prompalomper

[prompalomper]

It was one of those mornings. I was sprawled over the comforter on my bed, face pressed firmly against my pillow—which was in desperate need of fluffing—and had zero desire to move a muscle. The clock ticked ominously from my bedside table, but I couldn’t even lift my head to look at it. Surely I was already running late. If today wasn’t so important, I might have given up and gone back to sleep. But there was a big meeting today at work, one that I, as a new employee, would be stupid to miss. I burrowed my face deeper into the fabric of my pillow case and held my breath for just a moment, waiting, expecting that familiar tingling to come over me as my body prepared to move locations. It was always easy when I was alone, taking about as much effort as blinking did. One moment I would be here, in bed, and the next I’d be in front of my shower and that much closer to getting ready. Yet that familiar tingling evaded me as I laid there waiting, until a wave of nausea and fear rolled over me. I shot up and quickly peered around the room, my hair prickling on the back of my neck as I scanned for anything, anyone, any set of eyes that were focused on me. The more I looked, the more anxious I became. There was no one here. No face, no eyes, nothing. I had often wondered if bugs counted, as if their tiny eyes on me could cause my abilities to falter, but surely then I would never be able to teleport at all. This was different. This was no bug. It had to be something else. Someone else. I did one more sweep of the room before straightening myself out and somewhat clumsily making my way to the bathroom, my legs wobbly from the sudden movement prompted by the scare. I pulled the bathroom door shut tight and waited with my hand on the handle for a few moments, fearing that whatever might have been watching me would decide to come in as well. Slowly, hesitantly, I backed away from the door. Finally that tingling settled over me and I was suddenly in front of my sink, but the reassurance of my abilities didn’t sooth my nerves at all. Whatever had its eyes on me before was in my bedroom. It wasn’t my abilities that were the problem, but an actual, real set of eyes that had been hidden from me. A chill ran down my spine at the thought. 

I readied myself quickly, grateful that I’d left some clothes in the bathroom a few days ago. They were wrinkled, having been thrown on the floor, but I did my best to smooth them out and make myself presentable without having to go back into the room. I didn’t think anyone would notice my wearing the same thing, especially since many of the outfits I dressed myself in for work shared the same general style and color palette. Without even peeking into the bedroom again, I allowed my abilities to take me to the bathrooms at the office. This was always risky, considering I didn’t know how many people would be in the bathroom this early in the morning and could risk being seen, but luckily all the stalls seemed empty when I arrived. I fixed  my hair quickly and tried to smooth out one last wrinkle in my blouse before heading out and towards the main meeting room. All I had to do was submerge myself in the meeting and subsequent work and forget about my unsettling encounter this morning. Surely whatever eyes had been observing me would leave. At this point I didn’t even care to find out who they belonged to. I got home late, after having dinner with a few of my coworkers. The meeting had gone well, and I had even been praised for the work I’d done in the first few months since I’d started. I’d been so elated that I’d completely forgotten about what had happened that morning, but the moment I stepped into my room, setting my bag down on my chair, that unsettling feeling washed over me again. I stood in the doorway, frozen. It couldn’t be. There was no way that something was still here watching. It had been hours since this morning, and all of my blinds were closed, doors shut. Nothing was missing or moved. No one was here. Yet when I tried to materialize myself across the room, just to test it, my body didn’t move at all. Something was still watching me. I pulled the door shut and backed away. 

The couch was comfortable enough. 

You’ve always been able to teleport since the day you were born, with one exception: all eyes have to be turned away from you for you to do it. One day as you lay in bed in the privacy of your own home, you try to teleport but discover that you cannot.

[prompalomper]

Terry Wells got up every morning at six am sharp, springing out of bed with such vigor that the neighbors in the apartment below had begun to loathe him. He dressed in simple clothes - ugly clothes, really - and began his day with a steaming cup of hot coffee, which he drank with two spoonfuls of sugar because he simply couldn’t handle the taste of pure coffee. It didn’t agree with him. As soon as he had finished his coffee and leafed through the day’s newspaper he left his dreadful little apartment and walked to the homeless shelter, where he volunteered every Thursday. He’d tell everyone that the reason he did this was to give back to the community, though truly it’s possible that he simply did it just to have something to brag about. Not that anyone had ever heard the GREAT Terry Wells brag. He was too good for that. He’d spend his entire day with the poor, spooning soup and telling stories that, had these people homes to return to, would have driven them there in an instant. With kindness did not come witty storytelling ability, clearly. After he had finished boring anyone who would listen, Terry trekked to the local supermarket to buy his week’s supply of soup, a reflection of how dull his diet was, then picked up a few extra things to give to the school down the street. He’d been donating to them for nearly twelve years now, since he had moved to his shabby apartment, and he showed no signs of stopping now. The teachers there treated him like a king, though he humbled himself like a fool with every compliment they paid him. It’s rather unbecoming of a man to deny so many compliments, isn’t it? After all was said and done with the day, Terry would bring himself home - he kept his shoulders held high and a smile on his face, as if he had to prove something to his sullen neighbors who were tired and grumpy from work - and watch the evening news, scanning for any new charity funds to scrape up the cash to donate to. The man could at least attempt to save a few dollars for himself; his apartment sorely needed an upgrade. Much like his wardrobe. At eight pm on the dot Terry would call his grandmother and wish her goodnight, his nightly ritual, most likely because he had no one else to say goodnight to. Terry was too busy caring for others, and surely no woman would put up with his simple and rather boring lifestyle. Even his bedsheets were the dullest color of brown, and his simple yellow pajamas clashed with them horribly as he tucked himself in for the night. He set his alarm for six, shut off the light, and drifted to sleep peacefully. It’s too bad he fell asleep without the warmth of another beside him. Maybe one day, Terry. (I highly doubt it.)

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[prompalomper]

        Words. It's funny how tiny letters, tiny little scribbles of nothing, can mean so much. Words line books, hide in music, trickle off the tips of our tongues with every expression, every utterance. Sometimes I feel like words can be too much, like even as the tip of my pencil breaks and I retire to the corner to stuff it into the dull blades of a sharpener the words are still pouring out of me, raining, spitting like a waterfall. There's too many of them there, swimming around my head, making me gasp for breath. As I sit down again and press the pencil to my paper, I've already forgotten where I was before. A whole new set of thoughts, a whole new jumble of words has clouded my brain. I can see the remnants of letters floating across my vision, everything I've said, everything I will say, everything that everyone will say. They're everywhere, but I'm incapable of channeling them down through the pencil. No matter how hard I will the fragments of a sentence to leak out of the lead of my pencil, they stay balled up in the tip of the eraser. I tap the end of the pencil on the side of the desk, on the chair, on my head, but nothing seems to come out. I take to picking at the eraser, little pink wisps of eraser shavings floating around my face, suffocating. Something inside of me screams as I rip out the last bits of pink with nothing to show for it. I tap the tip of the pencil on the paper, little black dots, little meaningless efforts to form something, anything. I can't breathe. The words that refuse to come out clog in my brain, stuffing up my ears. I tap the pencil more furiously. The black dots, the pink shavings, it's all too messy for me to handle, for me to focus. I bend the pencil until the wood breaks, unevenly. Just another mess to clean up, and still nothing to show for it. I rip the paper in half calmly, evenly. I scoop the mess into the trash. I set my things aside and leave the room, the dust from my failed effort too strong for me to handle. In the other room, TV turned on and turned high, I let the balled up words flow out my ears, wasted.          Tomorrow, I say to myself, unconvincingly.

[prompalomper]

List the ways in which you fight life.

I get up in the morning. I drag my tired body out of bed and stretch my legs so that I won’t stumble once I stand up. I take too hot of a shower. I cover the imperfections on my face that life has given me, brush color on my cheeks to keep them from looking dull. I widen my eyes. I drive with my music too loud. I watch silently when someone pulls out in front of me. I don’t honk my horn. I don’t let them win. When the air is cold I stuff my hands in my pockets and cover my mouth with a thick scarf. I don’t freeze. I narrowly escape slipping on ice, skirting around it just in time so that it can’t pull me down. I cry when I receive the grade I didn’t want. But I sit hidden in the bathroom stall, door paint flaking off and scattering across the tile. No one hears. Because no matter what life throws at me, I get up. I leave the bathroom stall and blink my eyes and fix my hair. I smile despite not wanting to. Life has this way of trying to break everything you have from the inside, but to let it win is unacceptable. Life throws punches. I punch harder. I may not evade the metal fist as it smashes against my jaw, my ribs, drowning me in despair with no hope of pulling through. But I absorb that power and channel it through my arms, my veins, right out through my fingertips. When my fist collides with life it may leave no mark, but life knows I mean business. Life knows that I’m not messing around. That’s the only way you can fight life. I can’t expect to win, not over something so ominous and powerful, but I can expect to make a difference. I fight where I can, take my losses where I can’t. When I go to bed at night, I tuck my covers over my shoulders and shut my eyes, knowing that I am content, and alive, and so full of force for tomorrow that I can’t be stopped. I breathe in. I breathe out. I thank God for everything I’ve been given, even if life still chooses to spit on me. I fight back. I fight for tomorrow, and yesterday. Most importantly, I fight for today.

[prompalomper]

(Had to emulate William Burroughs for an assignment - if you haven't read Burroughs....don't. I'm joking. Kind of. Anyway, enjoy this mess. I wrote it while sitting at one of the crowded places on campus.) Groups of learners and leeches file around, clumps of people who all look the same. Boots. Brown boots. My own feet are wrapped in the same secure purchase. The boys pull up their gray hooded jackets and scan the crowd guiltily, as if they're trying to hide a lack of individual purity. Headphones, tangled and mangled and white, connect every sad soul to the hem of their pants, pulling, slowly drawing their brains out to travel down the thin line into Designer jeans. You don't need a mind when you have a purchase. Cuffed sleeves - a yellow tied man straightens out his slick jacket and pretends his young face isn't an obstacle. Sunglasses stick out of carefully tucked collars; men in blue buttons stand and say nothing; gray, grey, GRAY. The tie balances out against the bright blue backpack, a child and man combined. Ears recede as knowledge on wheels push through the echoey corridor, like fighter planes soaring over the sky before releasing death and misshapen children. Where are the men in suits going? They trail up and down repeatedly, soft steps in big shoes, hoping the suit alone will take them to the end.

[prompalomper]

(A small bit that I had to do for my women's literature class. Enjoy)

Auto Factory – 1941 

        “You look like you could use a new pair of pants, Nan, you’re tearing,” Phyllis said, pulling a chair up next to me at the table.

        “Am I?” I looked down, running a hand over my lower thigh. The rip was small still, just a few strands out of place at the knee, but I knew that one wrong twist of my leg would pull it open completely.

        “Let me sew it for you after work. Your place?”

        “How about yours?” I asked. She gave a dramatic sigh, accompanied by a twitch of her wrist. 

        “We always go to my cramped, musty apartment. I’m sure yours can’t be that much worse.” She plunged a fork into her bowl of salad. I shifted in my seat, taking a peek at my own packed lunch, which I wasn’t hungry for. “What are you afraid of?”

        “I’m convinced Nan doesn’t even have a home. I wouldn’t blame her. It’s impossible as a single woman to pay for any of these places nearby. Don’t be shy, Nan, you can admit it. We won’t think less of you,” Mabel added. Phyllis gave her a good smack to the shoulder.

        “Don’t be rude, Mabel,” she snapped.

        “It’s not that, really,” I explained, “I would just so much rather see your homes than my own. It gets incredibly boring, being stuck in the same old place all the time. After my father passed away it seems all too empty, anyway. Please, Phyllis, let’s go home together today. To your apartment.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, holding my breath for a moment.

        “Alright, alright. But one day, I’m coming over. Whether you like it or not,” she huffed. I let out my breath and smiled, nodding. The bell above the doorway clanged loudly, the sound still startling to me even after a few weeks on the job. Mabel and Phyllis rose and put their lunches away, as well as the other women who had gathered in the room. They filed out like military men, backs straight, hair pulled up and secured. I looked just like them now, pins in my hair, pants that were old and worn, and a shirt that had been stained days ago by oil. No matter how much I wanted to change, how much I wanted to slip into one of my sundresses and leave this putrid smelling factory behind, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was here to prove a point, not only to myself, but to my family as well.

        This factory employed only women, on account of cheap labor. It was a rough sort of business, making machine parts, but these women were among the most determined and brave women I’d ever met. If anyone could do this work, they could. My father–who, despite what I told the girls, had not passed away–was the owner of this particular factory. Or, he was. After an incident a few months ago, these girls gathered enough evidence to send my father to jail for mistreating them. My mother was distraught, and sought out to close the factory and ruin these young girls’ lives as a way of revenge. I, however, took it upon myself to step in and see what the workers were like. If they were the hostile, resilient, pant-wearing witches that my family thought they were, I’d come back and justify the closing of the factory. If they weren’t, however, I was hoping to convince my mother that perhaps it was truly my father in the wrong. So, I bought myself an apartment downtown and bought a pair of slacks and a cheap blouse, ready to leave my rich lifestyle behind and embrace the life of a factory worker.

        It wasn’t easy. The apartment I bought was small and cramped, though it wasn’t as run down as the others’ were. That was why I couldn’t let Phyllis come over; if she saw how clean my living spaces were, surely she’d start to suspect something. That was the only nice thing I’d allowed myself, though. I left all of my clothes behind, all of my things, and tried very hard to distance myself from the life I’d lived before. If I was going to pass as one of these women, I needed to do everything I could to try to live the way they did. So far things were going well. I’d had a small hiccup when one of the girls asked me about my past on the first day, but I played it off by explaining I was so distraught after my father’s untimely demise several weeks before. The women bought that, and in no time they had accepted me as one of them. From what I’d experienced already, I felt I knew the answer I was going to bring back to my mother: These women were strong and independent, and were doing all they could to get by. We couldn’t leave them without a job.

        Being here was risky, though. Not only did these women resent my father, but they also seemed to have a general dislike for anyone who made over seventy cents an hour. If I were outed I’d surely lose the friends I’d made here, as well as all of their trust. And not only that; I’d seen what these ladies could do when angry. During their strikes against my father they’d even managed to make my father’s car un-drivable, after doing a significant amount of damage to it with their pickets. These women were not to be messed with, and I didn’t want to be on the other side of their fury. I already was, technically, though they didn’t know it. All I could do was blend in until I could make a smooth escape back to my own life, and hope that no one caught on.

        I scooped up my packed lunch and dropped it in the garbage, brushing my hands over my pants, trying to adjust them so that they felt comfortable. In comparison to skirts and dresses, I found these extremely restricting. But, there was something powerful to be felt when wearing them. I understood why these women did what they did. I squared my shoulders, chin up, and headed towards the door that would return me to the dense, metal filled air of the factory room. Soon I’d be back to my lavish life, and these walls would be a thing of the past. But, I’d never forget about these women and all they endured. I felt proud even pretending to be one of them.

[prompalomper]

You have just swallowed your pride and done something you didn't want to do. Your friend wants to know why. The two of you are driving around an almost-full parking garage looking for a space for the friend's oversize pickup. Write the scene.          "Okay, but seriously?" Myranda tapped her fingers along the wheel of her truck, turning one of the narrow corners of the garage. This part of the garage, just like all the others, was completely filled up with cars. It didn't look like there was any hope for us here.

        "It had gone on for two long. I had to do it," I explained, scanning the backs of the parked cars, aimlessly reading licence plates. She slammed on her breaks as we neared what looked to be an empty spot, but closer inspection revealed that a bike was parked there and she started forward again.          "But it's been two years, Meli. You could have easily kept your mouth shut. She had to be close to giving up, right?"         "I don't know. Honestly, I was just tired of it."         "So, tell me all the details."         "You're going to rant and rave through the whole thing."         "I promise I'll keep the commentary to a minimum." I sighed.

        "Fine. So I saw her at the supermarket, walking down one of the aisles. By the time I spotted her it was too late to turn around, and there was no avoiding her, so I just had to suck it up and walk right past her. Some part of me was hoping she wouldn't notice, but, of course, she did."         "Observant bitch," Myranda mumbled, then gave me an apologetic look when I shot her a glare. "Go on, go on."         "Okay, so, she stops me, right? She waited until I was right across from her, trying to quickly find the right cereal so I could get the hell out. And she lets out that shrill 'hello' of hers, waving her bony wrist around, trying to get my attention. I mean, what was I supposed to do?"          "Ignore her."

        "She was right in my face." I let my eyes wander a few parked cars ahead of us, then quickly held up my hand and pointed. "There, look. A spot."

        "Finally," she mumbled, slamming on her breaks again. We surveyed the spot, a tiny area boxed in by two sedans, before Myranda let out an aggravated sigh.          "It's your fault your truck is so big," I commented as she sped away from the spot, turning another corner.          "Just shut up and tell me more."         "Alright. So of course I turn around and wave back a little, trying not to audibly groan. She wheels her cart around and butts up right next to me, way too close for my comfort, and starts asking me how I am. I say I'm fine, just getting a few groceries, trying to get in and get out, you know. And she says she's doing the same, which is obviously a lie because she barely has anything in her cart but those little fancy cakes she likes."         "Ugh, those are so gross."         "I know. But anyway, I think she can tell I'm uncomfortable and trying to get away, so she tucks her hair behind her ear and does that stupid head tilt thing she does, which means she's about to ask the question. I thought I was going to die. Like, I literally wanted to melt into the floor so I could just get away from the situation."         "For sure."         "But, of course, I just stand there. And she says, 'So, Melanie, would you like to come over for dinner some time next week? I know you're always so busy, but I figured since it's Summer break now you might have some time...' I was trying so hard to think of a good excuse, but I was just tired, you know? It's always excuses. And I feel bad...she's really not that horrible. It's my brother that's the bad one."

        "Finally!" Myranda exclaimed, cutting me off. "Sorry," she quickly said after, pulling her truck into a tight spot between two smaller cars. This was the last floor of the garage. I was starting to think we were never going to find a spot. She put it in park and cut the engine, running a hand through her hair that had long since gotten sweaty since the truck no longer had air conditioning. She leaned back against her seat and unbuckled her belt, turning on her side to face me.          "So, what'd you say?" she asked.          "I said sure. I told her I was busy on Tuesday, but Wednesday was a possibility. You should have seen her face. It was like she'd won a million dollars."         "Well, she has been asking the same question since she got married to your ass of a brother."

        "I know, I know."         "So you're really going? You're not going to make up an excuse at the last minute?"         "I wish I could. But...I can't. I have to do this." I unbuckled my own belt, easing the truck door open as far as I could without hitting the car next to us, a wave of fresh air coming in. Even though it was equally as hot outside, the air was still somewhat refreshing.          "What are you going to say to your brother? After all this time?"         "Who knows. I guess I'll just be polite, try to enjoy myself. I hear she's a good cook, so, maybe I'll be too busy stuffing my face to talk."         "That would be nice, wouldn't it?"         "Definitely." I squeezed myself out the door and onto the pavement, the echo of the sharp walls of the garage ringing around in my ears. I could hear the traffic outside, sounds of the busy street below mixing with the continuous hum of the afternoon cicadas.          "You'll survive," Myranda said, joining me on my side. I nodded. I would survive. It was only one night.

[prompalomper]

Tell a story that begins with a ransom note.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Blake,

If you want your daughter, alive, then you’ll have to come to the old warehouse on third street, bringing with you two hundred and thirty six million dollars. I expect the payment by dawn. If you do not get the money to me in time, your daughter will die. If you decide to bring the police into this, know that your daughter’s death will only come faster, and she will endure more pain than needed. The clock is ticking.

Andy Young slammed his fist down on the wooden desk table, a few papers shaking and drifting off of the edge and onto the floor by his feet. He had read this letter over and over again for the past hour, his thoughts reeling. There was a girl out there being held hostage; a girl he knew he had to save. But what could he do? Andy worked for the police force, as head detective of the NCPD. He couldn’t just stroll into the warehouse and collect the girl on his own. After all, he wasn’t Mr. Blake, and he didn’t have the money required to free her. But that was just the kicker: Mr. and Mrs. Blake had been dead for months now, killed in a car accident late at night after Mr. Blake chose to drive after heavily drinking. Their daughter, Sara, who was only fifteen years old, was left behind. Her aunt had driven down to take care of her, though she was unreliable and was rarely ever home to watch her. So, Sara was alone. Her kidnapper had to know that her parents passed away, didn’t he? It had been huge news only a few months before.

Andy ran his hands over his face, pulling at his tired skin in annoyance. There had to be something he could do. Maybe, if the kidnapper didn’t know the parents had passed, Andy could pose as Mr. Blake himself, and collect the girl before he had to hand over any money. Or, maybe, Andy could get himself into a position where he could easily take down the kidnapper, and end all of this shenanigans. There were so many things he could do, but there were also so many things that could go wrong. He didn’t want young Sara to suffer because he didn’t think everything through. He couldn’t let an innocent girl die because he was reckless. No, he couldn’t let anything happen to her. But what could he do?

The light above his head flickered out as his last coworker left the office, shouting a muffled goodbye as he exited the door, a cold gust of wind rushing into the room before he pulled it shut. The only light now was emitting from Andy’s desk lamp, which flickered on and off softly. He had to remember to change that bulb, but it seemed he never had the time. The warm light flashed on and off, illuminating Andy’s slumped figure, his face hidden in his hands, the ransom note still laying in front of him. In the dim light the note seemed hard to read, but one sentence appeared more prominent than the others.

The clock is ticking.

[prompalomper]

A houseplant is dying. Tell it why it needs to live.

Dearest plant, it may seem like the end, but you must keep your leaves high. For years you’ve decorated this otherwise dull side table, and though you’ve brought on your fair share of insects and spiders, I will not hold it against you. You are a good plant, providing me the oxygen I require to live, to breathe. You make me live, my dear houseplant. You are life. To let such life wither and die off so easily would be a crime. You realize this, do you not? That’s why you must prevail. You must win this fight with Mother Nature, the cruel force who is trying to beat you down back into the pot from which you sit. You, my plant, shall be the end of her treacherous rule. She cannot strike you down, no, not today. I’ve raised you with love and raised you in good health, so, please, stay that way! As a part of my life, and my family, you must live on another day. Discard those daunting dry leaves of yours and push new buds into their place. This is not your end. This is your new beginning.