Writing Prompt

Who am I? Where am I? Why am I? These questions occupy my mind. 'No Vacancy' now because they Consume me. Too soon to see. I know but time is my enemy. The world I occupy attempts to murder me Every. Day.

Writing frees my mind. Even now I feel the questions soften. I can breathe and the breath carries my memory over the strings of time. Like a film on rewind and with a sigh I close my eyes and I...can't...write.

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When my thoughts find the past I do whatever I can to live the past I know it won't last. It comes and goes so fast. I'm going to do my best to paint with words the world that was before The Ultimate Purge. I realize it might not work because you - The Reader - likely knows not what we've known. You've never even heard of an iPhone. But who knows? When you read this maybe just maybe the world will once again feel like home.

Let me begin by saying the world is now a fucking shit storm and the 99% still fight each other. Even in the face of certain doom after seeing world leaders orchestrate a coup The perspective is still skewed. Unmoved. Construed. Home brewed. Perfectly fueled. So even those of us who want to fight the top have to survive by defending against neighbors. There is no more trust - even among family. Survival is all. Beside the who, the where, and the why.

Land of Origin, the place that started it all, stood tall and strong in word only. The stone streets couldn’t stretch far before they turned to gravel; rubble; a mere whisper of the promises that crumbled long ago. The cities were full of hope for those too immature to understand otherwise. The strongest buildings held more secrets than people, and most turned a blind eye to things they couldn’t explain.

The mirrored land, one created in a fantastical space to escape the dark decent of the original, flourished with lavish buildings, flurries of hope, and promises well kept. Young children were encouraged rather than locked away, and a strong leadership transformed the small ambitious copy into a strong force able to withstand anything. They took those struggling inside Origin under their wing to increase their ranks, reinforcing a sense of duty and strength into the people of the new land.

They shared similar looking streets, lakes, beaches, and forests, one filled with despair, one with determination. One built on lies, the other on dreams.

The Mirror quickly became it’s own, a far cry from the land it was founded upon. Origin refused to admit defeat or acknowledge the success of those that came after them. Their jealousy grew with each passing year, their population was dwindling further and further, but they doubled down. They tripled their defenses, concealed all of their lies behind closed doors, and threw more promises to keep the naive happy.

The Mirror, built on the hope of those from Origin, began forgetting the motivations that led them into such a success. What had been created to bring hope to the hopeless was slowly morphing into it’s selfish roots. They had no reason to bother Origin if they’d built a foundation strong enough to stand on their own. No need to bring the suffering to the side of peace.

Those inhabiting Origin, the land of lost hope, fell further into the depths that drove them under. Meanwhile, The Mirror, in a similar fantastical space, sat complicit, unwilling to bring others the hope they’d founded themselves upon.

The car door slams. A headache sizzles at my temples. One hand drums angrily on the steering wheels. One child is whining while the other’s long thin legs pound the passenger seat’s back. I’m forgetting something, something important. Loading the trunk I unpack my brain. Traveling with children is like decamping a circus, I think running back to the house one last time. Our tattered caravan backs out of the driveway and the children begin hitting each other in the backseat. Already exasperated, we exchange looks. We exchange a look. He navigates our narrow street. I fish for my phone and trying to remember what I’m missing. I don’t think about surviving strokes or where my kids are. I don’t know about variants or probation or planning a funeral. Driving through orange flame oak leaves we head for the highway on the way to grandma’s house. I’m hoping my ginger cranberry sauce doesn’t leak. He puts his hand on my thigh and tells me that story again. I still giggle. We pick up speed. The boys start singing Ring of Fire. Loudly. Soon we are all singing Maybe Baby. Loudly. The apple pie cools on our kitchen counter and I remember.

The sun is bright; the midnight moon illuminates the land. A painting has colors; while songs create melodies that caress the ear. The mountains are giant; the canyons are vast, with overwhelming depth unknown to men who gaze. A child is hyper; as the ocean waves and flows in a dance only it could perform. The opposite of straight forward; is it’s most beautiful compliment.

You were waiting at the doctor's office calmly, and your son Bennett was whining. He had an infection. It wasn't a bad one, but it could get worse as it escalated. You and him both were growing impatient. After the medical incident with your other son, you didn't want to be here longer than you had to.

You ran through the doors of the hospital, carrying your son Ellery. He wasn’t crying or whining. He was passed out. Blood was dripping everywhere and you could see his bones sticking out both arms. His shirt and pants were ripped open and soaked in the blood. As you frantically called for help, you were crying loudly. Screams left your mouth, and everyone around you was horrified. You were covered head to toe in Ellery’s blood.

Bennett complained to you about his infection. You could tell it was very painful. As much as you wanted to make sure he got something to help with the pain, every doctor and patient you saw only reminded you of what happened. You kept thinking that maybe you could just leave this retched place, but you couldn’t. Just like you couldn’t leave the hospital…

Ellery opened his eyes. He hyperventilated a lot. Soon after, he began screaming hysterically. “What happened to him?” A doctor asked you. “He was hit by a car. His brother took him over to the highway,” You cried. Several doctors were running in and out of the room. You felt terrified. It’s like you were crumbling into nothingness. You stood up beside your son and held his twisted, bloody hand. No matter how afraid you felt, it was nothing compared to the fear and pain that he was feeling. "I love you Ellery," You told him. "It hurts, Mommy," Ellery groaned. That was the last thing you heard him say. Just before he bled out, you felt his hand squeeze yours. He let out little winces and groans in his last moments. He was pumped full of drugs, but you knew he suffered up until his death.

There you were in the doctor's office. Your son beside you. Ever since the incident, you could never look at your son the same way. Not that you blamed him, but it was heartbreaking to love one son, when another had suffered so much. Suffered, but not survived. This situation was so different from what happened to Ellery. So calm. So harmless. Yet the same awful emotions and memories kept flashing in front of you. Every place and every thing in life becomes a pit of emptiness and fear after the loss of your son.

Brian moans and slaps at his smart phone, squeezing the button that mutes his alarm. He’d had a restless night punctuated by dreams he can’t remember. “Still three more days till the weekend,” he groans to himself as he pulls on his jeans and shuffles sullenly to the bathroom.

Robbie silences his alarm and gazes blearily at the screen of his smart phone. Last night’s thunderstorm had woken him several times. The numbers 6:38 swim into focus. “Crud!” he thinks, “I must have snoozed it without waking up all the way!” And then he adds, “Interesting talent. But probably not one I want to develop,” with an irresistible smile. That bit of hilarity clears the fog from his brain like fall sunshine on a misty lake. He hums to himself as he steps into the shower. “Hump day. It’s all downhill from here,” he thinks.

[The plan is to continue like this, comparing the responses of each young man to his experiences, possibly through the rest of the week.]

Milk and cookies. A classic pair. Sitting next to each other they are so incredibly different, yet it is hard to think of one without the other. Standing in the kitchen with a cookie in your hand, not much could make that moment better. BUT milk probably could. In a way, that is how healthy love feels. Your special person should enhance your happiness!

My love Your hate One of the same Strong enough to kill our name Yet here we are yet again A reminder to the blinding pain Ease at heart Ease at brain Nothing to compare Except the passion Of two who have nothing to share

Abbey stood at the counter looking shelves in front of her, arm mid stretch, reaching for her favorite mug. Her attention was drawn to the shelf just above her mug, it was full of her husband’s collection of Iconic 80’s movie to go tumblers and sippy cups. She looked back down at her mug that sat on the shelf alone.

The featureless field, In the grass, a sunflower Yellow blazes bright