Writing prompt #23: "She studied her face in the mirror"...

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to post exactly what I wrote during my 10 minutes of writing, and not to edit it (except to correct a typo) whilst typing it on this blog.

Writing prompt #23: Start with "She studied her face in the mirror"

She studied her face in the mirror. Her eyes stared back at her, the same ombre of blue to green emanating from the jet black pupil to the furry outer fringes. 

I guess they didn't think he'd notice my eyes, she thought to herself, seeing the tiny freckle that nestled on her left tear duct. A brown spot friends and strangers alike had kindly whispered to her must have been some leftover mascara puddled into a pinpoint. 

"It's a freckle," she'd say. And they'd correct her, until she wiped at it for their sakes and they saw it wouldn't dislodge.

"I didn't think freckles could grow there," they'd say.

"Freckles can grow anywhere," She'd say, repeating the words her opthamologist had told her years ago.

Would her unusual freckle give her away? Suddenly, that was all she could see in the strange reflection mirroring her every expression. Her nose was slimmer, though still sporting blacks and blues from the reconstructive surgery. Her cheek bones more defined. Her double chin gone.

The wrinkles that had been her constant companion as of late still wrote her worries across her forehead and around her eyes. But they had to make her seem at least close to her real age. But would it be enough? Would her secret stay safe now, after so many doctors and staff and worked on her? Supposedly they'd never been told her identity, her reason for the face reorganization.

She thought back to the night only one month ago when she had returned to the office to grab a file, and she thought no one was there. But, boy, had she been wrong.

__________________________________________

How would you continue this????

Writing prompt #22: It was a dark and stormy night

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to post exactly what I wrote during my 10 minutes of writing, and not to edit it (except to correct a typo) whilst typing it on this blog.

Writing prompt #22: It was a dark and stormy night...

It was a dark and stormy night. The thunder reached in the window and shook my out of bed, the lightning illuminated the destruction outside from the wind and the rain. I reached for my bunny and ran to the door. I was almost nine years old. Too old to be scared of a stupid storm. I turned around, determined to be strong, when the sky lit up like the devil's clawed fingers grasping for me. I opened the door and started to turn towards my parent's room when I hard the voice.

A man yelled at someone -- angry, uneven words stabbing in the dark.

"Calm down!" Another male voice spit back. My dad. Who was he talking to? I crept down the hallway to the section just before the turn and carefully peered around the corner. The front door creaked open, shining with the rhythm of the wild wind, letting in whistles and moans and raindrops the size of nickels. And neither of them even noticed me, or cared.

"Tell my exactly what happened."

"She's dead! She's dead -- he killer her!" The man paced around, blood splotched all over his shirt.

"Who is dead?" My dad asked.

"My wife."

"How? What? No!" My dad shouted. "What have you done?"

(side note -- this scene ended up making its way (with some changes) into a pivotal point in my first book "Clicked")

Writing prompt #21: Phone call in the middle of the night...

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to post exactly what I wrote during my 10 minutes of writing, and not to edit it (except to correct a typo) whilst typing it on this blog.

Writing prompt #21: You receive a phone call in the middle of the night...

"Everything okay?" he murmurs, a hand reaching over to find me in the darkness. Nothing good comes from a phone call in the middle of the night. He knows that. I know that. Correction. I knew that. This could be it -- the answers I've been asking for. Praying for. Paying for.

"Wrong number," I whisper, turning away slightly so his hand retraces its step to his side. I lay there, counting in my head. Listening until his breathing lengthens and deepens. Until I know he won't notice my absence.

I count to ten -- slowly -- for good measure and deftly slip out of the sheets, padding over to my closet where I slip on some clothes by moonlight. Tiptoeing down the hall and to the side door, the one I know won't beep its opening.

And there it is. A black limo, windows tinted, though it is hardly necessary on a cloudy night like this. I steel myself, square my shoulders, and walk straight towards it. Just before I can open the door, it opens from the inside. A beefy man steps out and asks me to splay myself against the car. I hesitate for a second before I see her legs -- in the car. I can't believe she's here. I can't believe she came. Yes, of course I'll splay.

My heart rate picks up as he frisks me thoroughly before giving me a nod. I step inside and see the most influential woman in the world sitting across from me: The President of the United States, and, as I just discovered, my birth mother.

Writing prompt #17: stream of consciousness gratitude

With Thanksgiving tomorrow, I thought I'd share the prompt from our last writer's meeting. We were asked to write a list of things we were grateful for, but instead of just a list, to qualify them with a phrase or two of explanation. Here is mine:

1. The way time passes when I'm fast asleep because it means I'm really resting and rejuvenating, something I've struggle with for too much of my life.
2. The way Dave comes and finds me wherever I am in the house when he gets home to give me a hug and kiss.
3. The way my family rallies around each other at the slightest hiccup of a need, but allows space to breathe an independent life.
4. The way my daughter makes it a point to tell me goodnight and is often the first to say, "love you,"
5. The various positions of blankets and clothing choices I find my youngest daughter in when I go to check on her before retiring. It lets me know she was busy imagining up a new world moments before finally surrendering to slumber.
6. The way by quiet son nods his head in agreement whenever I comment on how smart he is. He's not cocky, but simply aware of a gift and self-confidence enough to not deny it.
7. The ability to be a stay-at-home mom and learn and stretch and grow according to a timeline not imposed by a paycheck.
8. Tender experience in my youth that established a rock of a foundation in my belief in God and His Son, Jesus Christ and in the Kingdom here on earth.
9. Opportunities to serve others in a wide range of callings and capacities that open my soul to see others in a light that can only be sourced in Heaven.
10. The look on my husband's face when he follows through on some inspiration he's felt -- to visit his parents, to call a friend, or to rethink organizing his work space.
11. The way technology connect me to family and friends all throughout the world so I can celebrate and mourn and converse with people I might never see with my mortal eyes again.


HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Writing prompt #16: Tell the backstory of a phobia

Here's my pledge.

Writing prompt #16: Tell the backstory of a phobia
11/21/13

We were relegated to her bedroom. Again. It's what happens with seven kids plus friends and a small house when no TV is allowed, it's raining outside, and our brothers were being, well, brothers.

After rehashing who said what and who did what during exciting 5th grade, we sat on her bed and looked around for our next source of entertainment.

To this day, I have no idea which one of us suggested it first, but we both jumped on board.

"Let's take turns climbing in the toy chest and seeing how long we can last in there,"

We cleaned it of stuffed animals and baby blankets. We were both on the small end for our ages, but still, even squished up, it'd be a tight fit.

The rules were simple and clear. One of us went in. The other sat on top of the closed chest. Then, the person inside would count in their heads. When they were ready to come out, the knocked three times. The person on top got up and opened the chest. The person with the highest count won.

Jenny went in first. I sat excitedly on top, trying to visualize what she was going through. Playing with my fingers, awaiting my turn at adventure.

Knock, knock, knock. I jumped up and opened it to see her smiling face. "50" she said and unhinged her body out of the box.

My turn. I crawled in, bending my legs and arms to fit them in all the crevices and crouched my head down in the corner. "Okay, go!" I said. Darkness enveloped me, but I just started counting. "One, two, three..." This was easy easy. "Forty-nine, Fifty." Ten more for good measure. "Okay, I'm done."

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Nothing.

Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

Nothing.

"JENNY! I'M DONE!"

Nothing.

"Jenny?" I pushed hard against the top of the chest. It wouldn't budge. My legs started contributing now. I was stuck. "Help!" My heart started to race and I felt like I was about to die. "Jenny! It's not funny anymore! Let me out!" Tears sprang to my eyes as I realized I just might die in this silly chest.

Then, she opened it. She was silently laughing. "I tricked you!" she said, laughing, until she saw the tears streaming down my face.

Writing prompt #15: A secret message

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #15: A secret message
10/29/2013

'Crap!' I thought, setting the 17th box of the morning down. 'What did I just break? Already.' I turned around and bent down. I couldn't see any cracks, but I knew I had heard something. I retraced my steps. There. I see-sawed on and off of one of the large 20 inch Italian tiles that had only been one of the myriad of reasons I had fallen head over heels in love with this 85-year old fixer-upper. I crouched and fingered the edge of the tile in question. Yep, I had definitely cracked the grout holding it in place. I moved it around and suddenly it came up in my fingers. It was heavy. Heavy.

'This must be grant or marble,' I thought. As I was inspecting it, a sliver of something caught my eye. I slid it gingerly to the side, wondering what it was underneath the tile that had grabbed my attention. The more I moved it, the more I could see. Yes, that was definitely some words -- writing. I rotated it slightly to get the sunlight on the exposed hole. Tiny, almost illegible scribbles were somehow etched into the floor.

"January 20, 1929. My name is Peter LaForce. I built this home. If you are reading this, beware. This home is haunted."

Writing Prompt #14: A different ending to a fairy tale

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my Prompt posting pledge.

Writing Prompt #14: Write a different ending to a fairy tale

NOTE: I wrote this on October 15, 2013, long before the new Disney Cinderella came out. Long before I had ever heard the phrase, 'have courage and be kind.'  Nice to know the Disney writers and I think alike...

Revenge was just not in my nature. My parents had raised me well. Well, my real parents. My sweet mother had been scorned when she married my father -- a duke. She had been the second daughter of a miller. But, my father, who knew what mattered, had fallen in love with the goodness, both in and out, of my mother. He didn't care that his family taunted and begged him to reconsider. Love was more important than money or title. During their first few years, before I came along, my mother dealt with all sorts of duplicitous townsfolk, trying to trip her up in her new 'lofty' state, to cause her to believe she was less than her married-into-status. My father and mother held hands and stood together, strong and full of the confidence that comes from within, from a pure soul.

Often, as a child, my mother would tell me these stories. About people who now loved her who used to make fun of her. "I could have been vengeful towards them, as my influence in the town grew, but that is never the answer. Love always is. Remember that, sweet Ella. Always return good. Good for good. Good for evil. Good even for only mediocre. If you have only good in you, only good will be able to come out,"

Now, here I was, the crown princess with more power and influence than my mother or father ever dreamed of having. And the court room full of dignitaries and dukes awaited my decision.

My step-mother and two step-sisters, who had done nothing but injure and demean me for years stood in front of me. What would be their fate? Revenge could certainly be justified. But, I remembered my mother's words. Always return good.

I smiled, "Let them be free."

Prompt #11: After the happily ever after...

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #11: Start writing a sequel to a fairy tale...

July 1, 2013

Happily ever after? As if! The music stopped playing a week or so after the honeymoon. Then Eric was whisked away to meet with foreign dignitaries and religious leaders to haggle about boundaries and rules and cargo and land, land, land.

I love my legs, but they sure get tired. I can't just swish my hips and get from here to there. I have blisters all over my new toes from those awful shoe things. As the princess, I'm supposed to wear a different pair with each outfit. No time to get used to them! And my hand maid gives me no sympathy. I swear she purposely tightens the straps over the rawest blisters. She isn't fond of me, I can tell. I ask too many questions and need too much help.

I never realized being married to the man of my dreams would be so lonely. I can't really open up to him about how much I miss my sea legs, my tail, or all my friends. I don't want him to think I regret my decision to become human, because I don't. At all. It's just hard to adjust. A lifetime turned upside down in weeks and not a single face from my old life is present in my new one. Well, unless you count tonight's entree.

Prompt #9: What do you carry?

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt # 9: Write about the things you carry around.
May 2013

Physically, I carry a phone, almost always now-a-days. Now that I have a smart phone, that is truly smarter than me and can get me safely to the nearest hardware store or save me from even four minutes of boredom should I have to wait in a line anywhere.

And sunglasses. I live in the Valley of the Sun, where it is, well, sunny. An optometrist once told me my irises were so devoid of something I should never be without sunglasses. I've turned back home if I've forgotten my sunglasses. Not so if I've forgotten my phone, even the smart one.

And a hair tie. Even if I've done my hair all nice and neat, I need a hair tie as my crutch. In case I want to be more comfortable, even in the middle of a black-tie dinner.

I guess I need to feel safe, smart, and comfortable, at all times. Probably to make up for the burdens I carry around figuratively. Burdens of actual, Live, Personal knowledge that this life is not safe or comfortable. That car crashes do kill people. That best friends and family members are those one in eight that get breast cancer. That I'm that one mental check away from my next panic attack. That babies will drown in swimming pools and that young friends can be taken from a heart attack, even on Christmas morning.

No, life is not safe and not comfortable. There are no sunglasses that I can carry around to block out that fact. No hair tie of convenience to allow me to unknow what I know.

But the most precious knowledge I carry around with me always is like a big beautiful pair of rose-colored, no... heaven-colored glasses, letting me know, it was all be -- eternally -- just right.

Prompt #8: A shoe on the road

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #8: You see a shoe on the road... why is it there?
April, 17, 2013

The leaves danced across the road, echoing my joy at the successful conclusion of another day completed. My factory-issued off-white jumper hung a little too much off my hips. The meter would notice I hadn't been eating my entire allotment. But I could only stomach so much compound a day. It was tasty, but so, so colorless. The leaves seemed on my side, showing off their vibrant colors, even as they had shed their master life source and trickled away to end up as concrete chatter. They had colors, why couldn't our food, or our clothes. What was so wrong with color?

As if in response to my thoughts, a burst of unreal color peered out underneath a pile of patterned leaves. It was the color of the sun, but with more of a grassy hue. I peered around me, making sure no one was watching as I deviated from my scheduled route home. I bent over and picked up the object. It was pliant, yet hard. Worn, yet vibrant. I turned it over and over. One side had a pattern on it. It had been white, but was now mostly the color of earth. The other side, the colorful side, had stripes and metal holes all over it. A thin, frayed rope was laced through the metal holes, as if to hold the thing, or some thing trapped inside it.

I put it up closer to my face and accidentally inhaled. Phew! The smell was like a rotten egg.

(My scene takes place in a futuristic world w/o shoes apparently)

Writing prompt #7: Just the conversation, ma'am

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #7: Write for 10 minutes using only dialog. (Conversation between two people, one in italics for easier separation)
March 19, 2013

"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
"But, but, that's not possible. No."
"The signs were there all along. The bouts of disappearances. The glazed over gazes. The food that was just moved around and never actually consumed. I can't believe it took us this long to figure it out, actually."
"But, but what about the scar?"
"High quality stage makeup."
"No!"
"I found the bottles in the trash this morning."
"The stories? The trombone? How could those be..."
"He must have read his journals. It wouldn't surprise me. As far as the trombone, it could have been purchased anywhere. The dings and scratches re-created."
"I don't believe it. I mean, I don't want to believe it. What will we tell Nancy? How will she ever recover?"
"I haven't got that far yet. I'm still reeling in the news myself."

(P.S. I ran out of time.... not sure where this one was going -- what do you thing they had discovered?)

Writing prompt #6 "What's inside the old box?"

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #6 "You see an old box. What is on the inside of it?"

May 15, 2013

Only the edge of the box is visible, but the color is enough to draw my attention. It's a deep burgundy, a sort of velvet texture; letting me know this box is meant for something extraordinary, special, unique.

I move the pile of magazines on top of it to the side and squat down, wiping off what must be decades of dust. No price tag is visible. I gently prod the square lid off, freeing more dust as I do.

I peer inside and see a large heavy book. Leather-bound, ornate scrolling on the spine. I tilt my head to the side to read it. It's not English. It's not even the Roman alphabet. I set the lid down gingerly and cradle out the large book with both hands. It's heavier than it appears.

I'm about to stand up and look for my elderly neighbor, the one whose estate sale this is -- when she appears at my side.

"Marvelous, isn't it?" she asks, staring at the book.

"Ye," I reply, "But what is it? Where is it from? What language is that?" I ask, pointing to the lettering that is engraved in the leather cover with what appears to be gold-infused ink.

"Oh, it's no language you've ever heard of," she says, "Come, bring the book and the box inside." She asks her daughter to stay outside with other potential shoppers and clears a path to her study. She turns on a copper floor lamp, but it barely registers with the sun leaking through the partially opened blinds.

"I'm so happy you found the box and the book," she says, motioning me to sit down on the couch crowded with piles of books and papers. "It means you've been chosen."

"Chosen?" I say, half-smiling at her odd choice of words.

"Yes, dear. Chosen. That book is only visible to those chosen. For, you see, you have the gift. This book is written in a dying language, but not a dead on. It's written in pure magic."

Writing prompt #4: 5 love languages

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

June 7, 2012

Writing prompt #4: The 5 love languages

I recently attended a church meeting full of sisters of all ages where we learned about our love languages. I had a stand-out winner: words of affirmation. What is it about words that affect me so?

As a child, my parents never said, "I love you" as often as I try to say it to my kids. We just weren't a lovey-dovey, sappy type of family. But, I know I was loved. And, it isn't 'words of love' that is the love language. It is words of affirmation. And, countless times, my parents expressed their faith in my, their trust, their support, their belief that I was beyond extraordinary.

Today, words still affect me more than any other form of emotional language. An unexpected compliment can feed my soul for days. I will lie in bed and relive the words over and over, not in a prideful way, but in a "I am worth something" sort of way.

I can take a kind thought or generous praise with me through difficult trials, boring exercise classes, and cold, lonely nights. Chocolate, roses, or even a tender kiss won't do that!

For better, and sometimes for worse, words leech onto me and it is hard to shake them off. I try to use discretion with which phrases I bond with, trying to cement the positive and distill the negative. But, like with all words... easier said than done.

Writing prompt #3: Blejski Vintgar

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #3

June 22, 2012

Writing prompt: The color green

Blejski Vintgar. Forever in my mind those two words will conjure up visions of lush green life. A half a mile up a mountain trail from the scenic lake Bled, hidden by pine trees and forest growth, unless you know where to look, is the small entrance to a breathtaking gorge. A winding canyon covered from floor to ceiling with more shades of green than could ever be named.

Earthy green moss hugs rocks and sides of tree trunks, swallowing up any harshness that might come about from their ordinary brown undertones. Wet new leaves cling to branches, still green with birth from a myriad of trees and bushes.

Water, but unlike any water you might have heretofore seen, rushes by, drinking in the forest, the emerald, the foam, the pine, the deep and the light, reflecting back a brilliant, transparent flowing green that mesmerizes even as it moves.

A thin wooden walkway, planks worn down with countless enchanted visitors hugs the side of the canyon, blending in perfectly to its forest surroundings. Bridges crisscross the gorge, trading sides to facilitate travel.

I stop half-way across one of these bridges, enveloped by every color of green and shout, echoing with the life so abundantly surrounding me.

Writing prompt #2: Haiku or two

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

Writing prompt #2

June 7, 2012

Prompt: Write Haikus

Frustration growing
Deep breath, eyes closed, inhaling
Peace and courage come

A bird is chirping
The wind is whistling hello
Morning has broken

Bikes clatter and fall
Backpacks drop. Voices clamber
School is out again.

Pulse racing at the
inevitable question:
What is for dinner?

Writing Prompt #1: remembering a sound...

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to uphold my prompt posting pledge.

April 12, 2012

Prompt: Right a memory inspired by a sound

"Do -- do -- do... if you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again... do -- do -- do"

Tittering laughter elbows me on my right and I fight not to join in. My mom is saying one of her prayers and our knees have all adjusted to the indents in the carpet. Fidgeting has started. And the beige phone, taken off the hook by my dad just before my mom started, has already gone through the cycle of busy beeps, tri-tones and the female robotic sounding voice three times.

My dad forgot to place the phone inside the second drawer and cover the speaker with the stack of well-used phone books. Well-used as muting devices during prayers, especially my mom's prayers. I know she can hear the distracting tones, the interrupting voice as well as the rest of us, but she is trying to make a point. Prayer is sacred. We should all be showing proper respect for the real communication happening.

But I smell the hot rolls sitting on the table, the smell of melting butter emanating off the lazy susan and tickling my taste buds. I try to focus on my mother's words. I am impatient now. All of us kids are hungry. Fighting back the giggles. And I think, "Come on mom, you've lost us. Enough already. If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and dial again."

The Prompt Posting Pledge

I've decided to post some of the results of writing prompts of five years of writer's group meetings.

If you don't understand what that means, let me explain. Five years ago, three dear friends, Liz, Kami, and Liz invited me to join their writer's group. We meet about twice a month and start of each meeting with a writing prompt (a phrase, a situation, some key words, really, it can be anything). We then have 10 minutes to write about that prompt. Then we share and critique our results. So, I thought it would be fun to post some of those. (Some would be too boring to even re-type, let alone read).

But, to make it more interesting, I came up with and will abide by my my Prompt Posting Pledge:

I, Jennie Blaser, promise to post exactly what I wrote during my 10 minutes of writing, and not to edit it (except to correct a typo) whilst typing it on this blog.

Signed,

Jennie Blaser

If iphones could talk... PROMPT

I have the immeasurable privilege of meeting twice a month with a writer's group. There are four of us ladies and we are searching for a great name for our group. Suggestions welcome. However, that is not the point of this post.

Each time we meet, we start off with a prompt. We then furiously scratch away for 10 minutes and then share what we wrote with each other. Sometimes they are silly, sometimes they are thought provoking. Sometimes they whet the literary appetite for an entire story to follow.

I thought I'd share some of the prompts I've written over the last two years. Now, keep in mind we are given these prompts cold and have only ten minutes. I have tried to correct grammar, but other than that, I've left the story as is. So, while this is not a New Years Resolution, I am trying to resurrect this blog just to put myself out there a bit more and declare: Yes, I am a writer.

Jan. 12, 2012

Prompt: A Christmas gift that you have wanted for a long time is finally yours. You put it away at the end of the day, and to your astonishment, it talks to you....

My response:

I finally decided to turn off my new iphone. Well, not turn it off, but plug it in to its charger and let it rest and get enough energy to deal with my insatiable desire for surfing the app store, playing words with friends, and texting.

For years my husband had told me to get a smart phone, that life would be easier with it. I'd shoved his sweet intentions away on basis of cost and necessity. Always the practical, responsible one. But, every marriage needs one. But, for Christmas, he had gotten me one and I had been too delighted to muster a complaint.

I got out of bed and plugged my phone into the wall charger. A soft ting confirmed it had landed. Then, I climbed back into bed, a smile on my face, and whispered, "Good night iphone."

"Good night, Jennie." came a husky, robotic voice in reply. My heart lurched out of my body before my mind could follow.

"Who's there?" I winced. I looked over at my husband's sleeping form to see if he was pranking me. He answered with a steady snore.

"iphone?"

"Yes?" The same voice answered. I looked over to where I had plugged it in.

"Can you hear me?" Trepidation in every syllable.

"Yes."

A sudden realization. "Is this Siri?" The newest iphones came with a lady's voice programmed to answer any question you might have. "This is Siri, right?"

"No, I'm not Siri. Siri can only respond when you touch her microphone button. I am your iphone. I've come to tell you an important message before you get so carried away with me that you wile away your life."

"I don't... um... are you alive?" Was I awake?

"No, I'm not alive. I'm your iphone. Now, do you want the message?"

"Um... sure, I guess."

"As long as you own me, I'll be monitoring your time, your thoughts, your words, and your deeds. And, at the last day, at the final judgment, I'll be there, ready with my report of your life. So, use me wisely."

Within minutes, the only apps on my iphone I still had were the gospel library, LDS tools, and the Mormon Channel.