So inspiration for writing has waned lately, but I do have a side hobby I’ve picked up because I thought it’d make a great companion to my writing. Enter the world of Stuart’s mediocre photos. These were taken on a trip along the Red River in Vietnam.
The straw that broke the camel’s back, was in fact, as light as a breath. Julie leaned in for the kiss — as she always did — not because she desired intimacy, but to make sure that Frank stuck to his word. She had sniffed the unmistakable scent of a tipple, along with Frank’s many other efforts at disguising it: mints, cigarettes, coffee.
How could it have been just a straw, when it felt heavier than sack of bricks? In fact, the only thing heavier than what she had packed — all seven years worth of living together — were the tears of her broken heart.
I should’ve packed an extra set of clothes. We were headed to the remote village of Ta Phin, Vietnam, so I saw it fit to cram my day pack with water and bread. Oh, they had tons of that over at my homestay. They even had enough beer and rice wine to kill a couple of cows. What they didn’t have were spare clothes, a fact I had to learn while drenched from the rain in fifteen-degrees Celsius weather. I sought refuge next to the fire pit under the pretense of helping out in the kitchen, all the while thinking, I definitely should’ve packed that extra set of clothes.
I can’t polish a blank page, which is why I actually started writing this piece — I wanted to prove to myself that I couldn’t polish crap either. I haven’t been able to write as freely as I’d like lately, and it’s probably because I’m clinging to perfection.
Much of my workflow involves tinkering the first sentence over and over until I realise I’ve veered so far off what I actually wanted to say that I end up abandoning the piece completely.
Writing prompt: One morning humanity wakes up to a message in the sky. “Sorry was AFK for a bit there” -God
“How do you think it got there?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Probably some skywriters with a good idea of a prank.”
“Skywriting? But it’s been there since this morning!”
I leave the stranger behind, because I don’t need more questions that I can understand myself. Why don’t you come up with your own explanations then? If I’d stayed there for another minute, I might’ve snapped at him. Thank God, heh, I had the presence of mind to leave. Who knows what else I’d have done. I’m just on edge, is all. But deep down, I know I’m fuckin’ terrified.
There’s a weird relationship between happy tunes and horror movies; the twinkling of a baby mobile, or tunes from a theme park. You don’t get the same chill from, say, dubstep or emo rock.
The advertisement jingles in supermarkets are right up the horror-movie aisle (heh). How could anybody be happy about a ten percent discount off a two-dollar item? My heart goes out to the staff every time I shop in a supermarket that repeats music and the month’s current offers.
Today, I find myself at the hypermarket deciding on a door gift for a new year’s party. Should I go for the wine, or the snacks? I visualise a wine snob at the party—and it’s a real possibility because I don’t know anyone there—frowning at my ten-dollar bottle of wine. But ten-dollar wine is classier than twenty-dollar bags of Lays, surely?
Prompt: You are in your twenties. You wake up to find yourself in your eight-year-old body. You are in the time and at the place you were when you were 8, but with all the memories and mannerisms of your twenty-something self.
The smell of bacon roused Jess. It’s a smell that took her back to her eighth birthday; the most memorable one of her life. Dad had said that she’d become a big girl, and Jess had to agree.
She was certain that it was that exact day, because underneath the salty tang of the bacon was a hint of whiskey, a combination that’s involuntarily etched in her mind like a badly-drawn tattoo.
Barbie dolls and My Little Pony colouring books were strewn about her room, remnants of love from her late mother.
Wait, mom’s still alive, isn’t she? Am I dreaming?