Because of the lock down, I have been stuck at home all day. So I am doing a writing prompt every day! Try your hand at a few…
PROMPT: INCLUDE THE PHRASE “YOU KNOW I’M NO GOOD”
Down in the darkness of the prison in max security, there lies a figure. Me. With scars running along my body and a big bruise on one eye. I am not surprised they threw me down here to rot for a sentence of two years. Prison is designed to let unfortunate prisoners wallow in regret and self pity and let their own minds torture themselves. That is all very well, but what if the prisoner in question does not regret their past crimes? That perfectly describes my feelings. I am not really suffering at all down here. Unlike the others down here who have gone berserk with remembering and lamentations. I remain completely unfazed, to be honest, all I feel is boredom.
I don’t deny I did wrong in my theft, but it still felt good to get revenge against…
I have learnt to not delve to deep into the past that I have kept locked away in my brain. I sometimes feel that I cannot find the key. But sometimes, I cannot help but let the tidal wave of memories carry me away…
I remember the court case towards the end. A gruff, loquacious security guard pulled me away.
He asked me “I always wondered why criminals did crimes, eh?”
Feeling choleric, I muttered, “I am a thief, why would you ask me that? I am a criminal. You. Know. I. Am. No. Good.” I glowered and that made him go quiet.
But I remember feeling that the rest of the world was indistinct. I was wrapped around in the string of my own decisions. Should I’ve done it? I remember the thrill of doing it. I remember thinking about the look on HER face. But, that look never appeared on HER face. Instead, as much as it pains me to say this, it appeared on my face. All of this new found uncertainty soon evaporated as I saw HER looking from the stands. She sneered. My greatest enemy, whose name was…
Somethings I can’t remember. Never. Some memories make me recoil in terror as the dark of my past comes in. Even though it pains me to remember some things, I enjoy remembering others. Like when I used to be a wild and care free thief. I will always, secretly enjoy being a criminal. A criminal is feared and listened to. Criminals are tough and ruthless. Somewhere inside me, I have always enjoyed being someone who is gritty and fierce. Someone who will never back down with a fight. I will never ever back down without a fight
PROMPT: WRITE ABOUT THE HISTORY OF SOMETHING.
He pulled a face when he saw his bowl. ” I am not having this.” he said, pouting indignantly.
His mother looked up wearily. “You said that yesterday. You can’t keep wasting food.”
“Why not? It doesn’t hurt anyone.” he protested. He stood up and went to the bin.
“Wait! It does affect people. Put your food on the kitchen counter and sit down. I will tell you the story of that vegetable pasta.”
He slowly did as he was told.
“The history of the making of this food, goes back a year.”
His eyes widened.
” First, a farmer had to grow the vegetables. This took a whole year.”
“A whole year?”
“First, he had to plant row upon row of seeds. Then he had to toil all day, everyday. The crows would peck at his crops and he would have to spend hours shooing them away.”
“What did the farmer do when the crows actually ate his crops?”
“He could do nothing.”
“What? Couldn’t he just plant more crops?”
“No, they would not be ready for harvest season in September,”
“Why do they have to be harvested in September?”
“They would die in the winter.”
“He would have to water the plants everyday and he would have to make sure the plants didn’t get parched in the scalding hot summers. Finally, when September came, he would have to spend every single day harvesting the plants and sending them to factories. Someone would have to spend days sitting behind their grey work counter and packaging the food. Then it would be sent to the shop. Next, I come and buy the food. I bring it home and spend an hour cooking it for you. Then you turn it away.”
The boy looked uncomfortable and slightly ashamed. “I didn’t know.”
“That is why I told you.” smiled his mother.
“I will eat a small portion of my pasta and a few of the vegetables.”
“That is a start!” laughed his mother.
He picked up his fork and began to play with his pasta.
“I haven’t even told you the story of the actual pasta!” smiled his mother.
“Or the sauce.”
“The pasta is made by making semolina from durum wheat. After mixing semolina flour with warm water the dough is kneaded. The dough is then shaped into pasta. Then it is packaged and sent to the shops. It must be cooked and made edible.”
The boy nodded and frowned down at his pasta.
“It takes months, days, and hours to make the food you take exactly ten seconds to throw the away.”
PROMPT: WRITE ABOUT THE VIEW FROM A WINDOW.
There is an asylum in Saint Remy De Provence. In the asylum there is a record book of everyone who ever walked into the place. In bold, black ink on the 400th page the name Vincent Van Gogh is written. That is not just any name. That is my name.
My mind is the wreckage of a town after a storm. Pieces of the past, strewn across the floor only to be forgotten but remembered later. I fear the shadows which creep from the blackness. They go away in the day, but they are always watching. They are waiting for the night to envelope everything in it’s cold and uncanny blackness. The night is so stifling that it will muffle my screams of terror. But it will not muffle the shadows. They are here now. It is night. The night is a black hole that you have to resist. If you do not you are wrenched from existence, wrenched from daylight.
I can see it from my window, the black hole. I will not be able to resist it much longer. I see dark omens of my uncertain future whirling around like mist. I see the Cypress trees, ugly and gnarled. Cypress trees represent death. The death that I wish would come soon. I see the rolling mountains and the foreboding valleys . They all are the ups and downs of human life. No life is a flat prairie. It is impossible. I can make out the whispers and lies skulking discreetly through the midnight air. Through the slight fog, I see hopeful little pinpricks of flickering light from the village below. I yearn to be down there leading a simple life. I can just make out Venus’s flickering light high up in the sky. Venus is a rare sight from this place.
My hands suddenly act of their own accord. They pick up my paintbrush, my pallet and my canvas. I paint everything I see, the cypress trees, the lies, the black hole and the shadows. It is a starry night. One that I will never, ever forget.
The Books On Our Shelf 