Writing Prompt, 1-22
"I sat down, opened my lunch bag, and found myself succumbing to the sweetly sickening sense of deja vu. Starring back at me was the lunch that I had packed only hours ago. The PBJ sandwich, the dulling-as-we-speak red apple and the six or seven potato chips I was only allowed to pack in my lunch. Yes... I was one of those postmodern kids who parents made them pack their lunch. The one where the parents supposedly wanted to teach their kids the responsibility of packing a healthy and decent lunch for themselves when in actual reality the parents were really just lazy and trying to find a so-called mature and legitimate excuse to get out of doing it. My mother wasn't one of the 1950s Betty Crocker Martha Stewart Mom's. She got up at 4 AM to go to work, not to slave around the house. As for my father... Let's just say I'm glad he didn't make my lunch."
Writing Prompt, 1-26
"I knew I shouldn't have, but I reached in my pocket and took out my cell phone. I very cautiously hid it right as the professor turned around, his lecture about the South and Reconstruction lulling from his mouth like a bad nursery rhyme trying to put a five month old infant to sleep. I started to text, all the while keeping a great deal of my attention to the Professor. One of my classmates starred in great admiration mixed with the sense of 'Are you a freaking moron!?' As the professor turned, their sharp eyes starting to scan my side of the room, I tossed my phone into my lap and started to anxiously write notes on the corruption of Black Codes and the sharecropping of the South. I felt his eyes burning into the top of my head and I figured for sure I'd be kicked out of class for what I had done."
Writing Prompt, 1-29
"When I couldn't stand to watch the road any longer, I opened the glove box and took out the larger-than-average folded up map. I opened it, right there on my lap, and looked down at it with an intense glazed look. The driver sang softly to himself as on of the forty greatest hits of yesteryear played on the radio. We had been in the car for nearly 15 hours, excluding the gas stations pit stops and rest stop emergencies one of us usually had to take. I really couldn't sleep either because the velocity at which we were traveling at made me extraordinarily paranoid. I wouldn't tell lead foot that because the faster we got there, the sooner I could lay down in a real bed."
Writing Prompt, 2-3
"He walked into the kitchen, holding the baby like he held his own children so many years ago. The little one opened her mouth, letting babble exit her vocal cords. He smiled to himself, looking towards his wife with a look of mutual agreement: Their granddaughter was beautiful. Walking with her in her arms, the grandfather held up his granddaughter to the mirror, letting her peer at her reflection in curiosity. His heart seemed to burst as she laughed at touched the mirror. He himself started to laugh at her antics, her tiny hands touching his proportionally large ones. I love you Grandpa...
Writing Prompt, 2-5
"We used to hide in the slides or under the lowest points of the jungle gym, waiting for him to take the small path that encompassed the crescent shaped short. We'd giggle as Grandpa would walk his little mini-terrier, Brindle. She would trot along at his side as he got more exercise. We would hide for what seemed like days. Right as we'd go to see where he was, Grandpa would let it be known round the playground that he had returned. He'd pretend that he had absolutely no idea where we were until he'd look up the slides and catch us up in there. We'd laugh and slide down before pleading with him to do it again. We'd do it another time before we'd move on with our walk.
Writing Prompt, 2-10
"He sees the spider on the plate and says nothing. He can only think of the most painful to kill. He wasn't heartless or anything, but if any spider was in his visual presence, that spider would become a dead spider. He watched the ugly, hairy, leggy arachnid move slowly and delicately over the plate. Rising with focused accuracy, he rushed over to the cabinet, pulling down a can of Raid. It was by far his favorite way to mutilate spiders. He returned, grabbing the plate carefully, not wanting the spider to frighten. He flipped the plate at the sink and the spider fell into it. Seconds later, it was writhing in pain as it was sprayed by the Raid. As it died, water rushed past its body, sweeping it down the drain with no remorse.
Writing Prompt, 2-12
“Each time the bank teller saw the women, she let off a quick frown before changing to a fake cheery smile. The women’s children were absolute monsters. She thought she had seen the worst of the worst from her past years as a nanny, but she was definitely wrong. One of the little brats had actually bitten her, HER, last time the women entered the bank. She only offered the little puke some candy to try and keep him occupied, but oh no! Then the mother had the gall to just laugh and pat the little wretch’s head. She wanted to press charges, but her boss convinced her otherwise. And now the woman was back and the teller regretted her decision.