The blog

Prompt: Write a 55 word story about clothing

Way out

She shook her pouch like a maraca and adjusted her coat. Crunch. Warm and dry. She rigged it from thread, tape, and space blankets littered after the city’s marathon last month. The garment looked silly but soon produced local envy and the start of a little business. Jingle. These coins would be her way out.

Every month my writing group convenes for 90 minutes. 30 mins of shooting the breeze, 30 mins of creative writing, and 30 minutes of sharing. This is the result.

Prompt: Write a story that includes 3 sounds I hear around me

Kkkkk...kkk...kkk... 2 weeks away. Week over week, the familiar static had become a pavlov's bell for a little snooze as she lay heavy and horizontal. Today, though, sleep was chased just out of reach by a spike of anxiety.

"Aww. Look at her little toes." Sure enough, all 5 on each foot: a relief for her dark imagination. Kkk...kkk...clang! She flinched. The sticky wand just slipped from the doctor's hand onto the metal cart.

"Well, everything looks great Hannah. That's it. Your last checkup before delivery. If you have no further questions, I'll leave you to get dressed and wish you luck!" After a few exchanged thanks, the door clicked close. Hannah and her forever companion together, alone.

I wrote this short story on the back of a receipt in a bustling bar with a record player. It was inspired by an extended family member that was due any day.

I wrote this poem for the Heritage Dance Project with Group Motion Dance Company in late 2020. At that time, as for many, I felt broken. My body, my identity, creativity, all felt so foreign to me. I struggled with the project's prompt to explore my heritage through dance, song, and text. Still, with encouragement, I forced myself to try. To attempt moving and expressing again, and see what happened. Within those awkward attempts, I found some simple truths I could write about honestly: how dancing/moving feels to me and how the process of doing improv dancing had wider wisdom and questions for me. 3 years later, I find the strong visuals in this text force me into breath and movement as I read it. I hope it can help you find the same.

A Dance Meditation

When I shut off the mind voice,
the devil,
the angel on my shoulders,
the worried idle prattle,
I breathe into my body.
Feel the cool air flow into my nasal cavity,
slide down and warm into my lungs.

Breathe out.

I picture the air radiate outward into my lowering shoulders,

Prompt: Write about the kyptonite of the super power shapeshifting

Transcript from a Super Powers Anonymous meeting

"Hello, my power is shape shifting, and I don’t know who I am.

Everything was going fine enough until 2020. As of 2020, I can’t enter a chatroom without being asked to give a little speech about who I am – Greek, male, he/him, lactose intolerant, son of Zeus and Hera. The last part is true, but I could drink as much milk as you weigh if I turn into a baby elephant right now, and then I wouldn’t be Greek either. But really, every new social gathering I go to I’m asked to give a little bio of myself these days. And it feels like a lie, it feels like I’m constantly lying to everyone. My super power might be better said: pathological liar, founded in 2020. Good name for a speakeasy. I feel I am as much that baby elephant as a centaur as the son of Zeus. And I feel just as much that I am none of those things. I hate these chats. I eyeroll at giving these bios. I hate channeling myself into a few words that people are going to interpret wrongly anyway. Somedays I just want to be an asshole (not literally) and what am I going to introduce myself as, then? Can’t I be an asshole for a day and live in peace? It used to be fun and carefree, shape shifting. I could be spontaneous to suit the moment, shape shift from my joy or anger. But these new norms that ask me who I am at every turn…they have me feeling like a liar. I’m not a liar, not in most of my forms, and I don’t think of myself that way. I fundamentally don’t and can’t know who I am. I can be anything. But I can’t be who you want me to be, when you want it. Where among mortals can that be alright?"

Every month my writing group convenes for 90 minutes. 30 mins of shooting the breeze, 30 mins of creative writing, and 30 minutes of sharing. This is the result.