My friend Chelsea is taking a class called Daily Themes where you have to write a 300 word piece every weekday. This is a class I've wanted to take for a long time, but have never gotten around to doing it, partly because I've been super busy, partly because I always miss the deadline to apply, and partly because I fear that my creative juices will run out when I need them most. (It always happens sometime mid-semester and I feel as if my chops for pulling words out of thin air have utterly abandoned me.) However, as I am doing BEDUS, I have decided to challenge myself with some of the prompts, as Chelsea lives down the hall from me and has agreed to pass them down to me. Obviously, I don't have her midnight deadline and I can choose to omit whatever doesn't necessarily please me, or when I have something especially awesome or rant-y to say, I just won't do one. At the same time, I know I won't have the same feedback she gets, but because I know my world is about to get super sciencey, this is a way for me to keep my creative writing self in check (as I mentioned in yesterday's entry). Plus, I won't have to worry if some of my entries are too out there. :)
Prompt 1: Set a scene in which something will happen – or in which something has happened. But don’t say what has happened or what will: allow that to be implied as part of the scene you evoke. The type of scene, actual or imagined, is up to you. From what point of view is it seen? Who sees it? What are the limits of that point of view?
The sky rumbles, almost imperceptibly, as I lie snug under my warm covers. It can't be morning yet; it's still too dark. Where is the sun? The blue of the sky that has greeted me each day since I've gotten back to school? A whisper of a breeze that would have made the leaves flutter now only captures the bare branches in its gust, clicking them against each other, clacking them against the rooftops. I open my eyes a little more and beside me, I see clear green numbers. 9:08. Too early for me right now, though I know somewhere, not too far outside my room, the world has already begun the day.
A lone, burnt orange leaf falls from a tree outside, the last one, and joins his brothers on the pavement below. They're saturated with mist or dew, which collects into pea-sized droplets and reflects the grayness above. It's still a cool white-gray, not dark enough yet, but full of promise. Perhaps by mid-afternoon, when the sky has darkened more, and the nimbostratus clouds have rolled in from the east, when the thunder starts to crackle and the protective pet-owners begin shuttling their cats and dogs and chickens into their homes, perhaps then I will venture out in my red and green plaid rubber boots, my coat securely buttoned to my chin. But I may just wrap myself in a warm blanket, a cup of something warm in my hands and a book in my lap and wait.
Outside, the sky unexpectedly brightens, not with warm sun, just that bright harsh white of the Gothic stories of old, the romance of worn stone belied by the drafts that no doubt ran through the corridors of cold castles. Then, just as quickly, it's dark again, and outside my window, I hear a squeal of indignation. Just some advice: always travel with your umbrella on a cloudy day, friends.
Prompt 1: Set a scene in which something will happen – or in which something has happened. But don’t say what has happened or what will: allow that to be implied as part of the scene you evoke. The type of scene, actual or imagined, is up to you. From what point of view is it seen? Who sees it? What are the limits of that point of view?
The sky rumbles, almost imperceptibly, as I lie snug under my warm covers. It can't be morning yet; it's still too dark. Where is the sun? The blue of the sky that has greeted me each day since I've gotten back to school? A whisper of a breeze that would have made the leaves flutter now only captures the bare branches in its gust, clicking them against each other, clacking them against the rooftops. I open my eyes a little more and beside me, I see clear green numbers. 9:08. Too early for me right now, though I know somewhere, not too far outside my room, the world has already begun the day.
A lone, burnt orange leaf falls from a tree outside, the last one, and joins his brothers on the pavement below. They're saturated with mist or dew, which collects into pea-sized droplets and reflects the grayness above. It's still a cool white-gray, not dark enough yet, but full of promise. Perhaps by mid-afternoon, when the sky has darkened more, and the nimbostratus clouds have rolled in from the east, when the thunder starts to crackle and the protective pet-owners begin shuttling their cats and dogs and chickens into their homes, perhaps then I will venture out in my red and green plaid rubber boots, my coat securely buttoned to my chin. But I may just wrap myself in a warm blanket, a cup of something warm in my hands and a book in my lap and wait.
Outside, the sky unexpectedly brightens, not with warm sun, just that bright harsh white of the Gothic stories of old, the romance of worn stone belied by the drafts that no doubt ran through the corridors of cold castles. Then, just as quickly, it's dark again, and outside my window, I hear a squeal of indignation. Just some advice: always travel with your umbrella on a cloudy day, friends.
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