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 Here I go down a rabbit hole. What will I encounter? What will I write? Viva l'imagination |
| Challenges await... |
PROMPT: You're a stranger in a foreign land. Try to communicate with locals in an attempt to find your missing pet. Write a short story.  The moment the cat carrier hit my hotel room bed, a ball of shrieking black and white fur exploded from it. Before I could react, my feline companion hurtled herself out the open window. Fearing the worse, I rushed to the flapping drapery in a panic. Spying the bustling street a mere storey below, I winced a little less. A cat could survive a dive from much higher buildings, right? From this vantage, I did not see my wayward pet. With a sigh, or maybe it came out as a snort, I snatched my room key card and ventured forth onto the unknown streets of Paris. I had to force myself to breathe and chant a mantra. I will find my kitty. I will find my kitty. How dare she desert me. Did she not comprehend that this simply was not the required behaviour of a therapy animal? I needed her to soothe me. This escape of hers couldn't possibly help my anxiety. I wanted to curl up in a ball and weep. At the front door, I spotted the uniformed doorman. When he nodded at me, I interpreted this as an invitation to approach him for some help. I cleared my throat and froze. Wait a minute, I did not parlez vous the local language. He waited while I struggled. At long last, he broke the impasse with an "allo." Ah, yes, this sounded like a familiar greeting. I pantomimed a cat or at least I thought I did. I pointed my nose in the air. I licked my paws, er, my hands with my tongue. I wriggled my invisible tail. I preened the fine whiskers fanning my cheeks. I meowed and purred. I pranced and pounced. I attempted to weave myself around one of his legs; I considered myself desperate at that point. Wow, the eyebrows of a French doorman are quite expressive. I saw them rise higher and higher until they all but disappeared into his hat. He managed to extricate himself from my grasp with the slightest of controlled movements. He never blinked or broke eye contact. He pulled at his jacket and pressed out imaginary wrinkles. I swear he straightened his shoulders as he motioned with a white-gloved hand to stop. Looking me up and down, this guardian of the gates opened his mouth and asked, "Deed you losez un chat, a cat maybeee?" My bobble head could only nod vigorously. It felt wonderful to be understood. Then this man pointed to his hair and mine with a shrug. Oh, what colour fur did my cat possess? Neither of us passed muster. I indicated a scowling boy stomping nearby. He seemed to realize what I meant. Just then a clump of bushes shook and a woman screamed. A black and white blur launched itself at her impressive feather hat. Before she'd knocked my cat to the sidewalk, I scooped him up. I mumbled an apology to this near victim and I held my wayward feline up to the doorman. We both grinned. "Zo, theeese is the kittee, n'est-ce pas?" As I returned to the hotel, I lectured SmiLing. I just had to share with her that I'd been worried and unsmiling. Cat and French were not in my repertoire. |
| PROMPT: Write of the saddest moment/event in your life. Until May of last year, I would have said that my mother's death ranked as the saddest 'event' of my life. Oh, it created a residual ache, but the sudden death of my father surpassed that pain. My Mom's demise stretched out in an almost two week inexorable trudge. She slipped away piece by piece to the ravages of pneumonia and a staph-aurea infection. We, my sister and I, knew death awaited our mother. We witnessed it creep along for ten days of a daily vigil. It became a matter of when she'd die, not if she'd die. We had time to prepare. My father passed away without advance warning and at a geographical distance. I reside in Ontario, Canada and he'd moved to British Columbia, Canada.In May of 2019, he'd reached eighty-one years of age. We kept in touch with letters, cards, e-mails, the occasional phone calls, and visits. The visits were from me because he no longer felt comfortable flying or driving. With the demands of life and the physical disparity of a huge country, I could not partake of a cross-country trek as much as I'd have liked. I mistakenly assumed he had lots of life yet to live. I'm grateful that I did manage to fly out to Vancouver Island one final time in October of 2018. My mobility was compromised with two 'sketchy' knees, and I'd been on a waiting list for a total knee replacement. The date for that surgery arrived at the tail end of March 2019, and it kept me from travelling far. My Dad's 81st came and went May 21st. He died May 27th. To say I felt gobsmacked would be an understatement. This came out of left field. On the morning of the 27th, his partner phoned to inform me he'd been hospitalized. As I made frantic plans to fly out there, she phoned again to break the news that he'd "slipped away". That was it. My crazy father had always joked that he wanted no ceremony when and if he "expired". He wished he could be stretched out upon a platform out in the woods or barring that, set adrift in a flaming pyre like a Viking. Evidently, he'd settled for a quick cremation and absolutely no "fanfare" of any kind. The partner refused to entertain my visit. She wished to grieve in private. There would be no funeral or celebration of life. I grieved without those standard comforts. There's something life-affirming about a get-together to share memories with others, but I do know there will be future funerals. It's inevitable.( 434 words) |
| PROMPT: Your newest dish has made you much too big. List 10 things you'd be able to do in this state and why you'd do them. Yikes! I'm now, and hopefully temporarily, too big. Just a minute, what is 'too big'? I'm bigger than normal, right? I'm thinking I could be Godzilla-big. Yes, that's humongous. 1. Okay, if I'm gigantic, I'm not intending to leap tall buildings in a single bound. I'm clumsy and bigger feet would most likely compound my affliction. I'd like to decorate the top section of a spectacular Christmas tree like the ones displayed in all their glittery glory in Times Square or Disneyworld. I love the colours of this holiday and all of its family oriented sentiments. Imagine being physically able to reach the peak and place a glowing star or a majestic angel. As an added safety bonus, I would not need to scale a rickety ladder. 2. I would like to assemble/create a snowman as height enhanced as myself. There is more than enough snow in my yard today for this project. I happen to like snow people and I collect them in sizes that sit on shelving. This could be a symbol of the fun, carefree side of winter. As the Quebeckers say, "Viva le bonhomme!" It could be a tourist draw for my village. Come and take a pic with our giant/generous snowman ambassador. The annual Snowfest would be memorable. 3. With my increased size, I could avoid stairs of any kind. Oh, the bliss of entering a towering building without first climbing far too many treacherous steps! Stairs and I exist in an uneasy truce. I've learned from mishaps to never trust them. 4. I could scale mountains and skip the gondola rides. No more white-knuckle swaying and fears of a long drop. No more line ups and interminable waits for me. I could get straight to the hiking and breath-taking scenery. 5. I believe I'd like the pride and pleasure of something well built, so, I'd help build a spectacular crown jewel of a building. I'd replace the awkward cranes. I'd do all the heavy lifting. 6. Spring will arrive in the not too distant future and sometimes, this means flooding. I could volunteer as a barrier, a flood wall. I could replace thousands of sand bags. 7. Think of the fields I could plough or clear for crop planting. With my huge hands and enormous feet, I could overturn soil no problem. I'd be an environmentally friendly option, too. 8. I'd undertake a cross-country trek without any motorized transport. My big boots would be made for walking, and once again, I wouldn't be leaving a polluting carbon foot print. 9. I could and would plant trees. With my stature, those trees would be the already mature ones ready to provide a canopy, and not the wee stick saplings. Our planet certainly needs more greenery and oxygen. 10. I would assist all my neighbours when they adorn their homes with festive Christmas lights. No more dangerous ladder climbs, and no more rescues of those neighbours stranded on their rooves. This would free up time for more socializing, and our neighbourhood would glow with cheeriness. |
| PROMPT: Create a new dish/meal from your imagination, appealing or not to readers. Well, my contribution to the gastronomic world may not be readily adopted, or accepted, or eaten. I present to you, the reader, the pickle peanut butter pizza. Yes, it's potentially a mouthful in more ways than one, so, I could shorten its name to pickle p.b. pizza. I'm envisioning the pickles to be of the dill variety. To prepare this delightful concoction, I enlist the all too eager assistance of a four-year old. The washing of hands involves a great deal of liquid soap, not a dollop, not a dribble, but a puddle-sized amount of squishy, bubble-emitting soap. In the process, the kitchen floor is scrubbed to a lovely shine, too. I explain to my assistant that clean-enough-to-eat-off-of does not mean we shall be dining on the floor. She wrestles a chair up to the counter and climbs up. Both the wooden chair and the hardwood flooring squeal in protest. With some cajoling and promises that it's only for the time we create, she permits me to swath her in an apron. Of course, the mini sous chef's first reaction is to twirl, but I catch her before she tumbles. How could I not have anticipated that a toddler experiences through touch and taste? Everything has to be smushed, squeezed, patted and rubbed. Sampling is part of the adventure. Flour, baking powder, salt and more draw faces of disgust and warnings not to spit. The taste of peanut butter appeals and it is licked off fingers and elbows. Flour and peanut butter are smeared on her cheeks and in her hair. Cooking can be messy. Pounding the dough and rolling it out is such fun. It is soft and sticky. It oozes between little fingers. It retains the outline of a handprint. Pressing the pizza base into a pan requires two hands. Two hands patting in unison. One hand senses an urgent need to scratch a facial itch and push away stray wisps of hair. More peanut butter is taste-tested and tried as a pickle dip. A few shudders shake her slight body, but she grins. Maybe we're on to something here. I ignore her pleas to slice the remaining pickles with cries of, "I do it." She snatches up a fistful of green slices and tosses them onto the pizza. Most of them clump together. We both carry the pan to the open oven. As the door closes, the pizza whisperer waves good-bye and takes up her post to wait. Despite the heat, she presses her nose to the glass window and asks over and over, "Is it done? Can it come out now?"( 437 words ) |
| PROMPT: Create a new drink from your imagination, appealing or not to readers. Me create a new drink? I must confess I've never considered this before. I do enjoy the fun names given to various cocktail-type beverages. During a memorable sojourn in Cuba, I discovered a delicious concoction known as Sex On the Beach. Now, I wish to taste its cousin, Sex In a Snowbank. What crossed the mind of the creator of Fuzzy Navel? Is there a real Harvey Wallbanger? Since this segment of the challenge is titled Down the Rabbit Hole, I think it's only fitting to create a drink in its honour and as its namesake. It has to be dark and disorienting. Perhaps, it should be based on dark rum. Adding a bit of sediment type stuff would make it more lifelike. Okay, here is Down the Rabbit Hole, a drink designed not for the faint of heart. Its ingredients are: dark rum, chocolate liqueur, chocolate sprinkles, with a sprig of mini white marshmallows. I am not a mixologist nor a drink wizard. I suspect that would require a certain amount of eye-hand coordination and basic balance. Yes, I am tipsy even before imbibing. I slosh and stumble at the best of times. To properly prepare my drink creation, I propose attending a swanky hotel with a suitably mellow bar and a handsome bartender ensconced therein. The lighting will be subdued, no disco ball-crystal chandelier- stab-the-eyes brightness. Maybe this establishment will be known to its laid back clientele as the Wonderland. We all crave a watering hole we can disappear in. |
| PROMPT: Create a blog or a static item about an opportunity of a lifetime, a key to achieving something important. Do not drop your gloves and fan! Waving her stiff new passport at the receding figure of her father, Kristen joined the other would be travellers shuffling along in the slow moving departure line. As she gazed around the noisy airport terminal she mentally ticked off items on her long list. Passport, check. Boarding pass, check. Luggage tagged, check. Cell phone... wait a minute, where did she put it? After a few anxious minutes of digging through her carry on and patting down her jacket, Kristen found her device exactly where she had left it, or more accurately pocketed it. Her shoulders relaxed and her breathing slowed. That phone would be her lifeline, her only connection with home. Did she remember to pack its charging cable? Feeling her anxiety manifest in a quickened heart beat, she reminded herself to breathe. She had packed and repacked her bags. She'd prepared. Her family had professed to being perplexed by Kristen's decision to teach abroad. They had argued international travel came fraught with insurmountable dangers. She'd be a stranger in a strange land. Who could she trust? What would she eat? Did she realize there would be a language barrier? Could she really stay away for an entire year? Kristen had considered many variables as best an unseasoned traveller could foresee. Yes, she knew she lacked life experience. She could best be described as quiet and shy. No, she did not speak Korean, fluently or otherwise. True, she could be a picky eater, but she'd converted to a vegetarian lifestyle. A sigh escaped her lips. Kristen tossed her hair over her straightened shoulders and tightened her grip on her purse. She smiled when she felt the passport clutched in her hand. Nods were exchanged with the crush of humanity in her sights. With every step she took, her adventure seemed closer. She could and would do this. Dropping into her airplane seat and tugging on the seatbelt, Kristen surprised herself. She felt no regret, no fear, no what-ifs. She felt free. There'd be no turning back now. By tomorrow, she'd be an English as a second language teacher in South Korea. Not too shabby for a small town girl with grand plans. She chuckled. The strains of 'Miss Independence' echoed in her memory. (375 words) |
| PROMPT: In less than 500 words create a blog about this activity and what you hope to gain from it when you are finished. Hmm, follow the white rabbit means I choose to immerse myself in stifling, blinding, shape-shifting smoke. "White rabbit" is the phrase one chokes out as they hastily get up and try to avoid campfire smoke. In other words, I choose to torture/test myself and my capacity for the uncomfortable and the unknown. I cannot perceive what awaits me. I may be forced to re-position myself. That's 'kinda' bleak, and not entirely what I intended, I rambled. I don't consider writing and the creative process to be an inconvenience. It's a challenge. Sure, my thoughts and ideas often tease me with their randomness, and they can dance just out of my reach in shimmery, shadowy shapes. All I can do is follow. I choose to chase the rabbit of creativity and adventure. I'm open to a nudge or two. I'm up for some spontaneity and the sensation of falling into the unknown. It's a good thing I don't believe in good luck talismans like a rabbit's foot. Alice's White Rabbit contends with enough anxieties to add one less leg to his burdens. I'll willingly stumble and react as Alice did. During a fall, time is suspended. Sounds and sights are distorted. The fall itself becomes the immediate focus. I endeavour to recreate that focus with this writing challenge. I suppose I hope to relax into this fall and accept where it deposits me. Granted, I do not relish bruises, sprains, or what have you, but writer's cramp may be inevitable. As I roam, perhaps cavort, I hope to better appreciate time. My goal is to develop a better grasp on the use of my time. Writing deserves my unhurried attention. (305 words) |
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Fabulous. Great imagination and so practical.
(571 words) 