In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “In Loving Memory.”
…only lead to a shocking discovery that she had left a suicide note inside her diary, signed and dated March 10, 2013. In almost two years, no one has looked for her or reported her missing, not even…
…Lost and found – but who’d lost her?…
…the note said: “I don’t want anyone to know. The last thing I wanna do is bother you all. I’m sorry…”
…”…she even stated, at one point of the note, that she went somewhere where she wouldn’t disturb anyone.”…
“Talking to herself, there’s no one else who needs to know…” – (Pearl Jam, Better Man)
…but her family was unable to comment…
“No one had seen it coming. She always kept to herself”
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Symmetry.”
There’s always been something frightening about symmetry…
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Race the Clock.”
This is exactly the kind of topic I could never walk away from. My favorite type of writing is precisely this: just throwing everything out in a couple of flashes of thought, just the way it is, more like a stream of consciousness than an actual article… Who says streams of consciousness are bad, anyway? They show what one’s mind is truly like, and that can be more valuable that a perfectly planned 10-hr-written text.
So, thank you for this, Daily Post! You made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Burning Down the House.”
You know, it’s not that easy to load your hands with five things at once while running for your life at the same time. This means that I would have to take two or three things, take them out, and then go back for the rest of them. And if I’m to re-enter a burning house to collect a couple of things, then they would be things of extreme value.
1. and 2. My phone and headphones. Communication with others is unimaginable without a cell phone nowadays; also, I can’t afford to lose my music. I wouldn’t bother carrying out the entire laptop, it’s getting old anyway, but the phone is an electronic storage of my most important music tracks, my photo album of memories and my dearest messages. And the headphones are something I cannot bear to live without – if I couldn’t turn the music up straight into my ears and shut down the rest of the universe, I wouldn’t hold up much longer.
3. My diary collection. Yes, the entire stack of notebooks, all the way from third grade up to now. I would never forgive myself if all of that got lost, no matter the reason it did.
4. The guitar my dad got me as a birthday present a couple of years ago. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play it, but have never had the time to. I bet this would make me do it. If anything, I’d be forced to play it in the streets to get me some money, right?
5. My mum’s golden necklace with a tiny Bambilike deer on it. When she graduated from high school, her mum, my grandmother, gave her that. If there’s anything she would come back for, that would be it.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pleased to Meet You.”
One sunny April morning, Jesus woke up lying on a cold, metal floor. His head was aching and his limbs were all sore and covered with bandages. As he dreamily looked around, he realized that not only he had absolutely no idea where he was, but he also shouldn’t have even been able to know that – he was supposed to be dead.
His head was pulsing, causing unimaginable pain, as he was trying to put the pieces of his memories back into a clear image. The last thing he remembered was the cross, naked and bloody freezing… Why am I alive? And how did I get here? He kept asking himself endless questions, endlessly unanswered, as he was trying to determine where he was. He sat up straight. He could’ve sworn he’d never been there, yet the place looked oddly familiar, as if… But that’s impossible, isn’t it?
In his somewhat misty memory there was a man, a strange-looking man, that had appeared the night before and said something about an escape plan… He had a box, a blue box… He looked around once again. It couldn’t be. His memory may not be serving him well, but he’s still got enough reason to compare sizes. The blue box was tiny, and this… This…
A shout interrupted his stream of thought. He looked up to where the voice came from and saw a strange-looking man – the same stranger he had seen before – standing on the stairway above him, leaning onto the handrail.
“I see you’re awake! Well, good morning to you! I’m the Doctor, and you’re probably wondering where you are and how you got here. We talked about this, but I doubt you remember, since you had quite a bad day at the cross – you do remember the cross, right? Anyway…”
He was talking too fast and it seemed like he would never shut up. It was making Jesus’ headache even worse.
“… you should have lasted a little longer, at least until most of the people were gone, but you passed out early – and who could blame you? After all, we’re only humans – well, you are. All in all, it took me a bit of running and pushing, but in the end I got you into the Tardis on time. The nails were a real pain in the…”
For some reason, he stopped. Finally, Jesus thought.
“… never mind. When I got you off the cross, your pulse and breathing were fine, so I decided to let you rest… And here you are. So, how are you?”
Jesus kept looking at the blabbing man; by the time he finished his tale, he had already come down and sat on the floor, right beside him. What is the kind way to tell him that I have no idea what he just said?
“Um”, Jesus started shyly, “would you mind repeating that? I couldn’t quite catch what you said.”
“Always kind, always modest, that’s how we like you!” he said with a smile. Jesus had trouble understanding that too. His head felt like it would burst with cold water.
“Yeah… You don’t get any of this, do you?” the man said after a pause.
“I’m terribly sorry, but no.”
The man smiled and nodded.
“Well, I suppose it’s sometimes good to leave things unexplained. The mystery will do well for the fame”, he said and moved around a small red piece of cloth around his neck.
“Yes. People will celebrate you for centuries”, the man said, hands still on the red cloth. He must have noticed Jesus staring at it.
“Oh, you like it? I know, me too. Bow ties are cool”, he said in a happy tone. Suddenly he looked at something on his wrist and his face changed.
“My! Look at the time! Um – I must go now.” He took Jesus’ hand and shook it a bit too many times as he was speaking: “You should see the exit right after you get out, it’s not a big tomb. In any case, just follow the light.”
“Yes. And here’s the door!” the man said as he slightly pushed Jesus out. He shook his hand once more. “Jesus, it was a pleasure!”
The door slammed shut with Jesus out. All he could do was stand there, mouth slightly open, and wonder what in the world just happened. And then, as he was trying to solve the mystery, another miracle stroke him right there: the door he just got out through, the door of that huge metallic room with pillars and even another floor – that same door was the door to the small blue box he remembered, the box he was now standing right in front of.
It – it’s bigger on the inside?
As the thought emerged, the box started making noises. With every repeating sound it was fainter, as if drifting away, evaporating, until it finally disappeared completely, and Jesus was left alone.
It stroke him. This is God’s work! It must be! O, God!
And so Jesus followed the light.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pens and Pencils.”
I find myself using pen and paper more often than you’d expect. It has to do with me not always having access to a computer when I need it and not having a phone that supports MS Word documents, while having blank paper all around me all the time, in notebooks, organizers and so on. When cross-referencing that with my extensive writing needs, the result you get is my mess of a desk, with book-towers, notebook-mazes and pieces of paper filling all the work space left. That’s the way it’s been five years ago and that’s the way it is now; my usage of electronics has, indeed, increased, by the usage of pens and pencils hasn’t decreased.
Another reason may be my long term diary-writing. I’ve been writing a diary since I was eight, and I still do it as frequently as I have back then. I have an electronic diary as well, but I don’t use it as much as the classic hardcover notebook of 250 pages that I refer to as “my Diary”. I suppose it grew on me.
In conclusion, I have no problem imagining the pre-keyboard era, as I’m a time traveler who frequently switches from one era to the other. Oh, and – to answer the question – I think my last handwritten journal entry was about five days ago, and up until October 2014 a friend and I were communicating via snail mail. Are there any of you like me out there? If yes, send a postcard!