Figment Challenge 1

Daily Writing Prompts! Oh, those words are music to writers' ears.

The great writing site Figment is helping users write more! Every day, from now until March, they will email writers unique writing prompts to get their creative juices flowing. I'd like to participate in as many as possible, so I'll also post my progress on Figment and also here.

On another note, last night, I began another short story, and you'll be happy to know that there is absolutely NO DEATH in it. Death has been a prevalent theme throughout my pieces, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. I see it as my M.O. :) But using the same theme over and over can possibly impede the amount of creativity that I can put into my work. I decided switch things up.

I'll continue working on it. The story is nothing of a surprise (there's no twist ending); I see it as an attempt to paint and explore the emotional aspects within a certain scene. I'll put it up in a few days.

For now, I'll let you read this.

Affirmations (I’m good enough, I’m smart enough…) tell us a lot about how a person sees herself and what characteristics she values and wishes to achieve. In journal form, write an affirmation for a character that hints at his deepest fears about himself, as well as his wildest dreams.

Note: when introducing yourself to a potential friend, do not - I repeat - do not tell them that you're an anime fiend. Never say the word 'fiend' again.

For one, they think otakus are awkward as hell. They're right. Number two: it's acceptable for a teenaged Asian to be an otaku. That can even be called cute in some ways. But it's definitely not cute for a thirty-two year old male grad student.

What the heck is wrong with me? My new year is starting off great! #sarcasm. (And I've resorted to Twitter speak, kill me now). Why do I always feel so enclosed and pressed, like something bites and tears at my insides, every time I go up to someone unfamiliar. I promised that I wouldn't feel that daylong burn of rejection again. I say 'hi,' and they turn to look at me and I swear (really!) I see that mocking up and down glance. The superiority that appears on guys' faces (oh, look, my bicep is bigger than the twerp's leg) and the pity that girls give me before they turn into complete bit--

Geez. People are so rough sometimes.

At least I don't have cat. People would laugh at me more if  I lived with a feline. That's one good thing about me! Right?

Right?

Who am I kidding. I need to be more social. I have to remember what I promised myself. I think I'll go back and highlight this later. Even more, I have to get a girlfriend--that would definitely get Ma off my back!

At the same time, I don't want to lose myself. There's plenty of movies out there that warns you about the path to so-called popularity...but it's not like I want to be popular. No way. I mean, would I have to become someone else for people to like me? No--I won't. It won't get me anywhere.


But should I? I'd rather not sit in my apartment and type in my e-journal on late Friday nights...The goldfish in my screensaver likes to stare at me sometimes. I'd rather have a girl stare at me ...but...

...you know--not in that creepy way.

Forum games are fun.

On a boring day, I always want to write. But the whole day, I couldn't get started. My screenplay (yes, I'm writing one!) sat abandoned next to me. I had "Sex and the City" on the television in front of me (though I wasn't watching it at all). I also consumed a huge bowl of pasta in a matter of ten minutes. 

Yes, what an eventful day.

Luckily, Figment held a forum game at 4. Participants had to write a story in about ten rounds. The round, lasting five minutes, alternated between a free write and a restriction that had to be set on the story. The stories in each round were then graded on a point system; the judge was Jennifer Lynn Barnes, author of the young adult book "Every Other Day." 


To my greatest delight, I was one of three winners, so I now get a copy of "Every Other Day." Here's what I wrote (warning, it's my usual dark stuff).

I haven't edited anything--so excuse the mistakes!

Round 1: Free write

The day my dad killed my mom I was hiding under the kitchen sink, frozen in an innocent game of hide-and-seek.


I didn't want to go to school that day, so I played sick. Of course, my mom saw through my act--even though I was moaning and groaning, I didn't show any signs of a fever. I guess getting caught was something predictable--it was my first time pretending.


Surprisingly, Mom didn't yell at me. Instead, I feel like she wanted me home. With me at school and Dad always at work, she was always alone in the house.

Round 2: Sentences have to be in rhyming pairs.

As I crouched underneath the sink, my back ached. In the midst of it all, my body quaked.


"Dan," I heard my mom whisper Dad's name, and I imagined her eyes wide.


Through a creak in the cabinet, I spied.


Round 3: Free write


I saw that the smile that I imagined on Mom's face disappeared, the playful gleam in our game of hide-and-seek gone. 


I turned my eyes to Dad. In the morning, my dad had left dressed in his usual business suit, but he must have left his jacket back at work, because he only wore a shirt and tie now.


"Didn't expect me home at this time, huh, Margaret?" he said with a small smirk on his face. I suddenly felt scared, uncomfortable; I've never seen him look that way at her.


"No, I mean--you didn't say anything." My mom moved from her place near the fridge and approached dad. She placed a hand on his chest, but Dad glanced down at it, then quickly stepped back. 


Mom let her arm drop her side.

Bent

Seventeen Magazine, Scholastic and Figment are teaming up for the first time to promote the 2011 Seventeen Magazine Fiction contest. Girls of the ages 13 to 21 are encouraged to enter a story of any kind into the contest to win a spot in the magazine. Another prize that is slightly important is $5000. Yeah, I know, what a small amount right? The editors will read the 50 top-hearted entries and choose ONE from this pile.

Well, I need the money, so I'm entering. But it's going be a cutthroat competition, since bitches on Figment will get dirty to get a heart. I don't know if I have the will to promote my piece for four months, but I'm sure as hell going to try.

Bent

She never considered anything but a fairytale end to her fairytale story.
She never imagined what it would be like to lose the person she loved most in the world. She never knew what death would do to her. But now, here she was, looking down at his body in a bitterly cold morgue, wondering if he'd get frostbitten if he stayed out for too long.

"How?" she whispered; it was the only word that wasn't too painful to say.

The medical examiner cleared his throat as he pulled the sheet forward to cover the deceased. He looked young, fresh out of school. Everything appeared big on him. His coat swallowed him; the sleeves were so long that he had to roll them up to his elbows. He had a bend to his back that prevented him from standing up straight. His glasses constantly slid to his nose, and he'd use the back of his hand to push them back up.  "I'm afraid, uh, that it was a car crash. He was on Elmwood Street. Do you know where that is?"

"The park."

The man nodded. "Yes, so it was, uh, busy at the time he was driving. I'd say around dusk, maybe five o'clock?” He paused. “And, well, your husband was just turning right. Then another driver ran the red light and smashed into his door, instantly breaking his left ribs, causing his heart to collapse and--uh, well--"

The examiner stopped once more, glancing discreetly at the woman in front of him. No tears filled her eyes, which were fixed on the body on the slab. She stood there, tall and composed, like a guard at night, waiting for danger. She had a hand on the head of the cloth-covered body, stroking it, as if running her fingers through his hair. It frightened the young doctor.

"Mrs. Be--"

"It's Ms. now, isn't it?"

The man behind her sputtered. "Yes -- uh well--" But she didn't hear him; she turned swiftly, walking steadily until she was just a foot away from the door. She went utterly still and released a breath she didn't know she was holding. It came out as a cry. Her body contorted as her foundation suddenly collapsed, and she bent over, heavy and burdened. Then, she fled.

When she got home -- no, to the house she lived in -- she couldn't feel him around her anymore. She couldn't smell his aftershave that reminded her of Christmas. She couldn't see him, popping his head out from the kitchen with that sheepish grin on his face, asking her to help him with cooking. She already missed the strength of his arms whenever he hugged her from behind.

She couldn't sense him near her anymore, and that made her retreat to her bedroom where she curled up on their bed, hugging his torn and paint-covered shirt to her broken heart, her life and body bent by the deepest despair she had ever known.