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Prompt-a-Month: Telephone

Writers in the Grove Prompt-a-Month badge.The October prompt-a-month for our Writers in the Grove members is:

Telephone

The deadline for submissions is 11/1/2017. Submissions will be published during the next 30 days.

Writers in the Grove members may hand in their submissions during the workshops or use our members only submission form. Check out the guidelines and instructions for submissions in the announcement.

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November 18 Prompt – Stone Feet

The following prompt is from one of our Writers in the Grove members for our NaNoWriMo prompt-a-day project for November 2016.

This is a fun prompt today. Let your imagination take you on a journey.

Where do fossilized footprints lead?

Check out our list of prompts for even more inspiration.

Prompt: Answers to Questions Unasked

The prompt today was based upon the concept that we often have questions we wished we’d asked parents, grandparents, and other people in our life about how they lived, but never got the chance to ask – and what you would answer if you were asked those questions by the younger generation today.

The prompt was inspired by the poem, “My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold,” by William Wordsworth, and the line:

The Child is the father of the Man…

Who You Are

The following is by Writers in the Grove member Bev Walker.

You are the end of a million generations
foraging for food and shelter.
Thousands of times, over and over,
famine has wiped out whole nations.
Each time, one of your family survived.
Or you wouldn’t be here.

You are the end of a million generations
devastated by disease and storm.
For a million years, in a million places,
through showers of meteors,
Thousand of times, over and over
while all around them died.
One of your family was left standing,
and had to bury the rest.

You are the end of a million generations
torn apart by earthquake, flood, tornado,
arctic blizzard, every terror you can imagine,
whole nations buried beneath every desert,
Whole civilizations lost beneath sea and jungle,
now known only to birds and fishes.
Whole races gone, all gone…except
one of your family.
The result is you.

You are the end of a million generations
destroyed by war after war,
Marauding armies determined to wipe out all in their path.
Somehow, one after another,
century after century,
One of your family made it through all that;
you are the proof.

Neither they, nor you, made it because
you’re the smartest, healthiest, or bravest.
“Survival of the fittest” went out the window
the first time someone reached out
To the wounded, an orphan, a cripple, the sick;
that’s the difference between you
And the ant and the crocodile.

Through a thousand ice ages,
through whole continents ablaze,
There stood one who is still a part of you,
yes, you, and your neighbor, whatever your ilk.
You are the end result of a million miracles,
a treasure, a pearl of great price.

The Legacy Table

Inspired by the prompt Echos of a Wooden Table.

The foggy cloud wafted around her, hands a flurry of motion on the counter. Smack, roll, pound, twist, smack, roll, pound, twist, her body barely moving as arms pummeled the bread dough. I brushed a kiss on her wrinkled cheek as I moved past her, coughing slightly in the warm, moist flour-dust filled air.

“Don’t forget to run the water first.” How many years had she repeated this warning to me.

“Well still giving you problems? I thought Dad’d fixed it again.” Orange-red water sputtered from the silver tap into the well-worn and stained porcelain sink like blood from a cut. She didn’t need to answer. The evidence was clear, or rather not clear. Even so, a long sigh from the woman next to me puffed more flour into the air.

I reached overhead into the open cupboard for a glass cup, scratched and foggy with use and hard water stains, waited for the water to run clear, then filled it to the brim. While the rust in the old pipes was frustrating, and the old pump groaned at the request, the water that finally came through was clean and sweet, if you ignored the odd bit of dirt that floated to the bottom once in a while.

With a slap of hands again the well-washed apron covering her thighs, she stepped back to admire the loaf she’d shaped from the mixture of water, salt, flour, honey, and yeast.

“It’s the rains not the well.”

“Flooding is bad this year.” I took a long sip and gazed longingly at the white loaf. I knew the coming wait. I’d waited it for all of my life, through the heating of the oven, the baked warmth wafting through the house, the melt of the first warm slice without butter as an occasional treat, then doused in creamy butter during evening dinner. It was worth the wait. (more…)