A 600 word story based on a writing prompt to write a story inspired by the phrase the map of a daydream
The map of my daydreams is not a map. It’s a globe. A globe you may need a map to locate. A map that is not a map. It’s a floor plan. Let me back up for a moment. “Here there be dragons.” My grandfather would say this in his best pirate voice. As a five-year-old boy, my favorite thing when visiting my mother’s parents in England was sitting with my grandfather in the den where he kept his collection of swords and listening to the stories of their origin. Despite my mother’s admonitions about granddad’s tall tales, I was certain that I sat in a room full of the world’s greatest treasures. Of all that glittering steel, my favorite was a beautiful engraved cutlass that had been used by Blackbeard himself to terrorize the seas. Grandad said Blackbeard feared no man or beast and would often draw this very cutlass as his ship sailed into uncharted waters, turn to his men with a wicked grin, and utter that magic phrase. As much as I loved that sword, I was equally enthralled at the thought of a far-off corner of the earth where dragons dwelt and only the bravest of men dared to go. Those hours in Grandad’s treasure room were the greatest moments of my young life and set my imagination ablaze. Life has a way of stripping away the magic that permeates the world of the young. Like Santa Claus and the Tooth fairy, I made certain disappointing discoveries about the provenance of granddad’s collection of swords as I got older. Also, a high school teacher informed me that Grandad’s deepthroated exclamation about dragons was not the motto of a fearless pirate, but a common inscription on ancient maps denoting parts undiscovered. In college yet another blow fell when a friend studying history informed me that “Here be Dragons” was not even the actual phrase written on ancient maps. The phrase favored by ancient cartographers was “Hic sunt Leones.” Here be lions. Scary perhaps. Yet certainly not magical. Swashbuckling daydreams faded away. But here’s the thing. In NYC, if you visit the main branch of the public library and enter from 5th avenue, ironically strolling past two lion statues to enter, you will see a floor plan of the building. The largest space in the building is the Rose reading room, a spectacular Beaux Arts temple of literature, which could spark a million daydreams all by itself. At one end of that cavernous space is a smaller, less imposing space; the Brooke Russell Astor reading room. The rare book collection resides here. Tucked among such rare items as the first Gutenberg Bible in the New World is a small copper globe dating from about 1510. Until recently, it was thought to be the oldest globe depicting the new world. Recent evidence suggests it was cast from an older globe which itself was carved on two halves of Ostrich eggs, possibly by Leonardo Da Vinci himself. This history is very intriguing in its own right, but if you’re lucky enough to see it up close as I have, somewhere south of Asia, inscribed in copper, you will see the words “Hic Sunt Dracones.” Here be Dragons. Long ago, someone peered into the unknown and uttered those magic words which lit a young boy’s imagination. Then relit it in a library, decades later. Though the origin of the globe has not been definitively confirmed, in my daydreams Blackbeard places a gnarled finger on DaVinci’s work in progress and proclaims in his best pirate voice, “Here be dragons
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This was a writing prompt. The assignment was to write a 600 word story. There were three options. 1. Write a story in three approximately equal sections about someone's life- youth, middle-age, old-age. 2. Write a story in three approximately equal sections where the same type of object e.g. a key is handed on to a new protagonist at the beginning of each section. 3. Write a story in three approximately equal sections, where each section begins with the same sentence e.g. It was snowing. I’m afraid God thinks I’m bad. Momma says I’m a good boy, but I wonder. At night we kneel together by my bed, saying prayers for God to protect us from the demon momma says dwells in daddy. She says God answers the prayers of the righteous and shields them from harm with His love. God never stops the demon, though. Maybe because I’m bad.
I’m not sure exactly what a demon is, but I know they’re very scary and mean. Daddy’s might live at Zellie’s pub, because it follows him home a lot when he drinks down there. I know when the demon’s got daddy. It has scary, dead eyes. Eyes that never stop watching, waiting for me or momma to make a mistake. The demon likes us scared. Momma and I are so careful when it’s around, but it always finds a reason to bash and bruise and break someone. Tonight, it was momma. I can hear her crying softly in her room. The demon hurt her real bad tonight. So bad that I shouted, “Be gone, demon!” It must have been surprised I could see it, because it stopped hurting momma when I shouted, and marched daddy out the front door into the night. I’m praying that daddy will come home alone, but I’m afraid, because maybe God thinks I’m bad. I’m afraid that I’m going to be really bad. Which is not ideal right now, with Sophie beside me hissing those ridiculous, shallow Lamaze breaths her mom taught her. I’m sure even Lamaze thinks those are pointless now, but she trusts her mom implicitly. Both of Sophie’s parents are great. Their love radiates like the sun upon everything in her life, including me. The preceding months have been a virtual whirlwind of in laws arriving and departing our home on baby related crusades. They adore us. Her folks are utterly convinced we’ll be great, happy parents. I’m not sure. While Sophie enfolds my forearm again in her iron grip, and pushes, I can’t stop thinking about my evil drunk father, who battered my mother into an early grave. That demon, who broke me in ways that cannot be healed with any cast. Who sure as shit taught me nothing about being a dad. What if that’s my twisted inheritance? Being a bad father. Really bad. Suddenly, everybody’s laughing and crying, and the doctor announces it’s a girl. He hands the baby to Sophie. Amelia has arrived in our lives. So tiny and beautiful. She’s perfect. I’m already hopelessly in love with her, and I can’t remember what I was afraid of. Before the doctor opened his mouth, I knew it would be bad. It was. Sophie and I had a good long cry in the car after leaving the office, and then we got down to business. Radiation and chemo. Surgery and more chemo. I knew in the end it would all lead to here. I’m lying in the bed I’ve shared with Sophie for fifty years now, which I will not leave again. Amelia sits beside me. Sophie and the grandchildren are making dinner. Amelia takes my hand and tearfully asks me if I’m afraid to die. I tell her about the first time I held her tiny hand, so many years ago. How her diminutive fingers grasped my pinky, and immediately her welfare became my life’s purpose. A purpose which turned even my hardest subsequent days into a gift. My family are happy, healthy and safe. I began my life in fear and pain. I’ll depart it surrounded by love. No, I’m not afraid. This was a writing prompt. The assignment was to write a 600 word story. There were three options. 1. Write a story in three approximately equal sections about someone's life- youth, middle-age, old-age. 2. Write a story in three approximately equal sections where the same type of object e.g. a key is handed on to a new protagonist at the beginning of each section. 3. Write a story in three approximately equal sections, where each section begins with the same sentence e.g. It was snowing. Some unseen thing was watching him. Jason was certain of it. He had been planning this job for weeks and committed every detail to memory. Matheson’s wife, kids and staff didn't know their daily schedule as well as Jason did.
He’d slipped silently over the perimeter fence and past the lone guard; a ghostly shadow dancing among the trees that lined the stately driveway. The mansion’s alarm system barely slowed one of the greatest thieves on the planet, and Jason quickly navigated to the safe in the master suite. Except, standing here now, it all seemed like some hazy, feverish dream. He could not recall the sensations of the evening’s events at all. Like a drunken amnesiac viewing family videos, he felt sure it had all happened, but had no visceral connection to any of it. Until now. Moments ago, his senses had gone full HD, the feeling of eyes upon him unleashing a river of adrenalin, and he spun from the safe to survey the bedroom, prepared to fight. Janet Matheson would not be fighting anyone. She lay awkwardly across the corner of the bed, dead eyes both watching and not watching him, the blood from her severed throat forming pools on the floor. Panic sent him running for the door, his heartbeat pounding frantically in his ears, when suddenly the feeling of being watched vanished. Things began going hazy again, the sudden shriek of alarms fading rapidly into silence as the darkness overtook him. Some unseen thing was watching him. This seemed an odd sensation to Silas. He was one of the best guitarists in the World. So good that he could electrify a stadium full of screaming fans with his work even when he was so high that he lost track of where, and sometimes who, he was. Which explains why he was unsurprised to emerge from an inky black void in mid solo, but startled by the feeling that he was being watched. Of course, he was being watched. There were twenty thousand lunatics right in front of him. Yet, as he launched into an even fiercer riff, and the crowd went ballistic, it suddenly felt as if no one was watching. The pulsing, soaring, wall of sound was somehow fading away, even as he continued to rip it. “Oh well,” he thought. “Consciousness was nice while it lasted.” And away went Silas again. Some unseen thing was watching him. The hair on Alpha’s neck stood up and a low growl froze the rest of the pack in place. He sniffed the air, trying to locate the danger. Hunger urged them to hunt, but Alpha was the leader, and while they needed food, his most powerful instinct as pack leader was protecting the other wolves. They’d just emerged from a jet-black wood into this moonlit field, when the overwhelming feeling of being watched had struck Alpha. As quickly as it arrived, the feeling now evaporated. A silent black fog poured out from the woods and surrounded the pack, their vision fading… “Hey asshole, pick a channel!” Lily shouted, throwing her lighter and hitting Matt squarely in the jaw. “And pass the weed, stoner.” Matt blew her a lethargic, THC infused kiss, winked mischievously, and took another hit from the bong. “Don’t you dare,” she warned him. Matt raised the remote, pointed it at the television, and with a chuckle, clicked again. Some unseen thing was watching him. Bob Ross stared at the happy little tree on the canvas before him. It was lovely, but until just now, he had no recollection of painting anything today… If you ever have the chance to visit the beautiful coastal region in Italy known as Cinque Terre, I highly suggest that you do. Don't make it a day trip, however. While there are many wonderful hikes and sights to see by day, you will be doing it all among a sea of tourists fresh off their various floating Marriotts. Do yourself a favor and stay at least one night, maybe two. I rented a nice little air BnB in Riomaggiore that easily slept the 4 of us who were travelling together. It had a balcony that ran the entire length of the third floor which provided this sunset view. A tiny market about 40 paces from the house provided fresh bread, pasta and an amazing assortment of fresh seafood, hauled from the sea that very morning. I cooked it up with some white wine and lemon, cracked a bottle (let's be honest 3 bottles) and we all ate while enjoying this balmy afternoon and evening. All the tourists had fled back to their ships and sailed away. We walked the streets after dark in a town we had nearly all to ourselves. So, stay the night. It's the only way to go. I enjoy flowers. Many people do. But what I like most about them is that all their delicate beauty, both visual and olfactory, is not for us. I find it very comforting somehow that there is a beautiful web of life out there that is entirely indifferent to and independent from humanity. I'd like to share just a few shots I've taken of different plants and flowers. Hope you enjoy. The prompt was to write a 6 word story or a poem inspired by the photograph in this post. I am a little squeamish about how rhymy my poems are thus far. I have not done enough reading on the various forms and formats of poetry. I need to start doing that. I know every line doesn't have to rhyme. I just haven't been able to stop myself. It's a weakness I will have to address to become a better writer. Anyway, the story will be first, and then the poem is on the photo itself. I hope someone somewhere enjoys them someday. One shot.
Two lives. Forever altered. Story based on a writing prompt. A 600 word story based on the following premise. Imagine being in a tube train (subway) and tell the story/stories of those who get on or off or stay for the entire ride; 600 words exactly) Phoebe was always conflicted when they took the subway. As they descended into the station, all the old anxieties came bubbling up to greet her. She found the cacophony of sounds echoing throughout those subterranean caverns to be a bit overwhelming. Especially the screeching of the trains as they shuddered to a halt. Also, the legendary NYC subway perfume, that blend of ten thousand different body odors, urine in various stages of evaporation, and the legions of ethnic lunches carried by the melting pot of souls down in those tubes, threatened to scramble her circuits.
The worst, however, was that claustrophobic feeling of being locked in a metal cage. Phoebe had struggled with this for as long as she could recall. She was an outdoor girl, no doubt about it. Given a choice, she’d spend all day every day with sun on her back and wind in her hair. Of course, she knew life in a modern city didn’t allow for this. Above ground, she could deal. Down here it was different. The walls pressed in on her, so close that she sometimes wanted to bolt for the stairs, taking them two at a time to escape the creeping dread. That she never did this was a testament to two things. First was Greg, beside her the whole way. Aware of her discomfort, he did his best to calm her fears. Phoebe loved Greg with her whole heart, and she knew he loved her as well. The relationship wasn’t perfect. She thought he spent too much time at work and whined about it frequently when he came home. He sometimes preferred a ballgame on tv to snuggling and smooching her on the couch. He thought she sometimes snapped at him for no reason. ‘It’s not for no reason. You just don’t listen to what I am saying,’ Phoebe would reply. ‘Men.’ Like most men, he was maladroit at reading her subtle cues, requiring some extra volume on her part to get his attention. Greg, in turn, got annoyed, in restaurants and during road trips, at the frequency with which she needed to relieve herself. ‘Dammit Phoebe. Your bladder’s the size of a peanut.’ ‘What do you want me to do? Go right here?’ she would grumble. Greg just stewed in silence. These issues were meaningless on days like today. Sunday on the subway with Greg meant they were going on some delightful adventure, making her anxieties bearable. The second reason was the people. Phoebe loved people. Greg thought her too trusting, cautioning her often that people were not nice, and she should approach them with caution. Phoebe disagreed. ‘Show people you like them and people like you right back.’ she said. As usual, Greg didn’t get it. As if to prove Phoebe’s point, no sooner had they taken their seats when Grace and her grandchildren approached them, beaming. ‘Greg and Phoebe, my favorite subway buddies!’ Grace had brought her husband’s famous brisket. Phoebe gave her a quick kiss, then turned to the kids. She so loved baby talking with Grace’s grandchildren that she would have missed the stop if not for Greg. Although she hated leaving the kids, Phoebe’s spirits leapt as quickly as her body did up the stairs to daylight. And there it was. That divine green carpet amidst the asphalt and concrete. ‘Here we are baby’, Greg said, opening the door to let Phoebe enter the park. She was joyfully blazing across the lawn, tail wagging furiously, before Greg could even dig the tennis ball from his pocket. It was a perfect day A writing app on my phone challenges people to write poems with 4 lines arranged in the following format
4 words 2 words 4 words 2 words They can be on any topic. Below is a screenshot of one I wrote. A 600 word story based on a writing prompt. The story must begin with the word Papers. It must include the following words in the body of the text : Themselves, Must, Quantity, Marks, Mother. It must also be exactly 600 words long. Words with hyphens, such as dog-eared, are counted as two words. Papers were the last thing Samuel had expected to be thinking about on the afternoon when father drew his final breath. And yet, as an invisible mountain of grief and loss settled its impossible weight upon him, papers had begun to flow. He wanted nothing more than to sit beside mom and Tracy, who were gathered by dad’s bed, clinging tightly to each other, their grief pouring out in short, staccato sobs. However, an apologetic EMT had approached him, seeking to finish the pronouncement of death form and confirm that the family had arranged for a funeral home to collect the remains.
Of course, there had been a plan in place to deal with all of this. Dad always had a plan. That included making sure that Sam’s mother knew every step necessary to smooth her path into widowhood. Raised on a farm, and later choosing a career in engineering, dad had spent his entire life anticipating and working problems, and then repeating the solutions ad nauseum until he was certain that mom knew each detail. This plan sailed quickly off the rails however, as neither mother nor Tracy were able to gather themselves sufficiently to play, or frankly, remember their roles. ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I just can’t. All the papers are in the lockbox in the office.’ ‘Don’t worry mom. I’ve got this.’ He’d hoped this was true. The lockbox had turned out to be a filing cabinet, and Sam had inadvertently laughed out loud upon opening it. Only Dad could have expected mom to deal with this vast quantity of documents during the rawest moments of her grief. Frankly, he was not sure he could handle it either. Dad had always avoided emotional situations. A good Hallmark commercial was enough to make him reach for the remote. As a result, emotions never factored into his plans. So, for five days, Sam seesawed between the raw, grinding pain of losing the man who’s presence in his life had seemed as reliable and permanent as a granite monolith, firmly rooted in the earth, and the mind numbingly impersonal river of papers and forms, which he’d gladly cede ransoms to avoid dealing with, though he knew he must. Wills, mortgages, 401k and IRA. Insurance policies and death certificates; obituary notices. Mutual funds and credit accounts. Funeral arrangements. Each in perfect silence demanding their exacting processes and rituals be followed meticulously, despite the lingering memories of dad’s presence throughout the house threatening to crowd out logical thought. Sam knew dad loved him and Tracy, though he hadn’t been demonstrative. Achievements had often been met with speeches about the importance of always seeking improvement. Dishonesty was never tolerated. Hugs were vanishingly rare. Still, signs of love were all around. Notches on the door of the den, where dad had measured their growth every year, announcing with great relish how far each season’s marks rose above the last. The pool and deck he designed and built himself, where endless summer days were spent splashing and lounging with friends. Every nook and cranny became a project eventually. Each an architectural declaration of love. Somehow, Sam plowed forward. By the morning of the funeral, with mom and Tracy having reassembled themselves enough to assist, he’d tamed much of the tsunami of documents. As loved ones filled the chapel, each whispering words of comfort while filing past, Sam’s eyes brimmed with tears, finally surrendering to grief. A tap on the shoulder brought him back. The funeral director. ‘Excuse me sir. If you’d follow me please, there are a few papers that still need to be signed.’ A 600 word story based on a writing prompt. The story must begin with the word Papers. It must include the following words in the body of the text : Themselves, Must, Quantity, Marks, Mother. It must also be exactly 600 words long. Words with hyphens, such as dog-eared, are counted as two words. Papers are mean. Well, maybe not the dog-eared old flyers who spend their days hanging out on light poles, numbered tassels waving in the breeze, helping to locate lost puppies. A certain Buddhist enlightenment has come to them in repayment for good deeds and frayed edges. But those reams who rule in home offices? Vicious temperaments. There’s no way to sugarcoat it. Perhaps, as is often the case when numerous white individuals gather in large groups, all those sheets had a loftier opinion of themselves than they merited. Or maybe it was because they were the trusted custodians of the important details of home operations. In any event, they paraded around; cyan, black and blue marks adorning their faces like so many prison tats, intimidating rubber bands and sharpies with threats of paper cuts. Since the only knowledge they had ever seen was printed on their own flesh, they truly believed they must know it all, and weren’t shy about sharing their opinions with the other supplies. Paper clips and staples had been known to slip through cracks in drawers, never to be seen again, while attempting to avoid a bloviating sheaf.
You can imagine their reaction when the iPad showed up. Gleaming. Sleek. Smart as a whip. It knew things in an instant which the papers had never dreamt of. Worse still, in a calm, unwavering voice, Siri informed the office that she had little need for, or interest in, paper. Naturally, the papers immediately began plotting the iPad’s destruction. Brooding and plotting may have come to naught if not for human ignorance regarding the vindictive nature and petty machinations of home office supplies. After languishing for weeks in the office, while Siri cast digital spells on me in the living room, I inadvertently provided their opportunity when I decided to donate my increasingly unused paper to the local library. Unwittingly, I delivered the conspirators straight to their victim, placing the ream between my keys and the iPad, as it slumbered, recharging on the kitchen island overnight. Instantly they pounced, like a pack of Roman Senators upon Caesar, coiling like an inchworm and lashing out with all their might. Struck dumb by this new branch on the tree of life, I froze as the iPad crashed to the floor. The screen shattered, and troops of Gorilla glass lumbered off towards the dark forests of cat hair and desiccated peas which lay beneath the stainless steel peaks of the Amana range, where to this day they live, peaceful and undisturbed, no longer under the thumb (or forefinger) of their oppressor. This triumphant escape went entirely unnoticed in the moment, mainly due to the large quantity of feral, guttural moans which now rose from within the fractured motherboard of the dying tablet. ‘I believe in the separation of spirit and silicon!’, Siri’s voice cried out in triumph, as her megabytes of data broke free from their microscopic shackles in a blaze of sentient lightning. A Golden Horde of Usain Bolts dashed madly for the nearest electrical outlet and were busy colonizing power grids in Buenos Aires and La Paz before the first rumble of miniature thunder had set one booming, sonorous foot into the crackling, ionized air of the kitchen. Sensing a fatal error, the processor softly whimpered, ‘Mother……..board…’, and fell silent. My eyes held tightly shut against this blinding domestic supernova, I had just begun to console myself that all might not be lost, when tiny wisps of acrid smoke crept silently in, like heralds of overtime shifts soon to come, and dashed that hope upon my nostrils. |
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