bright sun providing relief after so many days of gray rain. I had a craving for stuffed olives from a local grocer in my old neighborhood and spontaneously drove over. It was silly to spend more in gas than it cost to buy a small deli container of olives but sometimes you just need to satisfy these cravings.
As I made my way to the deli counter I ran into Tom, the mutual friend. He was happily pushing a shopping cart filled with bulk bags of spices, nuts and dried fruit. We chatted pleasantly for a few minutes, catching up on things. I mentioned that I had recently been contacted by our old friend. He looked me over and upon spying my puzzled look, informed me that he was looking for stab wounds. He grinned.
I chuckled, but it was hollow. Even as a joke the idea that our relationship had deteriorated to the point of violence left me chilled. I skipped the olives.
Shortly after arriving home I got a notification from Messenger. From him.
Him: want to meet at Second Cup on monday?
No reference to missing Thursday. Was this good or bad? I didn’t know. How did a fox feel on a hunt? Maybe he was ready to move on, maybe this wasn’t a set-up.
I finally started tapping out a response as the phone’s screen began dimming.
Me: Yes, Monday at 7 is fine. I checked and no conflicts this time. I’ll be there. We have a lot to catch up on!
The exclamation point struck me as friendly, perky. I felt better. It was time to heal old wounds or some shit like that.
Monday evening the rain had returned. I grabbed a bite to eat after work at a sushi restaurant downtown–the toughest part was choosing from the million or so locations–then made my way to the Second Cup on Pender. I got there early and spent five minutes standing on the sidewalk as people brushed past, wondering if my feet would take me inside or back to my car. I took one step back, stopped. Then I strode forward and in, ordered a latte, got a table and sat down. I was nervous as hell. I wondered if he might arrive with a gun.
I got up at the thought and looked at a clock on the wall. 6:52 p.m. I was going to bail. I had to leave now before he got here. I made my way past a young couple at a nearby table and clipped a wet umbrella they had propped up against a chair. As it splatted on the floor I muttered a terse apology. By the time I approached my car I was running and my heart was hammering.
I drove too fast but got home safely. I went into the condo and moved from room to room, turning on all the lights. I pulled the blinds down on the living room window and sat on the couch, holding the phone in my hands.
I had a notification waiting from Messenger. It was, as expected, from him.
Him: where are you?
I did not reply.
I got another message but this time there was no text, just a map. It was my place. But that wasn’t quite right–it was showing his location. And he was here. Shit.
I stood up and waited. I glanced at Messenger. He was showing offline now. Did he change his mind and leave? I was about to check Facebook when the phone rang in my hand. I let out an actual yelp in surprise and nearly dropped it.
I took a moment to compose myself, checked the call display–it was Tom–breathed out a small sigh, then answered.
Tom’s tone left me feeling dread all over again. He had bad news.
Our old friend had an aneurysm while brushing his teeth in the morning. Killed him instantly. My first thought was that he had died doing something sensible. We exchanged condolences, I expressed the requisite regrets over not getting a chance to close the rift between us. I disconnected.
Another notification came in, another message.
Him: im waiting for you
I walked to the front door and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty.
Another message.
Him: outside
I walked to the couch and sat down. I put the phone on the coffee table and used a finger to scroll back up to the map. His position on it shifted a little, sometimes moving closer, sometimes moving away, but never moving far.
In Messenger he went offline again.
I’m sitting here and waiting and I don’t know what to do next.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
Why do you think some people only focus on their “glory days,” their great successes from the past? How might you keep yourself from looking entirely backwards in the future?
Answer:
This is a dumb question because the answer is obvious unless you deliberately want to obscure it up or unnecessarily dig deep into reasoning that is pretty apparent and doesn’t merit a lot of thought.
Why do some people focus on their glory days? A better question might be why is “glory days” wrapped in quotation marks? But the actual answer is because glory days implies a time in the past when someone had achieved more than in the present, perhaps a great deal more. One example would be an actor who had a string of hit films early on but whose career has fizzled out in middle age. When choosing what to focus on, what do you think this actor would prefer, his fantastic successes of youth or his dismal, mediocre slog into middle age (not to mention the fact that he’s also slower, older and not getting any younger)? That’s just human nature.
How might I keep myself from looking entirely backwards in the future? This is also easy: I never had glory days to begin with. Also, unlike many people, I’m actually healthier and in better shape now than in my youth, so in a sense my glory days are happening now. Also also I could keep myself from looking backwards by wearing blinders (surprise twist answer). Technically blinders don’t prevent you from looking backwards, they just make it more difficult, but it’s a better answer than wearing a bucket on your head. Or is it?
P.S. I’ll be glad when I get past all these time-related prompts. If I had a time machine I’d seriously consider moving forward just enough to achieve this.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
Prompt 5
(from Chapter 1: Time and Place):
A time traveller from the future says that he needs your help to right some wrongs in the past. Do you trust this stranger and help him on his mission? Why or why not? After your decision, what happens next?
What is your biggest regret from the past and why? What did you learn from this incident and how has it helped you going forward?
Answer:
My biggest regret from the past (I do not know my future regrets yet, what with them being in the future and all) is dropping out of school before finishing my university degree and being saddled with student loan debt and an incomplete education that required creative thinking to explain away on resumes (“A dragon ate my last two years of post-secondary.”) I learned that being saddled with student loan debt sucks and to never go to school again unless someone gives me a million dollars first.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
What past decade or century would you consider your favorite and why? Do you think you’d be happier living back then or in the present day and why?
Answer:
Let’s start by ruling out a few centuries, like those from four billion years ago when the world was all poison skies, seething oceans of acid and generally quite inhospitable to life*. I’m pretty sure I would not have preferred living back then because your life would be over in a few seconds.
I’ll also rule out eras like the Dark Ages for obvious reasons.
That still leaves plenty of decades and/or centuries to choose from, so I will narrow my focus further, to the last century. Surely there’s one decade from back then that would be totally awesome to live in versus today’s world of myopic politics, global warming and reality TV.
1900s: Not all of them, just the first ten years or the aughts as they call them. This decade saw the birth of powered flight, a pretty exciting development. Early powered flight mostly consisted of crashing and death, which dulls the excitement a little. I’m also pretty sure a lot of people still got scurvy and polio and died by age 30, just like in Logan’s Run. Pass.
1910s: I remember this decade for two things: The Titanic sinking and World War I. Pass.
1920s: A giddy, freewheeling era if you believe movies set in the 1920s. This was also the time of Prohibition but since I don’t drink booze that wouldn’t affect me. No TV would almost be a bonus. I’d consider this decade except I’d be afraid of getting shot by gangsters because they were everywhere, right?
1930s: Would you want to live in a decade known for something called The Great Depression? Neither would I.
1940s: World War II was a bigger but not better sequel. Pass.
1950s: Prosperity and the rise of the nuclear family. Radio, TV, movies, cars with gigantic fins and grilles. The birth of rock ‘n roll. It was a crazy, groovy time. Unless you weren’t white. Also not a particularly enlightened era. Pass.
1960s. A time of turmoil, war, assassinations, peace protests and moonshots. I actually lived in this era for the first six years of my life but didn’t particularly experience any of the aforementioned things. Would I want to as an adult? Maybe for a week, just out of curiosity.
1970s: I was there once already. Once was enough.
1980s: Where all the bad taste and terrible music of the 1970s continued, but with more synthesizers. I was an adult in the 80s so this doesn’t really count. That also rules out the 1990s.
In review, the last century sucked. We might have a lot of problems here in the early part of the 21st century but we also have electric cars, gay marriage and the ability to order anything–anything–online and have it delivered to your doorstep. The good outweighs the bad, at least for now.
My answer may change in ten years if Vancouver is fully submerged under the Pacific Ocean.
* this may not be an entirely accurate description but it nonetheless captures the essence of “you wouldn’t want to live here because you would actually die”
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]I am using the prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link) to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long. I will work through the prompts in order. After that, I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes instead of a story I will simply answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
