Hey there you wonderful writers! I have been sick (not Covid19 thankfully!) this past week and I’m finally feeling a bit better. I’m thinking too that a tiny update of where I am at in life can help with maybe generating a prompt for you as you don’t know me, so I seem both real and unreal at the same time. You’re reading my words like in a narrative format. I seem like just another character in a book that is writing/speaking words, and you can use my voice/character as a jumping off point, or even as an actual character!
Maybe not. I’m probably just overthinking this whole thing. Sounds kind of conceited too reading it back. Well, yikes. Anyway. Here is your prompt from the wonderful mind of Janet Burroway. This prompt really strikes a chord in my heart as I am fearful of the unknown and foreignness.
“Consider the ideas of home, homesickness, foreignness, alienation. Place a character in a scene where these ideas are evoked by place, time, and weather.” – Writing Fiction: A Guide to Narrative Craft by Janet Burroway (pg. 122).
I’ve always cried at sleepovers. Not at first though. Only when it was time for the actual “sleepover” part. The tears streak down the silenced pistol of my face. Jeremy snoozing away in his bed, ignorant of the flash flood occurring on the floor next to him…
Why did I agree to spend the night? I ask myself. My chest spasms flooding out more tears. It always starts out the same. My best friend invites me to spend the night for the first time, I come over and we have a great time. Then, he gets tired and gives me a stranger’s pillow and an outlandish blanket. Then, this happens.
My heart sinks, causing the pressure of the Earth to sit upon it like diving deep in the ocean. I miss Mom. The atmosphere doesn’t feel like my room. I’m wandering through the Great Plains in the dark, not knowing where I’m going. Never to be found again. I just want to smell the natural fragrance of my bedroom. My pillows. My blanket. I want to go home.
The thought of touching and being wrapped in the foreign objects around me sends a spasm through my spine. I feel violated, trapped, and mournful. I finally give in and pull the unknown blanket over me. Even though I’m still in my street clothes, my arms are a bit chilly. My eyes grow heavier as the fire hydrants ran out of water but still try and pump the remaining 80% that makes up the rest of my body. My body refuses the smells around me, but my eyes argue that it’s four A.M. The battle of my sensory system rages, and my brain finally gives in to the estrangement.
Join the free-write by commenting below your free-write! Or, add onto what I have already written!