Writing Prompt: Manifest Destiny

So my mother and I are in Midwest City, Oklahoma for the Rose State Writer's Short Course. (I promise I'll write all about the conference later!) It's really great to get to spend some time with her and what's one of the first things we do? Pull out our 642 Things to Write About and pick a prompt. So here it is, from page 52.

Flash Fiction Prompt: You wake up by the side of the road lying next to a bicycle with no memory and no wallet. What happens in the next hour?

photo by Lee Orr

Memory is a strange creature. Gravel scrapes my palms as I sit up. I remember the word gravel. I recognize the pain of raw, exposed skin. The sun is setting over the mountains.

 I remember sunsets and solar systems. Nine planets. Well, if you count Pluto. I do.

The front wheel of my bicycle is bent and spinning slowly, an awkward elliptical rotation. Like Pluto’s. How can I know so much about a tiny frozen rock that I’ll never see? Never touch or smell or stand on. And yet… I can’t remember my name.

            

I stand, dusting pebbles and dirt from my capris.

            

They took away Pluto’s name. No longer called “Planet.” I doubt it noticed.

            

The prairie stretches around me, empty and nameless. Where was I going? My bicycle points towards the mountains like an injured bird-dog. West.

            

Manifest destiny. Go West, young man! Pikes Peak or bust. It’s strange what the brain chooses to store. What gets erased. The sun sinks lower.

            

Even without a name, I exist. I think, therefore I am. I am, therefore I act.

            

I pick up my mangled bike, pull it back to the road, and point my feet towards the mountains. Maybe I’ll find my name somewhere on the road. Maybe I won’t. Either way, my feet lead me West.

I head into the sun. 

Check out my mother's very different - but equally fun - response to the same prompt here!

Writing Prompt: My Mother Broke Every Plate

From page 260 in "642 Things to Write About:"

Prompt: Start a story with the line "My mother broke every plate in the house that day."

My mother broke every plate in the house that day. Shards of blue and white porcelain sparkled across the kitchen tile like fragments of her life. She'd collected each piece meticulously. A saucer here, a plate, a teacup.

I held the only survivor behind my back. A sugar bowl. I wanted to place it gently in a basket and send it down a river to keep it safe from my mother's wrath. From her grief.

The violence of her act shocked even her. She stood quivering, surrounded by the shattered remnants of her collection. For the first time, the willow print made me feel like weeping. 

I sat silently for my own protection, and for that of the refugee that I clutched. The small bowl felt cold against my skin.

She'd been washing the dishes when the phone rang. I was supposed to be drying them.

The first plate dropped from her hands by accident. The second she let go, releasing her grip slowly. Intentionally. The third she threw.

Then the next. And the next. Harder and harder, building herself up like a tsunami. A ceramic wave crashed through her. The result of some far off earthquake. 

The last plate slipped through her fingers like sand. It landed atop its ruined family, a single chip in its oriental edge.

The wave collapsed, leaving my mother alone in the rubble.

Check out Claudia Bookwright's response to the same prompt here.

Writing Prompt: Only Two Hands

Prompt: Begin a story describing only two hands. Use the physical characteristics of the hands, as well as any relevant activity or movement, gesture, fidgeting, and so on, to reveal who the hands belong to.

                                                                                     photo by  MogieG123

Response:

He played the piano. Or at least I assume he did.

Slender fingers held his wine glass lightly and without thought. I watched those hands, hypnotized by their choreographed dance as they sauntered from knife to fork and back again.

Bach.

Those hands held the end of my noose. And he didn't even know it. Fingers flickering like the moon on a disturbed pond. Pale. I couldn't hear his words.

Chopin.

How could he not play piano? With hands like those... They lingered on the rest.

Schubert.

He signed the words. Fun. A dismissive wave. While it lasted. Que sara. A mimicry of cursive and fatalism. His face faded like dull scenery painted on flat canvas.

Mozart.

His hands played my death. Shakespearean in that they refused to let me die. Illustrating the poison. The dagger.

Rachmaninoff.

Then the curtain fell. Check please. He slipped those hands into pockets.

The End.





So this one was a bit more poetic than my previous prose. Any thoughts?

Don't forget to check out ClaudiaBookwright's very different response to this prompt here.

Copyright to Grace Wagner 2013

Writing Prompt: Favorite Song Title

by Artist

Prompt: Write a story based on the title of your favorite song.

Response: "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie

The room smelled of age and paper and stories. You led me between rows of leather-bound spines. The library had been abandoned for years. The grand old building lay tucked between skyscrapers and busy lives. In the eyes of the government it was "historic" and thus immune to demolition. In the eyes of entrepreneurs it was a waste of space.

I closed my eyes, feeling my way behind you. No one read physical books anymore. No one but you.

The cadence of your voice lilting over small, enigmatic type was a stark contrast to the drone of pre-recorded, pre-approved novels. Poetry lingered in your pauses, your breath drifting away from the small LED light into the blackness around us. My thoughts followed it.

Now I stand between empty rows. The books were packed and shipped away to some museum back east. That happened almost a year ago. I see your face like an afterimage. Burned into my retina as you grin over your shoulder.

What should we read tonight?

I shrug. Whatever you want.

I sit down, folding my legs beneath me. The emptiness presses down on me like a coffin lid. I lean back, closing my eyes. In the dark, I find your words. They become you.

"Adieu, adieu! my native shore / Fades o'er the waters blue; / The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, / and shrieks the wild sea-mew."

I follow you into the dark.

Copyrighted to Grace Wagner. Do not replicate without out written permission. 2013

UPDATE: Claudia Bookwright has also uploaded her answer to the prompt. Check it out here.