we are dumb and like writing stuff

[dumbwritingandstuff]

the water is washing up on a shore that is more pebble than sand. the river is cold, but the air and the stone beach are both hot, liable to burn you if you’re not careful. the beach is busy, but not too loud, and what noise there is blends together into the background. your towel soaks up the heat from the stones, warming your back just the right amount. your right arm is slung across your forehead, shading your face and promising amusing tanlines tomorrow. you’re letting yourself dry off and warm up after an hour or so in the water. you’re mostly dry now, hair just damp in a few spots, and the soft serve you bought at the little shack down the boardwalk remains only as a cool weight in your stomach, quickly fading away. the heat is making you sleepy, but you’re not ready yet to return to the water. you close your eyes and feel the sun warming your eyelids. a little girl in a cute little ladybug swimsuit, one of the ones with a skirt sewn on like you had when you were little, runs by you, and some water splashes from her onto your arms and stomach. her father runs after her, promising tickles, and she toddles away from him as fast as she can - which isn’t very - giggling and clumsy.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

writing prompt

everything is a little too loud and a little too hot and a little too uncomfortable. you’re stressed out and anxious. where would you feel okay? describe it.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

The heat is surprisingly oppressive.  My straw grasps at what remaining drops it can reach, And my feet swirl aimlessly in the barely cool water. The condensation long since gone from the edge of my glass, That Agatha Christie novel I’m reading is calling me from the porch. More loudly than the rest murmuring over in the shade. “For once, live in the damn moment,” they seem to hiss.  The sideways glances match the sting of the heat. They nibble at mozzarella, at prosciutto, at melon, at olives, And exchange novelties, small words about small things.  There’s nothing new about the scene, Filled with overused words and expressions of faked enthusiasm. I can remember blending in to conversation. Taking small bites of appetizers, chuckling politely, Commenting softly on the unbearable heat. My muscle memory creaks from disuse, but There’s no pull to reengage. The voices continue to murmur, My feet continue to swirl mindlessly, While my finger traces wet lines into the flagstone. Occasionally one of the voices, I don’t know which, will call out, “And how are you doing?” Clearing my throat of cobwebs and finding that “summer-party” tone, “Very well thank you,” I respond brightly, Offering some little bit of information they can chew on for an hour or so. The heat is oppressive and pouring laziness into my lungs. 

[dumbwritingandstuff]

It’s humid, but nobody minds. Everyone’s clothing is loose and light, and the drinks are cold and sweating. Nobody’s in the pool, but many stand near it while they mingle, glancing over when conversations slow. One or two have dipped their fingers into the water. It’s heated, but still far cooler than the hot evening air, and as the sun sets, the lights below the surface flicker on, illuminating those around the edge at an unflattering angle. A few crickets can be heard through the chatter and the soft music playing from a small set of speakers on the porch. Somebody grabs a snack from the table, a little something on a paper towel. Someone else lets their hands graze along the sides of their dress, feeling the linen and the breeze pulling it around their legs. There is a couple holding hands as they talk to an acquaintance, one of them seeking support, the other providing it. The hostess is enjoying herself, but her parents are ready for the guests to go. It’s getting darker, but the air remains hot, and the pool remains appealing. Someone is trying very hard to resist dipping in their feet. Someone else isn’t trying hard enough. The crickets get louder, and the guests move slowly away from the pool, towards the lights of the house. The linen dress is feeling heavy now, the breeze having died down. The couple is still holding hands, still in a give-and-take of support. The hostess is getting tired, but isn’t quite ready for the evening to be over. The first guest leaves, and begins a trickling departure that slowly drains the backyard of guests over the next half an hour. Now the table, once more free of napkins and snack foods, and the pool, still heated and lit, are left alone as the night finally begins to cool down.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

prompt

it’s the summer. there’s a party. it’s outdoors. there’s a pool. you decide the rest.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

The air is humid and warm, but the sky looks dusty as the sun slowly sets. The neon lights admitting to vacancies and pointing to an open front desk are flickering an orange identical to that of the dusk. As the passing cars switch on their headlights one-by-one, the stars seem to follow suit. A/C units grumble on in each room, joining in the song the vending machine near the main entrance has been singing all day long. Two cold cans sweat in the hands of a father as he walks back to his car. In the office, his wife finds their family a room. A row of beat-up, dirty cars lines the front of the main building, situated a few yards away from the office. A trash can full of take-out boxes and coffee cups sits in the parking lot. The windows of the main building face the freeway, all blinds closed, light from TV screens flickering against them. A little girl sits in the office, swinging her feet and picking her favorites from the complimentary candy bowl until her mother's hand absentmindedly slaps hers away before handing the lady on the other side of the desk a form and a pen. In the station-wagon parked outside, a young boy sips gingerly on his cola and watches the girl inside. She glowers at her mother and then turns her attention to the highway. He follows her lead, turning to watch RVs and trucks barrel by, making the lights from the fast food chains on the other side of the road flicker like the neon signs above the girl's head.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Prompt

Hotel or motel. Focus on details. Third person. Try to set a scene. As always, feel free to write along! Let us know if you do.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

A Guide to Looking Through High School Yearbooks After Graduation

Step 1: Don't set out to do it. That's just sad. You've gotta be cleaning or something, glance over at your bookshelf, and, "Hey! Whaddya know!" Step 2: Tell yourself you'll just flip through one. Don't bother sitting in a comfortable position, because you're just gonna look at a page or two, and then move on and return to your real life, right? Step 3: Open it up and find yourself confronted immediately with bittersweet, loving, excited yearbook signatures from people you haven't talked to in years. Feel the first urge to cry, but ignore it. Step 4: Realize you've somehow slouched down into a position you could stay in for hours. Secretly know you're likely to. Keep telling yourself you'll just be there a few minutes, though. No need to admit anything to yourself just yet. Or ever. Step 5: After reading and rereading all of the messages scrawled in Sharpie across the first few pages, you'll start hitting the pictures. Take too long on pages that you aren't even on, but skip over a section or two for the sake of your last shreds of dignity. Step 6: When you "coincidentally happen upon" pictures of yourself that you "had no clue were even on this page," spend just a little too long looking at your face. Push down the bubbling shame of who you were. Turn the page. Step 7: Avoid looking at the individual pictures of your friends. Look at them on teams and at club meetings and laughing together between classes, but don't look at them alone. That's not how you knew them, and that's not how you want to remember them. Step 8: Seek out pictures of your favorite teachers, and realize that you haven't talked to any of them in a long, long time. Decide you should email all of them, even though you know that you never will and that you wouldn't have anything to say, even if you did. Next, look at pictures of your least favorite teachers. Try to remember how it felt to get that mad at this tiny face smiling up at you. Maybe a flicker of righteous anger flares up through the sadness building in your chest. Maybe it doesn't. Either way, you'll feel sad. Step 9: Turn the final page of pictures, and find yourself once more overwhelmed with messages and well wishes and doodles. Feel a strange, deep, empty sadness swelling from your stomach, up into your lungs, and feel a stranger apathy covering that like sheet. Realize that even the loneliness and nostalgia are fading. Step 10: Close the yearbook and find yourself alone with these competing feelings. Look for a distraction, and remember that you have three more yearbooks. Step 11: Repeat.

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Disappearance

Step one.

Breath in

And breath out slowly,

As you watch everything fly by

From your bed in the corner of your room.

Breath out your efforts,

Your motivations, your awareness.

Step two.

Let the walls pour poison in your ears.

Listen to the photos and dreams of faraway

Place a spell on you,

And fall into their collection of ‘what-ifs’.

Let everything that surrounds you

Fade to grey, fade to black,

Fade to useless.

Step three.

Immerse in the poison and spells and

Lose yourself.

Drown in the words and ‘what-ifs’ and

Let yourself be convinced that you are

Only checking off the days until

You return home.

Step four.

Don’t listen to their advice.

Don’t listen to the facts.

Listen to the photos and the memories and

Follow recklessly in the path of the ‘what-ifs’.

Step five.

Wait and wait and wait and wait

For that day.

Build the anticipation as your new home

And paint ‘picture-perfect-endings’ on the walls.

Keep waiting.

There is nothing outside of the anticipation

And those goddamn ‘what-ifs’.

Step six.

Disappear into a non-existant ‘what-if’.

Dissolve into it.

And pulse to pulse, now

Shush.

[last 2 lines credited to alt-j]

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Prompt

Write about something deeply emotional that scares you, but write it as if you were giving instructions or directions.

Remember: if you write to this prompt, we'd love it if you would tag it dumbwritingandstuff, so we can read and reblog it (assuming it is appropriate and respectful). :)

[dumbwritingandstuff]

"We could've had it all." - "Rolling in the Deep" by Adele

We could’ve had it all.

When I decided I was no longer

The bright-eyed girl you loved,

I dragged you from your house

And did my best to explain

The benefits of solitude.

  When I decided I was no longer

The devoted citizen you imagined,

I became quieter and quieter,

But at night, I danced with the other,

Laughing in a language you mock. 

When I decided I was no longer

The eternally forgiving friend you counted on,

I spent our time alone writing,

And convincing myself that giving new life

To old words solved nothing.

You pushed back.

You always push back, and argue, and

Tell me I am doing it wrong.

So let me reintroduce myself,

The new and improved.

I am the foolish, the careless, the thoughtless,

But the happy, the comfortable, the relaxed.

Best served alone,

Leaving you behind, mumbling,

“We could’ve had it all.”

[dumbwritingandstuff]

"Everybody’s gonna love today, love today, love today." - "Love Today" by MIKA

Time-05:30, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: “Attention, civilians: Today, as I am sure you all know, is our 7th Annual Day of Reproduction. The festivities, so-to-speak, start in three hours, so, ladies, please select your partners for the day and make sure they fill out the appropriate paperwork. If any men are already booked for a certain time slot, please be courteous of your fellow Incubators and find another time slot, or another man. Once you have chosen your Fertilizers, report immediately to your floor’s Ovarian Management office to turn in your booking sheet and all of your Consensual Reproduction Contracts. Remember: you must select and meet with at least five partners today. As always, Incubators who select and meet with more than five partners within the time set aside for reproductive activities today will be given two extra meal tickets, both of which must be used within the course of the week. Any reproductive activities occurring at any point other than during those hours meant for such activities, and on any day other than the Annual Day of Reproduction, will be responded to with punishment and isolation. Thank you.”

Time-05:35, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #243 to Civilian #589, monitored by Ovarian Management Office Employee #624: "Fi, may I book you for the afternoon?" "T, that would be wonderful. I've longed to be near you since this time last year. Just to hold your hand..." "Fi, this must be business only. You remember what happened to 783 and 495 last year, don't you?" "Yes... I'm sorry... Of course. You're right. Of course." "I'm booking you for 13:00. Is that okay?" "Yes... I'm sorry, T." "It's alright, Fi. I'll submit the paperwork immediately. Send me your signature, and I'll attach it." "Yes... Of course. I'll do that now. I'll see you at 13:00."

Time-05:45, CONTRACT SUBMISSION-Civilians #243 and #589 for reproduction at 13:00. APPOINTMENT DENIED by Ovarian Management office employee #624 due to "unauthorized emotional attachment."

Time-05:55, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #589 to Civilian #243, monitored by Ovarian Management Office Employee #624: "T? T, I just got a notice. Our appointment was denied. Do you have another booking for 13:00? What happened?" "...Yes, that must be it." "Well, when else are you free? 14:30?" "I've changed my mind, Fi. I'm not interested in booking you today." "What? T? T, what's going on? Are you okay?" "Yes. I'm fine. I've been informed that I will not be participating in the voluntary booking program. I will be assigned my partners. I apologize for the inconvenience. Goodbye." "T? T? T, are you there? T? What happened? What's going on? T?"

Time-07:30, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: “Attention, civilians: In 30 minutes, the Ovarian Management Offices on all floors will close, and booking sheets and contracts will no longer be accepted, so be sure you turn yours in as soon as possible. Any Incubators without the required number of partners booked at this time must report to the Assignment Center on Floor 8 to be supplied with the contracts of available Fertilizers. And, please: no arguments concerning your assignments. Thank you.”

Time-07:50, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: “Ladies and gentlemen, please report to your first appointments of the day. Reproduction will commence presently.”

Time-08:00, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Commence reproductive activities."

Time-08:30, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Ladies and gentlemen, your first round of reproductive activity should be coming to an end. Please part ways with your partners and proceed to your respective screening areas to be checked for diseases. Incubator screening areas are on the left side of the floor, Fertilizer screening areas on the right."

Time-08:38, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #589 to Civilian #243, CALL DENIED.

Time-08:41, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #589 to Civilian #243, CALL DENIED.

Time-08:46, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #589 to Civilian #243, CALL DENIED.

Time-08:49, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #589 to Civilian #243, monitored by Ovarian Management Office Employee #624: "T? T? Are you okay? What happened earlier? T?" "I'm fine. You need to stop calling me now. The O.M.O. has forbidden me from responding to your calls. I am only permitted to respond now so that I may inform you of their ruling on this matter." "What? T? T, no! What happened? T! T, please!" "Goodbye."

Time-08:50, PRIVATE COMMUNICATION-Civilian #589 to Civilian #243, CALL BLOCKED.

Time-09:30, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Civilians, please report to your next appointments. Reproduction beings in ten minutes."

Time-09:40, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Commence reproductive activities."

Time-10:10, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Proceed to screening areas."

Time-11:00, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Proceed to your next appointments."

Time-11:10, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Commence reproductive activities."

Time-11:40, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Proceed to screening areas."

Time-11:49, ENCOUNTER between Civilian #589 and Civilian #243, NOTED by Ovarian Management Office Employee #624: #589 took the arm of #243, leading her away from the Incubator screening area. #589 appeared to be distraught, and this seemed to cause #243 great distress. Exchange broken up by Guard #389. Notes: #243, as a previously highly effective breeder, should not be allowed in situations liable to cause her stress, for the sake of her continued reproductive effectiveness and overall health. #589 is a C-grade Fertilizer, and therefore disposable. Disposal is recommended to prevent further stress to the more valuable Civilian.

Time-12:04, DISPOSAL of Civilian #589, overseen by Ovarian Management Office Employee #624. Replacements assigned to take over #589's remaining appointments.

Time-12:30, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT: "Proceed to your next appointments."

Time-12:40, PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENTS: "Commence reproductive activities."

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Prompt

hit next and random on musical library thing, until you find a song with lyrics: write something inspired by the first full line you hear after 1 minute of the song has gone by

Again, if you would like to write to any of our prompts, please do so! If you tag your responses as “dumbwritingandstuff” (without the quotation marks), we will happily read them! We will also reblog them, assuming they are appropriate and respectful! :)

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Early Morning with a One Way

Creaking eyes and clumsy hands

Melt into the jittery silence.

I blindly fall into the jeans and sweater

Waiting patiently on the floor.

Slipping into familiar steps and motions,

I follow my habits out the door,

To the car, to the ignition, to the gas pedal,

To the cold, comforting cement parking structure

Which bends around my habitual footsteps.

Well-worn movements blend together,

And every checkpoint passed without hitch,

Smoothly on automatic.

Feet follow echoes of themselves but

They continue to a new plane, a new seat,

A new final destination, so wonderfully void of habit.

  A paper cup of barely decent coffee,

A misshapen tuft of bread they call a croissant,

A fruit cup and a useless plastic fork.

Just beyond the reach of the clock’s hand,

I sip, and nibble, and bite,

And slide into a new background culture,

Enwrapping me in an impressionist painting of undiscovered colors. 

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Max was nearly to the Spanish border. The cops were hot on his trail, but he knew he would make it. After all, his trusty, cherry-red convertible had never let him down before. He patted the wooden dashboard lovingly, drawing the dog's attention. Sam was loyal and fun, but not quite vicious enough to be useful in Max's heists. So, when his paws slapped against the countertop, Max wrote it off as noise from the engine. The click of nails on polished wood wasn't so easy for his mom to write off, however, and her angry voice cut through the rush of the wind past his ears. He figured the shout of "Sam! Get down from there!" must have been from the radio; he guessed he'd left it on and tuned it out until now. He turned it off, shooting his mom a look, and noticed she was beginning to put food on the plates, so he pressed down harder on the pedal, whizzing by a sign that read "WELCOME TO SPAIN." Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the cops slowing down at the border, getting out of their cars and shaking their fists after the fast-fading shape of his famous convertible. He laughed, and turned back around, scanning the landscape ahead of him. He noticed a diner approaching on his left, and the smell of mushrooms and hot, buttered toast reached him through the warm summer air. He pulled up to the diner, walked inside, and sat down quickly, realizing for the first time how hungry he was. There was no time to be hungry during a car chase. The waitress must have been psychic, because, without a word being said to her, she walked straight over with a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, toast, roasted tomatoes, and cooked mushrooms. She came back moments later to join him with an identical plate for herself, and a mug of tea. He didn't ask for an explanation, and she didn't give one. Must be a fan, he thought, sitting up straighter. He smiled at her politely and dug into his breakfast, expertly avoiding the tomatoes and only picking at the mushrooms. He wasn't sure if this was a normal breakfast in Spain, but maybe the cook knew where he was from and wanted to make him feel at home here. Maybe he was a fan, as well! He was halfway done with his eggs when a tall, balding man walked up to the waitress, kissed her hello, and sat down beside her, eating a piece of toast off her plate. The man nodded to Max, and greeted him by name. And yet another fan? Who knew I was so famous in Spain! Max smiled, somehow coming off as both proud and humble, and bowed his head. "I appreciate your admiration, dear fans," he said, his voice deep and booming.

The man smiled and reached out his hands, clasping Max's and covering them in grateful kisses. "And we are in awe of your bravery! Why, we've heard every cop from Bristol to Bordeaux to Barcelona is looking for you!"

Max giggled, then lifted his chin nobly into the air and smiled down at the man. "Ah, yes. Very true. But I am just a normal man, I assure you." His bald fan beamed at him, overjoyed by the very idea of having something in common with the Greatest Jewel Thief Ever. He seemed just about to speak again with the waitress cut him off.

"Alright, then, Normal Man: finish your breakfast and get your thickest jumper. You're going to be late for school!"

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Prompt

Breakfast traditions, preferably somewhere not-where-you-currently-live.

By the way, if you would like to write to any of our prompts, please do so! If you tag your responses as "dumbwritingandstuff" (without the quotation marks), we will happily read them! We will also reblog them, assuming they are appropriate and respectful! :)

[dumbwritingandstuff]

Moving to the Driver's Seat

The car feels safer from the passenger seat.

I slide in smoothly, buckle up, and

I don’t think about how big the car is, or

How much it would hurt to be crushed between the doors, or

The countless PSAs and warnings thrown at me about how

Innocent people die because of the vices and blinders of others.

In the passenger seat,

None of that comes to mind.

In the driver’s seat,

My childhood mystification with driving to Paris or Disneyland

Is gone.

When I turn the steering wheel,

The other wheels turn too.

My parents give me the key to put in the ignition and

Tell me to turn it in on, foot on the brake, slowly…slowly…

As if going fast is something I am eager to do.

In the passenger’s seat,

I float, feeling giddy, when my dad speeds around backstreets.

In the driver’s seat,

Speeding up means longer to slow down, to stop.

In the driver’s seat,

My dad isn’t there to know when to stop, when to slow down.

In the driver’s seat,

I remain unseduced by the opportunity for speed,

For open roads, for drive-thrus.

I do not hesitate in the passenger’s seat.

In the driver’s seat,

I take deep breaths and ease off the brake

Slowly.