Offering up samples of writing prompt exercises, I have done. This series is from Chris Brogan’s book – Find Your Writing Voice. These are mostly unedited not meant for publication. The title reflects the writing prompt. Do you want to join in? You can buy the book and share your samples.
Or just create your own prompts to share.
Childhood home From another perspective
I am so weary of this place. It has grown gray and dry with age. The warmth of firelight is gone. The old mantelpiece has been bricked in so no real warmth is allowed in anymore. The little girls have turned on the oven and are wrapped in blankets vying for some warmth. Their mother, full of sorrow and loss, is inclined to rest in her bed. Her redheaded man has died and she is left with these dark-haired girls to care for and all she really wants to do is die herself.
I remember her husband, as a boy, living with his mother and father. He was pale as ice, laced with freckles with a swath of red hair that seemed to glow in the dark. Like his dad he was training to be Press Man, the stain of ink was already permanent on his pale fingers. At night, under the gaslight, I would watch him draw into the morning. The cold glint of the morning light would come through and he would put on the water for tea and cereal hastily putting away his drawings from unapproving parents. His talent was real, but this was idle folly. Nothing could come of it. He used his talent to draw out images for the vendors that needed something for advertising. His real talent would be lost to time. His sister who suffered from Cerebral Palsy would stir first. Her twisted body uncomfortable from her stiff little bed. He helped her to the chamber pot taking care of her needs before her mother roused.
His mother would suffer the same sorrow of his future wife, losing both her husband and daughter within six months. Later her red-headed boy would die young and she would leave his young wife to her sorrows while she went to the Crazy house to suffer hers.
I was here from the start – when this place was a showplace, the first garden apartments. The mahogany banisters curved up, and the fireplaces kept the main rooms warm. The gaslight gave the rooms a dark glow, making everyone’s features soft. There was nothing around at the time and there was a direct line to the East River and the Steinway Piano Factory that gave work to the local men and some of the women. The gardens were filled with roses, and lavender and scented the air. At night the fog horn could be heard warning the boats to be aware.
I was happy here as a young wife. Until my husband took to drink and late nights and violent moods. And then I lost my baby girl, her tiny frame turning pale blue in my arms. I am afraid I began the sorrows that have pervaded this place. The wooden frame darkening from it over time. It was the dark night when my husband’s rage took me too. I gladly gave myself over to death. But no one would mark the death of another woman and so I have kept watch over the family’s here. Growing fond of the red-headed boy and his sweet little girls, happy when they left to be released from the sorrow of this place. Now I am just a wisp that lingers over the new construction. Tickling the neck of a workman, or knocking down a can of paint. Silly stuff really. I wait. There is a red-headed boy coming down the block.
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