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Each week, I share on this blog one of the writing prompts used in my workshops, along with an example of what was written in response. This week’s prompt was inspired by the concept of ‘Synchronicity’. This is something that has always fascinated me, ever since I read The Celestine Prophecy (James Redfield) as a teenager. I enjoy watching how life plays out, and seeing how really, there are no coincidences; it all happens for a reason. At least, that’s my take on those moments that seem too well timed, too perfect, too unexpectedly ‘spot on appropriate’ to be explained by anything other than a universe rich with wisdom, humour and purpose.

So, back to the prompt! We simply wrote down an example of synchronicity from our lives, passed the sheet on and added to the one we received until we had a variety of examples which we read aloud for mutual inspiration. We then wrote a story, in 10 minutes, either directly inspired by a personal experience, or about an imaginary scenario that incorporated our understanding of synchronicity. This is what I wrote:


“There’s nothing more I can do for you sir. We’ve received the paperwork and the process is unfolding. You must wait.”

He took these words with him onto the bus, with the heaviness of a weary traveller carrying the world on their back. The driver clipped a hole in his return ticket and he took a seat on the half empty bus, being careful not to meet eyes or smile.

The panic was making his heart race so fast he put a hand on his chest to stop it leaping right out and disturbing his fellow passengers. What would he say? His wife. His child. They looked to him. They needed him strong.

His shoulders collapsed and he took a deep breath involuntarily, as if preparing to let out all his tears in a single flood; but a voice stopped him, and his breath left quietly, stilled by an urgent yearning to hear. 

It was his language. Someone was speaking his language!

He turned slowly, scared he’d find this to be a dream, a sound mirage spun by an unravelling mind. But no. 

There, three rows back, on the other side of the bus, was a man in his thirties, bouncing a young girl on his knee and telling her a story that was making her giggle and laugh with abandon. Unable to stop himself from staring, he was noticed, and the young girl pointed at him.

The father, or so he assumed, looked up, and the speed with which those eyes both recognised and felt his own pain, hit sharply in his ravaged chest. The stranger patted the seat beside him, and smiled.

“Come, share our story.”

And he did.


If you enjoyed this prompt, then you can find more here:


and here: