Posts made by EmmahSue

It's okay when I share it myself. It's not okay when others do (whether for their own use or telling to others). All else is questions about whether the painting is oil or watercolor.

ES

57. 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?

56. 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!"

55. 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.

54. Dear Diary: Write a poem or short story about a diary entry you’ve read or imagined.

O Diary! The most amazing man has entered my life! He is tall, and handsome with a chin that juts out with the tastiest aggressiveness, and a dark head of hair that begs for the stroke of a finger! The muscles alone deserve singing hosanas! I simply cannot wait to toss him into the sands to see what he's worth! Such a spectacle of manliness! Imagine that fine form rippling with exertion! And if he should live, might there be a chance at pitting him against something greater still? O Diary, I tremble to think of him fierce and fighting for his life against Madame N's favorite toy soldier! Let the games begin!

Thread rez!

That is to say, I am ST'ing and NPC'ing at DarkWater these days, as I have the time and energy.

ES

53. Tear-Jerker: Watch a movie that makes you cry. Write a poem about that scene in the movie. (Writer's Note: PUSHY. No. :|)

Shame: I didn't help. Guilt: I made it worse. Uncertainty: I'll never know how it turns out. You can say it's enough to try until you're blue in the face. You can say someone already falling can't be caught from above. But I still want to bury my head in a loving shoulder and hide. I am helpless in the face of so much pain and loneliness that the only answer is to stop. The futility of crying only adds a dash of self-directed anger to the mix: tears do nothing. Get back on the proverbial horse. Try again with the next.

52. Memory Lane: What’s it look like? How do you get there?

Elevator Pitch: The Memory Palace App

We each of us have the capacity to use a memory palace for those bits and pieces we deem important. Numbers, dates, paragraphs, the flotsam and jetsom of no importance and all importance. But so few build that palace, even when they know it can be done.

Enter the Memory Palace App!

Meant for training purposes, the MPA is designed to allow the user to take photographs -- whether personal or from stock -- and place them on a map in whatever order makes sense to the user. The MPA comes with a wide variety of icons and other methods of marking those photographs, all the better to insert the mental-visual cues that will bring up the memories in question. Using one's phone to assist in traveling through the individual's palace, the user is thus guided through the process of developing the necessary internal steps.

The MPA is free, with in-app purchase available for larger and more complex maps in which to place the images of choice.

(Sigh. If only I knew how to code.)

51: Sunrise/Sunset: It goes round and round.

There is no room for existential dread in the celestial bodies. They are entirely and wholly their motion. It is the opposite of anthropomorphism; though they may think, it is alien to our own. Even this much is pressing too far. It gives them purpose in what humanity can see, rather than in their own doings. Realize instead that there is no room in them for humanity itself. We are as meaningless as the concept of smallness. Can we acknowledge what may be watching us unseen and unknown? Does the cell think that perhaps the bodies moving through space have personality and thought beyond its own? The comparison is like to like, metaphor repeating in layers further and further contraction outwards and upwards, expansion inwards and downwards. Each time know that you are farther from yourself in ways that you cannot begin to imagine.

50. Just Say No: Write about the power you felt when you told someone no. (Writer's Note: This one feels just a little too topical. :p)

no no no no no no no no no no no she screams as she runs up and down the aisle with her tiny feet pattering against the tile so that you can hear the stomping just under the chanted cry that is her refusal to give up the orange otter-pop box she yanked free of the now precariously-leaning tower in the store and you wonder for just a moment if maybe while she's shouting no no no no no at the top of her lungs the sound might stop if only the boxes would tumble atop her indignantly furious head and they're cardboard with some slush in so it wouldn't really hurt her and possibly the cops wouldn't think anything of it though your husband might recognize the impulse and call you out so no no no none of that and where has she gone now as it's suspiciously quiet all asudden

49. Joke Poem: What did the wall say to the other wall? Meet ya at the corner! Hahaha.

There once was a girl in Atlanta
Who put on her cape and her manta'
She strode through the streets
Tossing fist and kicked feet
'Til they knew she was serious as shit about not putting up with this crap.

48. The Stars: Take inspiration from a night sky.

When she steps out of doors, the heavens unfold above her. Tiny pinpricks in the proverbial blanket of night are proof that something larger still has been kneading with kitten-claws at the protective embrace of the sky. The light shining through is so very distant. It crosses that distance so slowly. She can feel the press of it against her skin, the glow falling like rain only gentler than any water could hope to achieve, more powerful than the heaviest geyser. The heartbeat when she first steps out into the open is the hardest. That's when the urge is strongest. It woudln't take any effort at all really. She looks up and knows that with just a shrug... just that. The weight of skin would fall away, the sensations would stop, the sound and light and tastes would fade from notice. Just a shrug would let her rise up to rejoin that oh-so-distant light.

When she steps indoors, the world enfolds her close. Perhaps tomorrow night.

The gentleman who runs idealist.org (visit to see if there are jobs and/or volunteer opportunities in your area or online that might work out) has proposed a regular series of board game days in public spaces. The goal is to bring local community/neighborhood folks together, get them playing and talking. When the mood is right, the event-runner asks a couple questions meant to prompt people to discuss what they can do in their area to help improve it, whatever improvement means to them. He suggests 3/3, 4/4, 5/5, etc. each month as the date of choice.

(Link to his original proposal: https://medium.com/@AmiDar/idealists-of-the-world-unite-c84b69429086)

Anyways, I mention it because we seem to enjoy games as a group. There are FB groups opening up for various cities, for interested parties to congregate and plan. I myself don't plan to host an event alone, but I'll likely offer to help if anyone in my area wants to take on the brunt of the work.

ES

47. Light Switch: Write about coming out of the dark and seeing the light.

It descends, it does. Slow and gentle-like. Lay yourself flat in the grass, with the sun bright overhead, with the clouds gone all puffy like little bunny-rabbits and shreds of white against the blue. Let your mum lift the sheet over you. The way she waves it from bottom to top in a sure flick of her wrist, now that's how it is. The way the white cotton undulates -- now there's a word, proud of myself for that one -- in slow motion, with the bright sun a bright barely yellow disk up behind it as it moves. The shadows play across your face too, rising and falling and falling with the breeze of the fabric to kiss your nose, right there. That's how it comes down, so soft you hardly ever know it's there until it kisses your nose. When you take in that breath and catch the scent of a warm summer day from the washing hung out, and you know you'll still find it hiding there when you bury your face in that sheet in your own bed... that's what breathing it in feels like, too. She's laughing, your mum. Real quiet-like, laughing from the joy of knowing you're there, laughing because you're laughing, and isn't it all the better for the two of you together. You can close your eyes when she settles down on top of the sheet next to you, separated by that slip of cloth. Her breath says she's there, you can hear it now, can't you, and you know she's looking at the shape of you, the child, her child, pretending to hide under the sheet. You'll pull yourself out in a second to say boo, and won't she play-pretend she's surprised then, she will. That golden moment, that's what it is. They ask me what I'll pay and the answer is anything and everything, just to have that moment back again.

46. Dirty: Write a poem about getting covered in mud. (Writer's Note: Is it just me, or does it feel like this prompt desperately wants you to write a poem about talking smack?)

There are tiny things alive in the dirt. Oh, you're telling yourself that of course there are, they're called bacteria Becky, oh-em-gee. But I'm telling you, there's something else! They're just as eesy-weeny teeny-tiny as that other stuff, but they're different, I promise! That's why I had to get Timmy into my house, so I could wash him off as soon as possible. I know how it looks, but I just couldn't let the tiny things in the dirt start wriggling into his skin! I could just see it, they were starting to do that little wiggly thing that makes the bubbles pop in the mud? It was horrible! That's why I had the bleach, you see? It all makes sense now, right? Sally, why are you grabbing the phone? I already told you, it was to keep Timmy safe from the tiny things!

45. Mirror, Mirror: What if you mirror started talking to you?

I begin to believe I am the reflection. It is the little things that suggest it. Some objects... I worry they do not exist independently of my presence. I lifted the phone to my ear the other morning, but there was no sound. Did the person I had been speaking to simply cease? Will she return when I see her again? And there is always someone there, staring at me when I look into a shard of glass. Their eyes bore into mine when I dare to look directly, but if I should only glance, they play keep-away. Only her edges appear. Sometimes there are snippets of darkness in my vision, tiny floating pinpricks. They fade. Eventually. Are these the mirror gone smudged and occluded? Is someone in the real world wiping them away when I am not looking closely at her actions? Long stretches of nothingness consume hours of my life. The world simply goes away between one blink and the next, and when I open them again, it is as if no time has passed. But it has. I grow obsessed with her, this truer, realer version of me. Now and then I seek her out, reaching for anything that might show me what she is doing. And there she is. Staring. Is she as obsessed as I am? It is a strange thing, to suspect one is a reflection. If I am not the veritas, then is anything I do my own? Every action taken is only a mimicry, no control, no volition. I hope she treats them kindly, the people she knows in her solid world. I wouldn't like to hurt anyone, even if it wouldn't be my fault.

44. Insult: Write about being insulted. (Writer's Note: Two for the price of one.)

But she's such a gentle soul.

(There is so much shadow packed into the nooks and crannies cast by the light of this compliment that they could swallow the sun were they let loose. But don't you worry. The compliment about you is totally legit.)

--------

Okay okay okay, you want to know what it's like. Think of it... think of it like colors. Friendship, friendship is this nice warm golden brown... ugh. Nevermind, not like colors, that's not right. Scents instead! Rage is cinnamon, that sharp kind you get when you turn it into candy so you want to spit it out but it's still so sweet and tasty? No no, that's not right either, not rage'y enough. Okay. Okay okay. Feelings. Feelings are like feelings! When someone tosses shade at you, that's like getting slashed by the edge of a wet towel. It stings and then it fades but you still flinch every time you think about whoever snapped it at you maybe doing it again. Except that's not... that's not it either. I don't know! I don't know how to describe it to you. Empathy is just knowing, no matter what the books say.

43. The Sound of Silence: Write about staying quiet when you feel like shouting.

It is this I will always remember: they were a people who laughed. Even as they heard the ultimatum, they stared up at us with wondering, delighted eyes. The translator informed in tinny tones that they were shouting invitations upwards: come down, sit with them, join in the day's festival, would we like something to [untranslatable]? I remember how quiet the bridge was in return, the silence echoing around those welcoming words. We all just stared at our controls. What could we say? The ultimatum was already broadcast. They'd had years now to come to grips with the situation. Still they laughed; it wasn't fearful. I've heard many incredulous, horrified titters and nervous chuckles in my day. These people laughed for joy. I almost went down amoung them to ask why, I felt that urge. Uniform and regulations held me back, but I wanted to. Desperately. I've asked the xenologists over the years, as opportunity presented itself. They don't know either. So I'm left with the laughter haunting my dreams. Who would have thought that something so carefree would linger so long in the quiet of the ship's recycled air? We've all moved on to other ships by now, different posts, new berths. That's a good thing. I don't know that I could meet the eyes of someone who'd heard it too. I pushed the button. They'd know what I cut short.

42. Warehouse: Write about being inside an old abandoned warehouse.

There are concrete daises and bollards scattered throughout; this was a place for industry once. The metal is gone, the memory of the workers themselves slipped away. What's left behind is a carcass, little more than bones with no flesh, muscle, organs between. I can feel a whisper of its death trickling down my spine as I walk through the great open spaces. Production has fallen still, all the sounds laid low. My footsteps and breathing are the settling of the corpse into nothing. Perhaps it will find new use some far off day; do we not carve jewelry, musical instruments, knick-knacks from the skeleton of other animals? But for now it is only silent, empty, coated in a thin layer of dust.

@cobaltasaurus : Ping me on Discordia or in email with details, my dove. We can chat out the d'tails.