365 Prompts
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Holding Hands: The first time you held someone’s hand.
We're here with Dr. Smitters to discuss his most recent hypothesis regarding the peoples -- and I use the term loosely! -- of Saturn. Dr. Smitters, please give us the elevator pitch: quick and simple.
Well now, quick and simple, that's asking a lot of an old professor, but I'll give it my best shot. None of my students ever said it about me, mind you, they likely bemoan how I ramble on but let us see. The peoples -- and I do use that term definitively myself -- of Saturn are just that. Individuals comprising a community. We have only just recognized that they are individuals, as the nature of Saturn itself tends to encourage the mistaken belief that there is no sentience present. Advances in the James Webb telescope ha--
Dr. Smitters! I did say quick and simple! Hah! Now we had a podcast just recently about the telescope and its infrared optics, so we'd like you to focus on the discovery instead. Please, go on.
--ve allowed us to look deeper at the gas clouds of Saturn. More specifically, at what we previously believed was hydrogen and helium in their initial stages, but now understand to be quite the opposite. The peoples of Saturn, while they do not appear human in any way, do show every sign of a truly complex sentience. They react to stimuli and --
But doctor! How can you be sure they can think at all? Couldn't it just be something like plants or bugs?
-- have shown an understanding of mathematics as relayed to them through a variant on Morse code with light, from the James Webb itself. Of more interest to the softer sciences, the peoples of Saturn appear to merge and intersect in ways analogous to the very gas clouds we originally thought them to--
Are they telepaths? Should we be worried about them coming to Earth and taking over? You have to admit, it's a scary thought!
-- be, but now understand is only their outward form. As a community, they use their merged selves to form patterns and achieve what limited physical -- as we think fo it -- structures they feel are truly important. This promotes a truly cooperative environment that may provide a wonderful example to our own governments and communities about the benefits and necessity of working togeth--
No politics, Dr. Smitters! We're here for science!
-- er. I myself have been in contact with them, and while I am certain there will be some initial confusion and uncertainty, soon enough we will see them for what they truly are.
And what is that, doctor?
Our saviors, dear boy. Our saviors.
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- Photograph: Write a story or journal entry influenced by a photograph.
She held the photo up close in one hand. Close enough to tap her nose, close enough the image inside was a blurry muss of shapes and colors, no true photo after all. A deep breath in, a slow breath out: her exhale ruffled the edges of the glossy paper. Was that a breeze on her own neck?
As tests went, the results weren't entirely clear. She brought it back down and frowned at the image. How to be sure? Up it came again, pressed to skin, eyes squeezed tightly shut in concentration. Her tongue creeped out to lick, fast fast, a quick swipe almost dry. Was that pressure against her shoulder?
Still unconclusive. She brought it back down one more time, forehead furrowed while she considered her options. There was only one way she could figure how to be absolutely sure, but it wouldn't be pleasant if it was all true.
The photo came back up a third time. Her experimentation was cut short by the wailing tattle-tale cry of her younger sister.
"MOOOOOM! SHE'S GOT THE LIGHTER OUT AGAIN!"
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- Alarm Clock: Write about waking up.
Gentle Reader, I beg leave to take a moment of your time to consider the morning. Not yet the rising of the sun, that glorious burst of color and heat that so enlivens the spirit, though this too will find a place in our ruminations. Rather, reflect and wonder (these are two separate activities, one of the soul, one of the mind, and though they follow one another often, it is not a requirement) upon that moment when awareness dawns instead, lids unfolding from blissful or restless slumber as our Gentle Reader deems appropriate. It is a breath of startling delight, that there has been a rebirth after the evening's small and comforting death, a cycle continuing in so far unceasing order from one to the next, ever circling inwards and downwards towards the singular moment when it will simply cease. Pray forgive so morbid a hesitation, but rather understand that in the manner of contrasts, it must be held up against the joy that is the waking. As that self-same and previously delighted-upon sun does continue its course, so too do we. There, now it is with the sweetest urging that I suggest you compare yourself to the sun itself, blossoming outwards and upwards into the fullness of the hours until settling back down again to rejuvenate. Though we are alike, we do not have the strength of that august body, which never truly settles down but instead simply moves its attention to the other side of the globe in its own cycle. It is only through our gaze that it finds some sweet rest that might, Gentle Reader, put lie to its travails. We are a necessary to her as she to us, in this way; would the sun rise if there were none to see it wake? Would we wake, if there were no sun to greet us?
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- Darkness: Write a poem or journal entry inspired by what you can’t see.
What is the difference between an inability to see because the room is dark, and an inability to see because the light doesn't illuminate enough? There's a hairsbreadth between the two: one is an on/off binary (dark: yes/no), the other is details that lead to conclusion. In practicality, they are the same result; the reason behind that end point aren't important to the person trying to look into the room. This is one of many reasons why VR tricks us so easily. Perception is reality when it comes down to the nitty-gritty of moving through that reality. Does it really matter that the reason I can't see through a wall is because it's designed to be opaque, rather than because the wall absorbs the visible light?
If the practicalities mean they're one and the same, why do we insist so strongly that the things we design and create aren't reality? A robot isn't a person, some cry! The relationships developed online aren't real, some protest! But if my heart hurts because a friend is gone, is it any less true a pain because we spoke in text more often than in person? Children wouldn't exist without our input either; does this make them more or less real than the robot that wouldn't be here if we didn't program and create it?
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- Refreshed: Write a poem about a time you really felt refreshed and renewed. Maybe it was a dip into a pool on a hot summer day, a drink of lemonade, or other situation that helped you relax and start again. (Writer's Note: Did this one need so much explanation, List? Why not just write it yourself?)
It is sticky, you understand? There is a cling to it, the way it grasps hold of the skin and refuses to let go easily. It is not unpleasant, after you find some peace with the sensation. Rather, it becomes an enveloping clasp, greedy, unwilling to let you free. You will say this is a metaphor, I can see it in your gaze. If this is what you need to feel superior in these moments, I grant it to you. I had wondered if the family would make a difference. And here you are, so much the same as any peasant, but with a finer brow, a deeper mind. Will it work all the stronger for that delight? A scream resounds against the stone the same, I have found. But that is external, and we speak now of the blood. I am fortunate indeed to have this opportunity. As we sit here, you the ingredient, I the bather, we have a few small moments to converse. It is sweet, to know that someone with wit has given of herself. I will miss you, when they wash you out from beneath my fingernails and you are gone at last.
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- Handle With Care: Write about a very fragile or delicate object.
I am fragile, but I do not wish to be seen that way.
I feel I am always on the trembling edge of ruin, but I don't want you to worry about shoving me over.
I want to be acknowledged as tender without external effort to handle me gently.
Do not take the responsibility on yourself to worry about breaking me.
Yours is not the breath, the hand, the accidental elbow that will shatter me to pieces.
Pressure from the outside only stiffens the walls, and those few allowed inside are more danger than you will ever be from where you stand.
If this external truth threatens to smash you upon the rocks, I beg you close your doors and barricade your windows.
You are fragile, but you needn't be treated that way.
You are on the trembling edge of ruin, but I trust you can keep yourself steady without my hand.
You are tender, but that is your touch on others, not others on you.
I will not break you.
Mine is not the crushing blow from the blue.
If I am inside your walls even now, it is because we trust the danger is worth the risk.
If this internal truth keeps you steady in a gale, I beg you share that steadiness with me.
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- Drama: Write about a time when you got stuck in between two parties fighting with each other.
"Your Honor, I didn't--"
"Ms. Blathersome, did you or did you not say those words?"
"Well I suppose I did but--"
"But me no buts, Ms. Blathersome. You are as aware as any that it requires constant, regular effort to avoid these small contretemps."
"Doesn't it matter that I didn't mean to do it!"
"Madam, it does not."
"But what about Ms. Rambleon! She took my innocently erring words too personally!"
"You may be sure that I will be speaking sternly with that lady as well. These things require two parties at minimum, I do not deny it. Even so, that you mention her at all does you no credit whatsoever."
"I'm just saying that she deserves some of the blame too!"
"Ms. Blathersome, in this, you are both equally at fault, I agree. You for sparking the conflagration, her for providing the tinder. This does not halve your punishment, however. It doubles instead."
"... what do you mean, doubles?"
"It means that until the both of you learn to extend the courtesy required of a decent and community-oriented society, that is to say the grace of benefit of the doubt, you will walk together. I wish you good day and good fortune in your time with her. If either of you should return alone, you will be put out."
"!!"
"Return of one mind and in convivial spirit with one another, or do not bother to return at all. I say good day to you, madam. Bailiff, please escort this lady out and bring in Ms. Rambleon."
"Your Honor, she--"
"Ms. Rambleon, did you or did you not assume these words were an attack on your honor?"
"Well I suppose I did but--"
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- Slip Up: Write about making mistakes. (Writer's Note: Hah. Today's entry about mistakes is me mistaking this one for the last one when I started writing.)
You're frustrated. The traffic was bad today, the coffee wasn't quite hot enough and you spilled some of the cream on the counter. The key to your office didn't turn quite smoothly so it caught just a hitch. Then when you get to your email, someone suggests you don't know how to do your job. Oh, they don't say it outright, they don't give it full voice so you could respond in turn. No, he hinted. He gently laid the implication down on the table and then backed away just before you could slap him (proverbially speaking).
So you explode. No, not figuratively. Literally. Your whole body goes up in a great combusion of heat and force, expanding outwards in a rush that knocks down walls, throws corpses into the next county over, sends a great pillar of roaring flame and cascading energy into the sky above. The world for miles around is a crater of demolished concrete, rebar sticking up like broken bones from the ruins of what was.
You pick yourself up and stomp away. That bitch deserved it. You feel a lot better now.
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- Spice: Write about flavors and tastes or a favorite spice of yours.
The warmth is soft at first. There's no brash edge to it, no grating serration. It begins in the throat instead of the tongue, a slow and unhurried rising burn.
If you're sensitive enough, you'll still flinch: it's too much.
If you're desensitized enough, you'll still sigh: it's too little.
But right... there, that middle path. Those of us walking the narrow line find it comforting without crossing the invisible barrier into enveloping. It's a two-step dance, one ingredient to delay the onset, the other to push the heat to the back. We won't say that's where the taste buds notice it; we know that's a fallacy of old. Nonetheless, as the dance unfolds, the sensation settles into place and lingers. You'll feel it for a little while even after you've finished eating, if it was particularly well done, and wonder if maybe there's any leftovers to remember it.
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- Sing a New Song: Take a popular song off the radio and rewrite it as a poem in your own words. (Writer's Note: What's a radio?)
The Time approaches, but
it will not be sudden.
It will grow as slowly
as the skies move;
the sign of our mother
to her rightful place of Partnership,
the King of the gods
walking alongside the
Lord of War.The Courts above will dance
in stately grace,
together and unrushed.
Around them will swing the lights
that shine down upon us all.The World awakens
to a time of untrammeled sweetness
and unbending light of joy.The Voices will rise up
in delight
at their recognition that each
is a note woven together as one.
We cannot help but feel our
neighbors in our hearts
when we look upwards and sing.
There is no room for unrighteous anger;
no room for vicious lies;
no room even for those slights
that do not plunge deep but always
leave a wound.The Sleeping will sigh softly
as they drift through the lands
of Nod on a gentle breeze.
Our minds will open to cast rainbows
as the waves cascade through us to
refract delight and truth.
Unfolded like the blossom
we have longed for so long. -
- Telephone: Write about a phone call you recently received.
The Millennials are killing us. We were already dead, that's the long and short of it. But here we are, shut out twice over. Every time one of those dastards cancels their phone line, we lose another chance to connect. All those hard-lines, all those wires buried deep and swooping overhead: those we can touch. Those we can ride through, a physical body to compensate for what we've lost. What do we get through VOIP and cell towers? Nothing! There's no true bridge when it's waves in the air; we're dead, not wizards.
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- Name: Write a poem or short story using your name in some way or form.
It only seems like magic. In truth, it is the ultimate science. As the saying goes, if it is advanced enough... Take the waves created by a voice. They move through the air, breath translated through vocal chord vibrations into sound. They are pushing the world around us in infintesimally small ways, those waves. Pressure rides behind them, however slight.
Add to that the mind of a man. She lays meaning into those sounds, weaving denotation and connotation together in a grand tapestry. Both are key: without the sound there would be no physical presence. Without the meaning it would only be noise. The physical and the mental are merged in speech; do not doubt that sign language applies as well. Fingers and hands are another form of physicality after all.
We are all connected, entangled in countless variant ways. It is a quantum truth. So do not be surprised when she speaks a name and across the world, he hears it. She is only applying the pressure of her voice and the meaning of the name itself. He is playing the universe, plucking at those strings as easily as the guitar in her hands.
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- Dollhouse: Write a poem or short story from the viewpoint of someone living in a doll house.
The silent scream never ends; bite her feet, remove her head, pose her to your will, and still she cannot protest, only stare forward in blank and fathomless horror.
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- Random Wikipedia Article: Go to Wikipedia and click on Random Article. Write about whatever page you get. (Writer's Note: Link at the end.)
I know someone you don't know. I'll describe her for you.
Marge is a sweet lady. She'd never say so about herself of course, if you have to say it about yourself, it's not really true. But she is. Sweet, that is. She's got two kids, an older daughter... 7, I think? And a younger daughter, just turned 3. Marge is a stay-at-home mom, though she says she doesn't actually stay all that often. The girls like to go out to the park too much, and Angela -- that's the older one -- is a gymnastics fanatic. You mention it and she's off like a rocket to show you her mad tumbling skills. Marge is worried about Angie's little sister, Dorothy. Dot's all over princess, and pink bows in her hair, and talks in a ramble about how she's going to have ten babies and make cakes with unicorns on. She's only 3, right? So Marge isn't ready to get out the big guns, but she is a little concerned in a third-wave sorta way. Babies and cakes might make a strong woman, but they're an old-fashioned way to go about it. Still. Only 3. She's got time. Marge says that her husband Joe is her rock. She knows it's trite, but she laughs when she says it so it's okay. There's not a mean bone in Marge's body, and that's a bit trite too, but it's the truth so we'll go with it.
When she gets drunk -- a couple times a year, if that -- Marge talks about her college years. About how she spent hours debating the concept of the number zero. Then she asks you if you've ever really thought about it. The number zero, that is. A word to talk about nothingness. Two drinks and she'll just giggle. Three and she'll sigh, and go on a ramble (it reminds me of Dot just a little) wondering if talking about nothingness means it's not nothing after all. She's willing to talk about that sort of thing when she's not drunk, but it doesn't come up on its own. She's too busy with her life to let her mind wander that way. Angie's got a meet, and where did Dot put her yellow sun-dress? That sort of thing. If you walked in on it and you might forget about more esoteric things for a second too.
Once upon a time, I was out with Marge. On the town, as it were. The girls were spending the day with their grandmother, so we had a chance to get out. Get some coffee, a little browsing through antique stores. We don't ever buy anything, but we like to look, and talk about where it would fit in our mansion if we won the lotto. Marge doesn't play (her dad used to tell her it's a tax on stupidity, she admitted when I asked) but I've promised her I'll share my winnings. Anyway, we were out and an old man was standing in the middle of the store, looking awfully confused. Marge didn't miss a beat, she asked him if he was okay and offered to help him find somewhere to sit. That's how she is, you know? Always willing to help. I wonder sometimes why we're friends, I'm not that nice on my best day. Marge says that when the girls are both in school in a year or two, she figures she'll go find a charity to volunteer for. And take a nap every day, but I figure that's just something all stay-at-home parents want, so that doesn't count. She thought about volunteering for the PTA, but I think she'll be ready to give herself some space, and I told her so.
Anyways, Marge is looking for some friends here on Facebook. If you'd like to chat with her, let me know? She's just started one up for the first time, she'd heard some awful things about it, but I figure if I introduce her to good people, she'll be alright in the end.
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- Silly Sports: Write about an extreme or silly sport. If none inspire you, make up the rules for your own game. (Writer's Note: eSports count, right? This idea sprang out of the doll-prompt the other day.)
Solo-play game with other-player elements. Protagonist is a doll. Gameplay is adventure-puzzle, ala Monkey Island, with timed instances when 'living' antagonists are in the room. Avatars are featureless/hairless (wooden posing dolls), but character creation allows for a limited range of body-types.
At the beginning of the game, Player plays with an assortment of dolls, no faces. They can pose them, snap photos, interact with set pieces in the room, etc. Gameplay as Protagonist ensues. During cut-scenes and/or when a 'living' antagonist captures the protagonist, the antagonist playing with the dolls is a random other-player recording of that initial doll-segment. That is to say, Player A will have cut-scenes based on how Player C played with the faceless initial dolls. This is random, and has no identifiers as to who the other players are, but allows everyone just a little presence in each other's games.
Concerns: people are awful and it would be easy to get something X-rated in some random kid's game on accident.
Story Themes: Helplessness vs Actualization, Recognition of the Absurdity that is Most Life, Freedom of Choice, Small Actions Can Make Big Ripples
Story Progression: 1) Realization of self-awareness; 2) Finding other aware toys (positive and negative); 3) Discovering why dolls/toys became self-ware; 4) Chose whether to keep awareness or return to sleep
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- Recipe: Write about a favorite recipe, or create a poem that is a recipe for something abstact, such as a feeling.
You're horrified. I know you are, but you needn't be. Don't you understand? When we do this, it's both more and less than a religious experience. More: we are taking the essence of Other into Self. We are absorbing, lengthening, continuing a vital chain of existence. Though us, what we eat does not die, but lives on! It uplifts both the consumer and the consumed in the act. But also less: we do it viscerally. We injest. Pause the next time you put something in your mouth; do it slowly. Gently. Inexorably. You are destroying what is within, reducing it to component parts and then massaging as you swallow. They say eating is like sex, but what they should be saying is that sex is like eating. You become practiced and comfortable with eating long before you ever learn how to fuck. I can see you flinching at the word, but that's the point, don't you see? It's raw and ugly and violent and so incredibly satisfying. In eating, we accomplish both the spiritual act of combination and the physical act of duality in destruction-creation. That's why you shouldn't fight so hard against the ropes. You're bruising the meat early.
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ONE-FIFTH OF THE WAY THROUGH, FOLKS! CAN SHE DO IT? WILL SHE CHOKE ON 95, “DESCRIBE A TIME A COMIC BOOK CHARACTER LET YOU DOWN”?! STAY TUNED!
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- Famous Artwork: Choose a famous painting and write about it.
When I see his face on the canvas, I know: there is no change. We did not speak every day before. We do not speak every day now. I thought of him in fleeting moments before. I do the same now, as the mood strikes. The light plays across the oil to set his eyes sparking, just as the light did across his face. There is no difference in the end. I thought there would be. When I caught him in the painting, it was to hold him to me forever. I was certain our love would stand the test of time, that having his image would help to cement what lay between us. But no, now he is only a silently screaming wraith trapped in fabric and I am left wondering if my new neighbor is thinking of me as I think of him. Perhaps true love will blossom there? So many have failed me, but this time... this time it will be better. I know it.
