I have some extra time on my hands today so I was thinking about writing prompts. These are particularly useful in getting the creative juices flowing. (Hopefully for you that doesn’t mean tears). So for today’s prompt…A Chipped Wooden Bowl. Let us say that you are the bowl, where are you? what is your story? Sometimes we get caught up in the basics of we see something, we describe something. Every once in a while it helps to step out of that role and look at things from a different view-point.And remember, do not tell us what you can show us.
The house looked just a remember it had. I hadn’t been in this room for over fifteen years. There were a few additions over the years, cobwebs and debris blown in through the broken windows. This use to be called home. Now, nothing but a broken shell of bad memories. I hated it here. I don’t know why I came. But when I got the phone call I telling me my father had just died in prison, I felt I had no other choice.
I moved through the house carefully. Like Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, my feet left prints in the dusty shag. To my surprise, the bourbon my father concealed behind the stove was still there. I retrieved it, holding it to the window watching the amber swirl around. I had never been one to drink. My father ruined my taste for that as a boy, watching how he would beat my mother unconscious. The day she died he had clubbed her to death with a mixing bowl made from aged cedar. It used to be her favorite. It had been passed down for generations. The many hands that had handled it over the year had given it a natural polish. Each little nick and imperfection had its own story to tell. I dug though the pantry. After the trial they had returned the bowl to me. Unable to throw it out, the pantry was the perfect place to let it rest. Sure enough, it was still there.
I ran my hands around the rim feeling the coolness of the wood glide between my fingers. The I reverently placed it on the kitchen table allowing the sting of tears blur my vision. This bowl used to be filled with life, now only held death. There were no more stories to be told. The smell of the bourbon stung my nose as I drained it into the bowl and across the oak table. The flash from the struck match and the smell of the sulfur reminded me that this place was the my own version of Hell. A great suctioning whoosh tore through the room behind me. My last look was of the black smoke filling the rear view mirror. This was my dads house.
Well what do you think? Please comment, let me know. I began writing as soon as i started this blog. No it isn’t a polished story. It isnt even that original, but using a prompt did give me a jumping off point.
Now it’s your turn. I would love to see some of your own writings. Feel free to email or post them here. I also just created a Facebook page where you can post them.
Thanks for reading.