When the well of words runs dry and ideas take wing for sunnier climes, the writer whose last meaningful evidence for that description is over three months old flails around desperately for inspiration. These are the moments when someone else’s prompt might come to the rescue, an oasis in a parched desert, a trickle of inspiration to whet the appetite for more substantial offerings.
An idea flashed into my head today not long after I was admiring the rich descriptions in an excellent piece of memoir writing by Often, & Otherwise.
Could I paint a picture in words?
Family Pride (500 words)
The old cabin smelled the same as it had when her grandma burned the grits back in the day. A childhood memory that hung heavier on the air than the blanket of humidity clinging to the creek this night. Candles flickered as a full moon promised to show itself through densely packed trees. There was no need for a stove on nights when she sweated like an overseer wielding his bullwhip. She allowed her thoughts to drift. Smoothing her apron over legs that ached more with each passing day, she felt the years press down on her. It was evenings like this when memory was both a burden and a clarion call. Her brow furrowed, deep indentations etched into her skin, deeper wounds less obvious to the eye slicing into her very soul. The staleness of mud clung to nostrils that flared in anger. There was more dirt than water this far up the creek since they’d dammed the channel for an ornamental pool. Stinking, clinging, black as tar mud, thicker than molasses. Damn their fancy ideas. Not a care for any folk who’d be affected. Same as it ever was, since old Mister Elijah was head of the Henderson family. Lyin’ and cheatin’ their way through life, takin’ what wasn’t theirs and silencin’ those who knew the truth. She knew the stories, she knew the truths passed down through her family. She knew a lot more besides. Things she’d learned at a grandmother’s knee, beside the rocking chair she was now sat in. Crickets chirped among the trees and bullfrogs bellowed. How she wanted to join them, offering an echoing cry that would roll right up those manicured lawns to the wrap-around porch where generations of Hendersons had looked down on folk like them before retiring to dinner. They feasted on meals served by families whose rights they’d devoured, families whose pride had been crushed every bit as much as their bodies. Yet here she was, proud keeper of the family truths, crushed by her knowledge of the injustices. As she rocked to and fro, clutching her mother’s frayed doll, she knew that she was the last of them, the last in a line. The knitted doll was showing its age, holes that a darning needle might only open wider, wounds that were beyond repair. As the moon rose above the cypress trees, as owls spoke for the ghosts of her past, she picked up the needle anyway. So much damage had been done. But it had been left to her to do what she could. Family pride demanded it. As the needle entered the damaged figure, she murmured the incantation she had memorised fifty years before. She twisted the point and forced it deeper, closing her eyes, an unexpected smile appearing. As a deathly scream ripped over the manicured lawns, across the muddy banks of the creek, she pressed harder, knowing that a new generation of Hendersons was feeling some of the pain that was due to them.
Prompt: Unsolved - thanks to
Miguel S.
Clued In (100 words)
God, could they not leave him in peace for twenty minutes. Okay, nearer twenty five today. Just because he was the senior detective there was no need to bring every little problem to him. How’s a man to concentrate? Twenty minutes to examine the clues. That’s all he asked. Some time for himself, somewhere they couldn’t see his furrowed brow, where the frustrations of not knowing the answers stayed private. Surely, even a pressing investigation could stand up to a twenty minute pause.
He stayed silent but the paper rustled. One clue left unsolved. Three across.
“More Substantial Offerings”
January
Inspired by a Lemn Sissay poem from ‘let the light pour in’:
Last night I had a nightmare
Imprisoned by my clone
I watched him tap the screen
I was trapped inside his phone
February
I have a manuscript - a substantial collection of words that may or may not have a decent story hidden between the lines - the knowledge of its presence worries me. Its insistence that I do something with it only serves to compel me to push it further into the shadows. To be fair, it is a tale where the shadows may be the safest place to find yourself. In February I dusted it off and hid it in plain sight, extracts added to a less worrisome piece about a writer struggling to write:
March
I snatched inspiration from a line in a spellbinding novel, though the quality of the writing was of a level so far beyond my own that I nearly stopped writing altogether:
“There had to be a place, some obscure address, for letters that remained unwelcome and unread.”
‘10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World’
This lit a fire! “Family Pride” is so textured — the burned grits, the tar-thick mud, that final scream across the manicured lawn — chef’s kiss. Your note about hiding the manuscript in the shadows resonated; I draft in borrowed kitchens and let a single smell or overheard line do the unlocking.
Tiny prompt for your next sprint: 150 words from the point of view of a stubborn object on your desk — no plot, just senses. You’re onto something — keep going. -Kelly
Beautiful work, Barrie. It was wonderful to read your fiction again!