The Adventures of Bug and Boo

A Vulnerable Sharing

Rebecca O'LoughlinComment

It's been a long time since I sat and wrote anything creatively. A LONG time. So much so that I actually started a journal entry a few days ago entitled, "Wherein I Lament the Demise of My Creativity" and then decided I was being far too dramatic and fatalistic, and quickly searched online for a creative writing prompt to get the juices flowing. If you recall, my word of the year is "do," and there were many things attached to that word - in the eco-friendly, natural, homemade space but also in terms of personal goals in writing, and pursuing social justice in some way. One thing I wrote as a goal for writing, was just DO it. Stop attaching all of my expectations to it, take all of the pressure off, and just simply write again. So, in the aim of sharing the real me in this space, here's a little from my very first creative writing prompt in well over a decade. I'm well out of practice of writing in the third person...but enough excuses. Here goes:  

image via unsplash

image via unsplash


She sits, waiting. Staring out the window blankly, not even registering the last stubborn remnants of snow clinging to the far edges of the garden, or the faint twittering of the first birds to herald the coming of spring. She sees and hears none of it. She is lost deep inside her mind, wandering, wondering. And waiting. 

There is so much that lies ahead and myriad things that must be done. Many would feel that call to action, and rise up in response, begin to move, to do. But not she. She feels no urge in this moment, no gravitational pull in any direction, as if Newton's law doesn't apply at all. Instead she floats in a space somewhere between earth and the stars, patiently watching the ants marching beneath her from home, to work, to home again, all to start again the next day. She sees it from afar, but does not recognize it. 

She blinks and almost imperceptibly shakes her head, as if she's attempting to shake off the somnolence that lightly rests upon her like a veil. Her eyes attempt to focus on the world directly in front of her. For a moment, it is almost as if she fully sees. Her pupils dilate in their first response to the sunlight beaming into the room, and her eyes narrow, squinting ever so slightly, as she tries to discern what she finally sees just outside the window's clear glass. 

But then, a small noise is heard from an unseen room nearby. A quiet calling, a nonsensical syllable in a voice that is too shrill, too used to being muted. And that tiny atmospheric change is all it takes; she silently retreats back into her shell, back into herself. No longer focusing, no longer seeing. She is only aware of what is inside her own head again - whatever vast and haunting things have taken up residence since she was last able to clear out the dusty cobwebs hanging in the corners of her fragile mind. There, amongst the clutter, she waits. 


OK, fellow writers and readers. Thoughts? Critiques? Share, please!!