Patience – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, patience, stories, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop, zorba the greek

Image credit: https://kimsmithdesigns.com/tag/monarch-butterfly-emerging-from-chrysalis/

I remember one morning when I discovered a cocoon in the back of a tree just as a butterfly was making a hole in its case and preparing to come out. I waited awhile, but it was too long appearing and I was impatient. I bent over it and breathed on it to warm it. I warmed it as quickly as I could and the miracle began to happen before my eyes, faster than life. The case opened; the butterfly started slowly crawling out, and I shall never forget my horror when I saw how its wings were folded back and crumpled; the wretched butterfly tried with its whole trembling body to unfold them. Bending over it, I tried to help it with my breath, in vain.

It needed to be hatched out patiently and the unfolding of the wings should be a gradual process in the sun. Now it was too late. My breath had forced the butterfly to appear all crumpled, before its time. It struggled desperately and, a few seconds later, died in the palm of my hand.

• A passage from Zorba the Greek, by Nikos Kazantzakis

 

This week’s prompt is inspired by the above, a beautiful passage and a powerful reminder of the importance of being patient; and the potential consequences when we are not. I actually didn’t have the quote to hand last Friday, so I paraphrased, and then gave each writer two small pieces of paper. On each I asked them to write an example of a generic situation in life when patience is important. Those pieces of paper were folded and then placed in the centre of our circle. Each person then picked one, and used what they found written there as inspiration for a story, to be written in 10 minutes.

I highlighted two possible directions they could take it in – either demonstrating how patience pays off in that situation, or the consequences of impatience.

In all honesty my response was by no means the best example, but that’s what I have so I’ll share it. Personally, I found all the stories incredibly moving, with some tender and knowing laughter too. Patience has such profound power, and I am certainly guilty of regularly lacking it. I’m learning – but slowly. Guess I’d better be patient with myself 🙂

So, this is what I wrote:

She leaned against the gate and watched. The sun was up, but not yet high, and the dew had not yet lifted itself from the grass that glistened, silver and expectant.

“Give up!” her brother had said.

“Stop wasting your time” her mother insisted. “Lord knows there’s precious little to waste young lady, and I…”

Sam hadn’t heard the rest. She’d managed to look as if she’d been listening, but her mind had drifted elsewhere; to this gate, this field.

She watched as the filly tossed her head, still not coming within twenty feet of her, let alone deigning to be touched. It occurred to her, as she lifted her own head to watch something fly over high above, shielding her eyes to try and identify it, that her father was the only one who’d not weighed in with an opinion on this. How had she not noticed before? He’d neither encouraged nor discouraged, just kept out of it. Watching. Waiting.

She smiled. He was waiting and watching her. She was waiting and watching –

“Here girl,” she tried again, calling gently and holding out her hand, knowing nothing would happen, just enjoying their little game. She calmly took in everything about the filly; her not yet full tail, the way her chestnut colouring darkened on its way down her legs, the angle of her head, the shape of her ears. 

“Nothing to see here.” The phrase came from nowhere. “It’s rude to stare.” Her mother’s voice continued in her mind. “I didn’t bring you up to stare young lady.”

Sam turned away until her shoulder faced the filly, and breathed gently, deeply. She was looking towards the river but didn’t see it. Every ounce of her was listening out, feeling through the ground – was the filly moving? Coming closer? She hardly dared look.

She saw her dad walking towards her and heard the filly snort and canter away in the opposite direction. She rushed towards her father to tell him what she thought she might’ve discovered.

 

What situations recently have called upon all your reserves of patience?

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

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When you’re real… – Writers’ Well

Tags

bambi, creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, disney, flowers, margery williams, poem, poetry, real, the velveteen rabbit, writing prompt, writing workshop

The prompt I’d like to share this week began with me reading a very beautiful passage from a book called The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams. Here is the quote, which you may well have come across, as it’s become very popular…

**********

“Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’

‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit. 

‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’ 

‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’ 

‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.” 

**********

We then each took a blank sheet of paper, writing at the top “When you’re real…” and completing it with our own thought below; passing the paper on to the right, and receiving another to the left, adding another thought until our own paper came back.

Taking this creative gathering as inspiration, we then each wrote a poem in ten minutes. This is what I wrote, inspired by someone who’d written, “When you’re real…you know how a flower feels“. Enjoy 🙂

 

I’m not a flower

“I’m not a flower”
was a line from Bambi
and it always made me giggle
because the character
wanted to be really
at least
that’s what I heard

bees that roll around
in a huge pink poppy
dressing in pollen
make me giggle
daisies still curled up
sleeping through daybreak
because the sun’s not yet reached them
make me giggle too

kindness makes me roll
inwardly like that bee
dressing myself in joy

hiding under the duvet
on a day off I dare the curtains
to let in the sun before I’m ready
to wake

Do flowers know
they could be picked at any time
Could anything be so fearless

as to let its beauty radiate
so brightly the world
is desperate to claim it for a vase
yet still it holds nothing back
of its colour or scent

I think I need to study
with the dandelions
and the child I saw at the end
of his father’s arm
leaning down
to blow the clock off it

I’m not a flower –
yet

 

Here is the moment, in image, from the Disney movie. Turns out Thumper actually said ‘That’s not a flower!’ and the skunk didn’t actually say ‘I’m not a flower,’ but was still quite happy to be called one!

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

Confession – Writers’ Well

Tags

confession, creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, story, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

Here’s another writing prompt to dip your pen into, taken from last week’s session. Quite simply we each had three small pieces of paper, and on each one we wrote a ‘confession’ – real or imagined – that we or an imagined character might make. The three pieces of paper were then folded up, and we each picked one. We then used that confession as the basis for writing a story in ten minutes. This is what I wrote:

The sounds of the sirens still rang in her ears as she looked down, safe from her bedroom window, at the black mess in the garden where the shed used to be. She watched her father shake hands with the firemen as her mother leaned on this shoulder in a picture of utter defeat.

It was only a shed, came the thought rushing angrily to the rescue of her guilty mind. Her father, stubbornly optimistic to a fault at times, had insisted it could have been far worse. He’d even praised her for raising the alarm in time, noticing the smoke beginning to rise from the old dry leaves, left from winter and dried to a crisp by a brisk spring and the beginning of summer.

“Claire! Lunch!” Dad called .  She didn’t feel hungry, and tears fell onto the window sill. 

Fast feet coming up the stairs, not as heavy as her Dad’s. No knock, just an univited entrance.

“You idiot! I’m telling Dad”

She was so shocked she didn’t have time to remove the look of guilt from her face.

“I’m not an idiot,” came her eventual retort. 

“Mum’s crying.”

“It’s just a shed.”

A look of disgust, and a slammed door as her brother left her room.

“Can I come in?”

Dad. She rushed at the door to open it, and into his arms before he’d even crossed the threshold.

“I’m sorry Dad, I didn’t mean…I just, I was playing with the magnifying glass – I didn’t – I forgot – …why’s Mum so upset?”

“You started it?”

“Not on purpose.”

Her father pulled back from the hug with a sternness she’d not encountered before. She could see him trying to contain something too big for her to understand, and it scared her.

“Dad?”

“Claire,” he paused to take a breath. “That fire could’ve…”

She tried to hug him again, because she couldn’t bear the look on his face. For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then he hugged her tighter than she’d ever felt before, and lifted her in his arms to carry her down to lunch. 

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

Look up at the stars – Writers’ Well

Tags

courage, creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, stars, stephen hawking, writing, writing prompt

Once again I’d like to share with you one of the prompts used in last week’s session, though I find myself wishing I could share more. Not more prompts necessarily, but more of the magic that is generated in those 90 minutes, which race by at a rate of knots, and last week left me catching my breath at the courage and beauty and wisdom I’d witnessed in what was written and shared.

So, I’d like to share our warm up, a piece of writing completed in just three minutes. Last week, the topic was to simply respond in any way you wished to the following quote from the beloved and now sadly missed Stephen Hawking;

‘Remember to look up at the stars.’

This is what I wrote:

Sometimes it’s important to leave the curtains open, the window open, your eyes open, even if you should be sleeping, you should be conserving energy, you should be sensible and not walk in the garden with a coat over your nightie and look up because you might catch your death. But you might catch life, winking at you or even shooting you a dream and being so glad to find you there, awake, looking up, ready to catch.

 

What’s up there beyond the furthest star you can see? How old is the star still shining its light at you despite being long gone? Look up. Look up and get ready to catch. The sky won’t fall in.

 

Have a wonderful week all, and remember to lift your head, tilt it up to the sky, and dream…

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

A Key – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, keys, stories, story, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

I’d like to share a super simple prompt from last week’s session, which could be taken in many directions. I’ll also share what I wrote in response, though it feels quite incomplete, and is a piece I may choose to take further.

In my experience this is one of the beauties, one of the fruits, of short bursts of spontaneous writing; they leave you wanting more, wanting to put more pen to paper, more keys to screen, more ideas zooming around inside you. It can be hard to decide which one to catch. A tree knows not all its pine cones will take toot and grow into strong tall evergreens. Life proliferates and then waits to see where the desire and the strength is. So never feel you have to bring each idea to full fruition, that’s not the point. Create, proliferate, and then take the time to see which idea has the juice to grow.

So, the prompt – super simple! Close your eyes (well, you’ll have to keep them open for a second while you read on a bit…) and picture a key, in detail. What does it look and feel like? (Pause) Who’s holding it? (Pause) What does it open? (Pause)

Now, write a story – you have 10 minutes.

This is what I wrote:

There are no lights on, but that’s expected. He still sighs though. Hands go into a pocket full of a collection of bits that is anything but treasure. Still, his hands aren’t squeamish, and they find the hard coolness of the key among the bits of wrapper, stones, crushed shells and undefinable fluff.

He slots the key into the door, and throws his bag at the radiator beneath which shoes are strewn in not-pairs. Coat off. Lights on. Phone pings. He reads. “Running late. Make yourself a sandwich. DO NOT just eat cereal. Back 7.30ish.”

In the kitchen he takes out a bowl and fills it with nutty crunchyness; uses the last of the milk even though he knows his mum will want a cup of tea when she gets back home and will be angry.

He goes to his room. Music on. Shoes off. Phone in palm. Text conversations; plans, complaints. The phone is more ‘home’ that this empty bloody house.

Later. Another key. The same door opening goes unheard over the music. The steps that follow go unnoticed too,  until the knock at his door.

He hears it. Ignores it. It’s more insistent. He ignores it. It ignores his ignoring, and the door opens. She enters, and sits on the edge of his bed.

“Mum!”

“I’ve had a shitty day.”

He sees the red eyes and something opens. No longer a wish to punish, but to soothe.

“Sorry I used all the milk.”

“What? Oh. I hadn’t noticed.”

No words. The music feels loud. He turns it off. Silence. Her tears make him reach out, and she hugs him so tightly he can hardly breathe, but he knows it will pass. It always does.

“Thanks love.” She shivers. “Why didn’t you put the heating on?” He shrugs. She leaves. He hears her go downstairs, picks up his phone. Puts it down again. Follows her. 

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

 

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May I also take this opportunity to draw your attention to a fundraising campaign I have going at the moment, on behalf of a dear friend and her sons in Rwanda. Follow the link for further details. Thank you 🙂

 

https://www.gofundme.com/for-beatha-and-her-boys

 

 

 

 

 

Write a wish come true – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, story, wish, wishes, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

I’ll admit to feeling a little shy in sharing this prompt, because I am aware that, well, you probably ‘had to be there’ to feel the magic. The prompt itself was super simple, but what came out was truly awe inspiring; not just some beautiful writing, but a palpable sense of hope and excitement and power. I’m hoping that the others who were with me last week will send me their stories to share too, but for now, I’ll share the prompt, and then what I wrote in response.

 

Each writer was given three small pieces of paper, and asked to write on each one a wish. These were then folded and placed in the centre of the circle. I then asked each person to write for three minutes about what it feels like for a wish to come true. This was not going to be read aloud, but was an opportunity to align with that experience. I then asked each person to pick a wish from the centre of the circle, open it, and then write about that wish coming true. How was completely up to the imagination.

 

I picked: The Earth’s Healing

 

 

This is what I wrote, in ten minutes, unedited. As I said, I hope to be able to share some of the other stories with you soon too. Enjoy 🙂

 

Once upon a time, though not so very long ago that your great grandparents wouldn’t have been there, but long ago enough that I must tell you the story, because you were not there, and you need to know so that the wisdom and love required then lives on to be used again, should you ever face the challenges we did…

 

It was a spring, much like the one which is about to come to life now, but there was a discord; the warmth and the rains came at unexpected times, and nature couldn’t recognise their rhythm. Some life came forth before conditions were ready to welcome it, and storms raged, as if the very earth, the same mother beneath your feet now, was crying out in pain. Many ears remained deaf to her suffering, but somewhere, someone was listening.

 

That someone was just like you; a human being, with a beating heart, and a curious mind, and a little piece of life’s miracle living only in them. They listened, and knew the task was big, and they were small. They listened and knew that the little piece of life in them was like a candle; small enough to be blown out, yet strong enough to light many others, without ever losing any of the brightness of its own flame.

 

Small things can grow, but nothing can grow from nothing. So this listener did as the voice they heard told, began to care for the world they met with each step, picking up litter, buying food that was unwrapped, and smiling as they did so. Not a forced smile, but a true smile, for taking small steps felt good, and that feeling shone into a smile, which, like a candle, lit smiles on the faces of others, who began to listen too, because they too wanted that good feeling.

 

And so the listening grew, and spread, and little steps became big steps taken together, and the air was cleaned, and the seas were cleansed, and the trees were recognised as sacred bridges between heaven and earth, planted and revered until spring came again. But this time, the warmth was just right, and the rains came just so, and healing began to grow.

 

What do you wish? Now I dare you to make it come true, with just a pen and a blank sheet of paper, where anythings’s possible…

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

 

Natural Rhythm, interrupted – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, dance, flamenco, imagination, morning pages, rhythm, routine, story, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

Before holding my weekly writing group last Friday, whilst doing my morning pages (follow links below for more information about this practice) I found myself exploring my personal understanding of the words routine and rhythm, and the distinctly different ways I respond to these two words.

http://juliacameronlive.com/basic-tools/morning-pages/

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2014/oct/03/morning-pages-change-your-life-oliver-burkeman

In brief I wanted to reinstate some daily routines I know serve me well (morning pages among them) but it felt too ‘shouldy’. Cultivating them as part of a natural personal rhythm, on the other hand, felt playful, responsive and a joy.

I often make use of what’s alive in me when preparing these sessions, so we began with a three minute warm up, where I invited participants to write freely in response to the phrase ‘a break in the routine’. There was palpable joy, rebellion, freedom and relief among the responses.

Later, I gave each writer three small pieces of paper, and asked them to write on each one an example of a natural rhythm being broken or interrupted. We folded these up, placing them in the centre of the circle, and then we wrote for three minutes on what it feels like when a natural rhythm is broken or interrupted. This piece was not shared, rather it was intended to feed into the main focus of this prompt – to write a story inspired by one of the examples written on the pieces of paper in the centre.

I was very moved by the powerful narratives that grew from these humble beginnings, the imagination on display was truly impressive. However, for now, I have only my own response to share. When I opened the little piece of paper I’d picked it said ‘a guitarist breaks a string’ (written in just 10 minutes, raw and unedited!)

 

The silence was like friendly walls, keeping the world out and the drama in. Breath was held and the dancer stood; bold, beautiful, staring out at somewhere or something nobody else could see, except through her. The audience anticipated seeing the story stamped out before them, and waited for the opening line.

The guitarist and the dancer exchanged a nod, and the silence went darker, deeper still. The story began, music and movement joined by the lightest, tightest of threads, each giving the other full freedom and full support. It was a story of love, betrayal, strength; stamped out and strummed out, sending this world within walls spinning.

A guitar string breaks, the sound alters, missing a thread. The dance continues. As the guitar goes silent and still, someone begins to clap, another to sing. The dancer has not missed a beat, and the broken string has spun a larger thread that binds the audience into its own living, breathing musical instrument of many parts. They take their cue from each other, and from the dancer, finding and creating the melody in each magic moment.

Another guitar has been found, and the guitarist picks up the story again, but the audience continue to feed their music into its phrases. The collaboration is fed by all the lives lived, hearts beating together, woven through with their own stories of love and betrayal and strength. The dancer opens her body to let her feet find the rhythm of it all; the rich, full mess of the every life. 

A final strum, stamp, clap. The silence is back, like the closing of a book, and each audience member carries a volume away with them, but each story has a different title, and the events within are unique too, bound only by the threads of love, drama and life’s dance.

 

That afternoon, at home after the session, I searched for local Flamenco classes. Sometimes writing has a very direct impact on my life, and the choices I make and adventures I have…

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

“I think of a few of my favourite words…” – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, Landmarks, language, nature, Robert MacFarlane, words, writing, writing prompt

I’d like to share with you one of the prompts I used in last week’s writing workshop, which was inspired by my having recently read the beginning of Landmarks, by Robert MacFarlane. Here is the paragraph that particularly moved me, copied here from a newspaper article which you can read in full by following this link:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/feb/27/robert-macfarlane-word-hoard-rewilding-landscape

First, without having said anything about the background context to the idea, I asked each person to take a sheet of paper and write at the top one of their favourite words (no theme, just a favourite word). That paper was then passed to the right, another received from the left, and another word added until we had a beautiful collection. I then read the above paragraph, and asked people to write a poem in celebration of their favourite words. Of course, it need not include all or any of the ones we’d already collected, for as always I offer prompts with the lightest of nudges – there are really no rules, just a wide and heartfelt invitation to play in that general direction.  This is what I wrote, in 10 minutes, unedited and imperfect:

 

 

Story, a collection of words

phrases and sentences

but also a weaving

a binding, a flowing

of a river that takes you

on a journey

 

I have a story

and it has a beginning

and it will have an end

but the words that fill it

are as life-full and vulnerable

as the elemental environment

 

If I plant wonder and cuddle

and sharing and joy

the earth of my roots

fixes in itself foundations of

magic and kindness

and feasting and fun

 

but stories are being polluted,

like car fumes choking our air,

with thick rooted, thorn stemmed

fear and hatred,

indifference and defense

 

To rewrite the story

mind needs a shedfull of tools;

compassion to cut down the fear that’s flourishing

and throw it on the compost,

and kindness to weed away the illusion of lack

that abundance might be visible again

 

The mind environment,

the heart habitat,

are threatened too

but we all have the word tools

we need to clean it up

let it breathe

let it weave

a journey of wonder again

 

Should you feel moved, follow this link to sign the petition requesting the reinstatement of these culled nature words in the Junior Oxford English Dictionary:

https://www.change.org/p/oxford-university-press-nature-related-words-should-be-reinstated-in-the-junior-oxford-english-dictionary

 

I could say so much more, but I’ll leave that for another time. Suffice it to say, my dear wordsmith, language loving friends – cherish words, use them well and widely!

 

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

I used to believe – Writers’ Well

Tags

belief, creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, magic, stories, story, writing prompt, writing workshop

 

I’d like to share with you one of the prompts I used in one of last week’s workshops, which we had a lot of fun with. It left a sweet, tender feeling in the heart…at least in mine, for sure!

We began by each passing round a sheet of paper on which we had completed the sentence ‘I used to believe….” then passed it to the next person, who would add another – passing on to the right, receiving on the left. Once we’d gathered a few ideas I explained the task.

Each of us would begin a story which had at the centre of it a character who USED to believe something, was showing in some way that indeed they no longer believed. Then, after five minutes, we would pass that story to the person on our right, who would then complete the story, and in their five minutes, would turn it around to show the person beginning to believe again. This is the story I and my creative collaborator wrote:

“Why, why, just when she had to leave must it start raining? It had been dry, if not sunny, all day, but now, as she left work, and had to walk the half mile or so to her car, the skies had opened. As she took a deep breath, and pushed the door open, she forced her way onto the rush hour pavement. It really was like driving. You had to look over your shoulder and change lanes, or you’d likely crash into someone, head down against the rain, not looking where they were going.

She was almost at her car when she saw a child in a bright raincoat and wellies, running along with the woman holding her hand – her mother – and facing up, eyes closed, to catch the rain in her mouth. She smiled, and tried not to stare. Then she was there. She pointed her key at the car and pushed the button to open the doors. Lights flashed. She smiled again. It was like magic. She shook her head. Of course it wasn’t magic – it was an electric…something.

She eased her way out of the car park, peering through the waterfall on her windscreen. Wipers at full speed, she indicated (lovely soft tick, another small wizardry) and drove back up the High Street. People still jostled each other on the pavement, coats slick with many colours. Their strange dance seemed more urgent now, as folk began to hurry home. Cars were accelerating to get through the lights; impatient pedestrians crowded on the kerb. And there were the little yellow wellies and raincoat, her happy face turned up to Mum as they waited. But a heavy set man stumbled into them, knocked into Little Yellow, and sent her flying into the road. A car was speeding through the lights, and with horrid inevitability, the ton of steel and the yellow wellies approached each other along their collision course.

“No!” she shrieked, her car immobile at the lights, her hands stretched out in horror. Her fingers reached for the windscreen, reached desperately to the flying figure, to catch her, turn her, save her…

And somehow, the little girl…stopped. Instead of falling straight into the car’s path, her heels seemed to trip on something, the air itself perhaps, and she fell into the gutter, wet and bruised, but safe.

The lights changed. The driver, heart full of delight, continued home.

 

Whatever you believe, this festive season, I dare you to believe it with your whole heart…

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/

Are these yours? – Writers’ Well

Tags

creative collaboration, creative writing, creativity, stories, story, writing, writing prompt, writing workshop

I’d like to share with you one of the prompts I used in last Friday’s workshop, which sparked much hilarity and excitement, however simple and apparently mundane! It began with my asking people to note down three possible reasons people might need to use the launderette. I then gave each writer two small pieces of paper and asked them to write, one on each, an item of clothing, in as much or as little detail as they wished. These were then folded and placed in a box from which each of us took a single one, and proceeded to write a story which had to begin with:

“Are these/is this yours?”

After we’d shared, we found we’d so enjoyed listening to the stories that we spoke of putting them, format to be decided, in the local launderette for others to read! I’ll let you know if that happens! However, as a starting point, five writers have agreed for me to share their wonderful and wildly unedited work here – all written there and then in just 10 minutes!!! Amazing:-) Enjoy!

 

At the launderette

“Is this yours?” the red-haired bespectacled woman said in the primmest of voices. “I said ‘Is this yours?’” She raised her voice and glared at me as if she was holding up a little lacy black thong number, something sensuously out of bounds. The snigger in the corner got louder. I wanted to say ‘Of course not, mine would be pretty and sexy; I wouldn’t be seen dead in that thing.’ “Err, yes it is thanks” and I moved towards her, holding out my hand to take my Mrs Doubtfire bra back; beige, shining, big and very comfy, it brought laughter to my daughter and granddaughter but they weren’t standing in a busy launderette trying to impress a charming grandfather who had the ease of a relaxed man, glistening white hair and a face rugged and interesting that had stories to tell.

I turned my back, embarrassed. He carried on talking as if nothing had happened and inside I thanked him. The conversation flowed, my heart opened and I fell into his wide, bright blue eyes.

The washing machines stopped. We loaded driers about the same time. I put in extra money in the hope he would too. We sat back down. The laughter came, the smiles became more frequent, the eye gazing wondrous. I told him about my grandchildren, he told me about his life on boats. I made him smile with my shyness, he made me laugh out loud with his humour.

The machine noise stopped and I pulled out my hot, still slightly damp clothes, haphazardly, and untidily, pushing them into my bag.

And when the charming man asked ‘Care to join me for a cuppa in the café next door?” I answered, quietly and with pleasure, “Yes please”.

***************

ARE THESE YOURS?

‘They came out of my basket but I’m pretty sure they’re not mine’

Not my size or colour – after all they are even a real pair in their own right – even though well worn, ‘used to be white’ – no holes yet but threatening!

‘Are they yours?  Or yours?’        ….no they wouldn’t be yours either!

Being a regular I get to know the other regulars and recognise the newcomers.  I’m just trying to work out who might be missing ‘em – or not – maybe pleased even they’ve gone missing and too embarrassed to claim.

Ah – ‘ere comes Betty one of the Friday regulars – small wash, dry, sits and chats the hind leg off a donkey.  They wouldn’t be ‘ers.

Ooh!  Busy day today – someone new,  rather posh, not often see that type – they certainly won’t be ‘ers either.

Never mind eh? – they can’t be that well loved.  I mean – just look at the state of ‘em.

Were they for tennis? running?  school?  bed?  Who on earth wants white socks in the first place?

Why am I so obsessed with these darned socks – albeit not darned – yet!

‘Allo Fred – you’re a bit late today.  Been to the Bookies yet?’

‘Yeah I got a hot tip – an outsider at Cheltenham – 3 to 1 – good new racer from Lansdown Stables – pretty little mare named The Missing Sock!’

‘Funny that – I hear there’s a pair’

by Jenni A

****************

Are these yours he said as he pulled out a pair of shiny leopard skin trousers from the drier. On no, they are not mine, but it’s nice that you thought they could be I reply. The young man smiles – Well you could you know you’d get away with it! I laugh and turn back to folding my own clothes. The grey cardi buttoned all the way up to the top. The sensible skirts and mannish trousers. How ironic I think – he could have thought that the leopard skin trousers belonged to me. Perhaps he had sensed my inner wild woman. The one who wants to wear long flowing brightly coloured skirts and funky headbands and wear short skirts over jeans and grow her hair long. That would be the day I think to myself – I know my hair would take forever to grow into long flowing locks if ever. But, those leopard skin trousers had made me think – why not, why should I stay the dowdy middle aged woman – who or what was I hiding from.

I finished packing my washing away and as I went out I quietly put the leopard skin trousers that he had placed on the bench into my bag. Well, you’ve got to start somewhere I told myself . . .

by Hilary B

************

“Are These Yours?”

“Are these yours?”
It was a reasonable question. The item I had taken out of the tumble dryer was a pair of Levi 501 jeans with button opening flies and the person I addressed was a young man of shining muscles sat on the launderette bench in his underpants.
He stood up – I struggled to keep my eyes on his face – and walked over to me. Gosh it gets hot in these places.
“No ma’am, they’re not”. American accent. Am I in a movie suddenly?
“Umm…” A small man, unnoticed until this moment, had made the sound. “Umm….I… that is, they’re mine”.
“But you’re wearing jeans already.”
Clearly I wanted it to be the movies, I wanted those shiny, ripping muscles to have something to do with me. The little person blushed,
“Yes, well, I have more than one pair of jeans.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I’m sorry, here you go”.
Mr. Muscles had sat down again and I handed the 501s to the small person.
“Oh, just a minute – there’s something else in the machine. Maybe it fell out of your pocket”, and I handed him a small card, water rippled and crackled by its adventures over the last hour. I couldn’t help but notice (honestly) that it was a card from a local dating agency. How did I recognise it? The same one was sat on my desk at home.
“Don’t be a shrinking violet”, I’d told myself. “Get out more. Meet some people. Maybe you’ll meet the man of your dreams.”
I had – in the launderette: the insignificant man who owned two pairs of jeans (at least) was my date. We met in the cafe next door half an hour later, he is his clean 501s, me in my favourite – now shrunken unfortunately, though he didn’t seem to mind – violet jumper.

***********

“Are these yours?”

The launderette had been empty when he arrived through his new method, but now all the machines were whirring around like clocks. Even so, everyone heard.

“Oh no!” he thought. “Not again!”

As time travel was new to him he hadn’t quite got the hang of it. Sometimes he regretted going to that Totnes workshop. All he was trying to do was give his clothes a wash before he somehow found a way to slip back.

The launderette assistant held a pair of thigh length boots aloft for everyone to see. He’d hidden them behind a rickety stack of plastic laundry baskets. He’d hidden himself there too, for as long as he could. (Elizabethan underwear would draw attention.)Of course the feathered hat and boots didn’t need to go in the wash.

Four pairs of curious eyes swivelled in his direction. How embarrassing.

“Er..yes,” he said but the rest got awkward as he found himself speaking in rhyming couplets. He’d obviously spent too much time away from the twenty-first century. A tumble-drier whirred to the end of its cycle.

“Thank you,” he managed to say, with a blush. She placed them on the centre of the floor and retreated disdainfully behind a door. There were giggles.

This was going to be tricky. Timing was everything. He retreated to put on his beautiful breeches and embroidered jacket as things quietened down. The launderette would need to be empty. All the machines including tumble-driers needed to be still. And then there was the very particular curve and angle for launching himself through time…

He flung himself into the empty washing machine just as the town clock struck midday, grabbing his thigh length boots as he went. If he got the timing just right, he’d get to The Globe just in time to see that new play Shakespeare was doing. If not – it would be a long journey in the spin cycle. Hmm… It was looking as if he was going to have to do that Level 2 Time Travel workshop after all .. that is, if he ever managed to get the hang of the timing on the door lock, and get back to Totnes again on the right Saturday morning….

by Wendy W

 

 

 

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

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/upcoming-writing-workshops-and-some-prompts-for-you-to-play-with/

and here:

https://wordsthatserve.wordpress.com/writing-prompts-the-elements/