The idea is to start writing for at least 10mins every day. These prompts were set by Nettie at the JoyWriter forum.
For 10 minutes, write about the things you will miss when you die. Don't be self-conscious or think "oh, everybody will say that." It is just for you. If you would like to post it, by all means do, but they won't be for critiquing, just for sharing.
I'll miss the cuddles.
Cute cat and rabid moggie mode, my furry child as either.
Family and connections.
Friends. The ridiculous and shared absurdities.
Books; The haven and pleasure of sinking into other worlds and becoming someone else, the freedom to imagine, to visit far of places and wonder at the surreal and sublime. Befriend the Dragons, fight the dictator, love, loose and live.
Daft films and that cause a giggle and the ones that make me smile.
The things that catch you unexpected and touch your heart for good or bad.
Sunny days with numerous paths and no set goal. Rain on my face. Hail on a window and lightning crashing through the sky.
A hot bath and silent moment. Loud music and life.
The smell of coffee and taste of chocolate.
Write for ten minutes on some paranormal creature you think is the most likely, if any, to exist. Have a conversation with it/him/her or plug it into some aspect of regular everyday life and see what it's like for them. Vampire, zombie, ghost, siren, etc., whatever you want.
My creature of choice A Banshee;
Bean-Sidhe/Bean-Nighe, Irish washerwoman and herald of death.
An arthritic hand on a soft curving shoulder. Her laundry bag held resolutely tight against her riddled form. Crossing the road she stepped with the caution of one not seeing the ground beneath her. Feet poorly placed and a claw grip on her young companion.
‘Shall I take your bag miss?’
The oozing good intention was cut short, killed by a gimlet stare. The grey cloak and clothes of dowdy greens fell shapeless on the hunched shape. The face shrouded by long wispy hair that might once have held a golden sheen, was wrinkled. Lost in the folds of flesh were the eyes though. And what eyes they were. Clear ovals of moonlight hues that peered out and read your soul.
The route across the busy street became hurried and the child sensed mysteries and feared the unknown.
Age and death are a common fear to the young and healthy.
Reaching the anchoring curb, she had to pull herself from heavy musings and recall the child. Thank the receptacle of vibrant life. Bite back the chuckle that wanted to escape as the child, a little girl judging by the flowery frock, ran back to her waiting parents. Mindful of the road and code of course. One of the parents gave a wave and beamed with pride. Their darling done good. She tightening her grip on the stained cloth laundry bag, its weight a familiar burden. Patted it with her free hand then raised that hand slightly in acknowledgment. Let the family have their joy, it was not their time.
Moving on without delay, the steps of one for whom time is mostly past and the future holds no great surprises. The pacing herds so slow, the urgencies so fickle. She reached her destination in time, as she’d known she would. As she always did.
The night now gone she’d washed with love the carried shrouds, she laid them now in offering. A wind whipped at her hooded cloak. Lowering it’s protective mantle and playing with her hair. Stroked and buffeted by that breeze the hair shone. Grey, Silver and Gold as caught by the slivers of sun.
Age and deformity fell away. This was what she lived for. Her curse, her bidding. Her purpose. She flew to the house and through. Mouth open voice soaring. Birds stopped their flight to listen. Hearts froze at the sound swelling forth. High, piercing enough to break glass. Low and melodic. The moaning of an Owl on wing and singing sweet and poignant though to wail.
Death was coming to the home.
Write about a dinner party at which everyone has the most appalling manners, but nobody finds it strange because no one ever thought of manners before. What do they eat? How do they eat? Where does the conversation go?
Tessa, head down lapping up her own, looked up and scowled at him. The lower portion of her face dripping with soup. A cob of grease already tangled her hair. Finding a patch of clear table covering she briskly wiped her face. Yanking a leg of beast she shoved it into her bowl with an abrupt angry swipe. Staring at his throat as her teeth ripped the flesh, worrying the bone with abandon.
Create your own imaginary best friend. What does he look like? What's his zodiac sign? What are her likes and dislikes? What do you agree on? Disagree on?
but then I plan to go out and she twists her lips to pout.
I twist my hair in bunches, she fluffs hers up and preens.
I drink my Coffee black, it’s her that adds the cream.
I play my music quiet, she pumps the volume high
and when I feel like dancing she stomps and shouts a cry.
When early mornings beckon, she turns the buzzer low.
For all I want a sleep-in, on those days she plans a show.
You’d think her sign was Gemini all charm and life and air,
but Aries have their stubborn side and mind that she’s my twin.
No-one seems to see her, yet always she’s around.
In times of strife she bats for me, then sings a merry rhyme.