306090 1/9

Austin Script Works, every summer, runs a program called 30/60/90 — inspired by Suzan-Lori Parks’ 365 Days/365 Plays project — that encourages the daily practice of writing. Every morning at 4am, I receive a writing prompt by email, offered by all sorts of people — writers, therapists, actors, artists, etc. — each of whom also has some kind of daily practice. This is my first five efforts so you can expect eight more installments this summer. I’m trying to keep my writing time to 20 minutes and 10 minutes of editing.

Daily writing prompt, Day 1
A letter intended for one person falls into someone else’s hands many miles away.
- Caridad Svitch, playwright

When I was a kid, I always imagined that I’d find a bottle washed up on the shore, a bottle with a message in it, from some place far away, from some place much improved from this one. Maybe less imagined, more hoped because I grew up in a desert — where the nearest neighbor was an hour away and my sandbox playscape was peppered with a coexistence of Tonka trucks, Care Bears and Star Wars action figures.

I close my eyes, squeeze them tight and see a torrid love letter, someone who was pining for his lost match, clinging to a shard of wood in the middle of the ocean with nothing but the horizon in sight. Then, it was me bobbing in the ocean, brine licking at my chin and cheeks. Thinking of that one night, that melting evening of ours, where the dinner, the dancing, the drinks with fruit on the brim of the glass, the candlelight is dissolving along with the scent of your clothes. It’s becoming harder to remember, it’s a shrinking blossom of my dreams, of you. Everything dies — that’s a fact.

While adrift, night turns to day and day turns to night. I wonder how long it takes to get prune fingers when you’re floating in the Mediterranean? Eventually, a single star will emerge on the horizon to gaze at me, with what I imagine is intense purpose. Maybe it’s looking out for me, maybe it’s curious, maybe it’s just streaming light from 1,000 years ago — the echo of a memory, its own kind of unfinished moment — like it always does.

A cry for help, that’s more like it. A man, less muscle that he used to be, sitting at an out-of-fashion bar hell-bent on sucking down every damned drop in the place; GPS coordinates of a bare island stuffed in the bottle, significantly less picturesque than would be in the movie version of the same scene. The sun is not kind to the stranded — whether haunting a tropical locale, on street corners, or on doorsteps of orphanages. The paper on which the message was scribbled is waterlogged and barely legible after weeks at sea but optimism is nothing if not unfailing, even in the dimmest proportions.

A plea for forgiveness, a kind of perfect storm. An urge to come home but the locks have been long changed, your things pitched out into the street. A new family lives there, your old room has become a library, full of mystery paperbacks, out-dated encyclopedia sets, fad cookbooks and esoteric translations of religious texts.

She always talked to me in soft undertones there, like a mother. Her black hair was soft soft soft with a disapproving curl under her chin. She once asked me why I always looked so sad, why I never smiled, and I had no good answer for her. It’s not that I was unhappy I think, it was more that I never felt like it was a good fit. Eventually (and this took years), I became dependent on her, on her gentle words, on her disapproving rages, on her to not let me get lost in the twists and turns of the world outside. Thinking about it now, I don’t know how well she did her job. She … you know what, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.

Something else come back to me just now, the glint of a memory, something small and bright. I’d always forget — and I mean always — to empty my shoes before entering the house, to pour the sand out of my shoes. And she would chide me, using an in-between tone of voice after I’d leave little sprinkles of sand on the floor, in the carpets, in doorways. Little reminders of me, a trail to follow when lost, a way to fall asleep when my brain is too busy.

In my youth, everything around me was strong and cool, a palm tree oasis with twinkling, smooth sand for a base. Huge spaces, black nights and strong winds, that’s how I will always remember Saudi Arabia. As soon as I turn sixteen, I will run from here as fast as I can, a glass bottle pitched and tossed on rough, gruff seas.

Daily writing prompt, Day 2
What was the name of the meanest teacher you ever had and what did they smell like?
- Daniel Alexander Jones, playwright/performer/director

My sister reminded me of this the other day, my honors Chemistry teacher named Mr. Pfeiffel. It’s not so much that I hated him as much as everyone else in the world seemed to hate him. Maybe it was because he was so full of himself or maybe it was the time that we had to make marshmallows from a recipe using dimensional analysis for units conversion and everyone failed it, even the brainiest and most competitive kids, even me. Or maybe it was because he was so damned swishy — so much so that it was hard to tell if he was gay or straight. Didn’t matter, I suppose, but it can be annoying.

Pfeiffel was a tallish man, maybe a head taller than most kids in the class, he always stood on a tilt, flinging his hands about to demonstrate a point — like I said, swish-tastic. He’d take special relish in calling us pet names, like “his little smegmas” or “his beautiful vasocongestions.” I don’t know if it was just the honors class or it was all of his classes that got such special treatment. Always well-dressed, Pfeiffel would drive up to school in his tidy, tan Lincoln Continental. I don’t know if it was because he was a chemistry teacher or what, but the man seemed to have a lack of smell — no cologne, no soap — as though smells were fingerprints that he’d decided to burn off every morning before coming to school. Maybe it kept him separate. Maybe it kept him anonymous. Maybe it kept him safe.

My brother was in this class as well, was my lab partner in fact. And boy, did he ever get into it with Pfeiffel. (Keep in mind, I don’t actually remember this, my sister retold me the story, I have an awful memory sometimes.) Brian was easily bored at school and would frequently engage in off-subject studies during classes in which he had no interest — reading other books (I seem to recall a lot of science fiction and fantasy), writing novels, etc. Well, one morning he was reading Dragonlance, one of the original books that inspired Dungeons and Dragons. (This actually doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that Brian would be reading this because I was the one reading this series at the time, he’d read them all years before. Anyway.) Mid-lecture, Pfeiffel spied Brian hunched over his desk, came over and inquired as to how my brother was enjoying the lecture.

“Fine,” Brian said. “Really great.” He said this with a very slight glance up from his book.

“You understand everything, all of that,” Pfeiffel asked, waving his hands towards the front of the room. “Everything that I’ve been been talking about?”

After a quick look at the chalk board, Brian said, “Yeah, mostly. As long as I know it for the test, what does it matter?”

“It matters because you’re going to fail, I guarantee it.” Pfeiffel pushed his dark hair out of his eyes and pushed his thick black glasses up on his nose.

“Is that a threat,” Brian asked.

“More like a promise,” Pfeiffel said with a satisfied tone, spun on his heel and marched towards the front of the room.

I don’t remember exactly what happened after that, I want to say that my brother stormed out of the room and sought refuge in his Biology II teacher’s classroom. Or maybe he threw his book at Pfeiffel — no, that wouldn’t make any sense. What I do know is that such a stink was raised that my dad came down to the school to confront Mr. Pfeiffel and Brian transferred from that class into an independent study. The class was much quieter after that.

Daily writing prompt, Day 3
A long-distance move.
- Megan Monaghan, literary manager/dramaturg/ new-work nurturer

in a mock whisper, she said, “sound carries much further than you think, be careful what you say,”
and that has always stuck in my head,
that thing she said, the way she said it, that last night before she left,
on the side of Sand Run Parkway, that night,
full of stars, that night,
the noise of rumbling trucks,
the squeal of barred owls with their nasally whistle,
oh … that night

(looking back on it, I’m less and less amazed that she wanted to spend that night with me, just me, us laying sprawled on the hood of my Chevy Cavalier, red, drinking Mickey’s hand grenades —
in contrast, the day of and after, I was in a complete daze, I was so confused)

she always had secret dreams of running off with the circus, she told me that night –
though she hates clowns, it’s the grease paint that sits uneasy with her –
but you should see her blue eyes when she sees the high wire act, you’d think it was Christmas

and she’ll be the first to tell you she has restless feet,
she unconsciously jiggles her knee up and down,
she can’t help it,
perpetually in that spot between potential and kinetic energy

she keeps a string tied around her thumb, no reason, just seems right,
and no matter what, she plays her answering machine messages three times, always careful not to miss anything but never writes anything down

I know she traipsed around the world as a child, her parents were always on the move –
her father has a strong handshake and speaks while looking you in the eye,
her mother always remembers your birthday with a slice of chocolate cake —
and even now, I know she keeps a packed suitcase ready to go,
in the back of her closet, right near the front door with a spare set of car keys and
a roll of cash, an assortment of small and large bills saved up from various waitressing stints

four states and an ocean away, she is now –
sometimes she calls, mainly in the middle of the night,
I’ve never been one to wake up easily but she knows how to hush me,
singing to me,
thanking me,
crooning to me with her on-the-spot hymn to cigarettes and bank holidays

then, the normal banter:
“tell me you love me,” she’d whisper
“you know I do,” I’d say
“tell me anyway”
I’d say it over and over, repeating until I ran out of breath
she’d sigh and say sincerely, “be careful” and I knew that it was as much a warning for me as it was for her,
I could picture her wrapping her finger around the cord of the phone,
I knew she had a lot of trouble figuring out love
(figuring out love, like it’s some kind of equation, like you can solve for x)

“how’s London?”
she always paused when I asked her this and her answer was always different — this last time it was, “it’s cold without you”
“c’mon, don’t say that”
“why not, it’s true”
“we’ve been down this road before”
“what road?”
“the road where I ask my boss about transferring to London, the road where I apply for a passport, pack up my life in Akron and lose 6 hours flying across the Atlantic”
“what’s wrong with that?”
“twice, we’ve done this twice — I can’t do it again”
“you get them back when you fly from east to west”
“not the point”
“third time’s a charm”
“it’s just we’ve been here before”
“we can make this work, poodle”
I hold my breath and let it out carefully, “I’ve got to go”
“tell me you’ll think about it”
I almost say, “I think about it every night,” but instead simply, “I promise”

we say our goodbyes — it takes four go-rounds (I miss you, take care, be safe, don’t take any wooden nickels) — and I hang up slowly, listening to see if she says anything else and I think back to that night laying on the side of the road and realize that she said further and not farther, she was normally so careful with her words

Daily writing prompt, Day 4
No one would believe this but . . .
- Jacqueline Lawton, playwright/performer/dramaturg

A little girl wanders aimlessly on-stage. She obviously going somewhere, but it’s unclear as to the actual destination and she’s not in a hurry to get there. Her mother runs in.

Girl: No one would believe this, but …

Mother begins physically inspecting the little girl.

Mother: Where have you been? No one who? Is there a mouse in your pocket? Where have you been?

Mother turns her around and around again.

Mother (cont.): No one who? Who wouldn’t believe you? Me? I wouldn’t believe you? Why wouldn’t I believe you?

The little girl produces a small swan from her pocket.

Girl: I made this for you. I made it out of bread and twigs.

Mother: Why aren’t you answering my questions? I’ve been so worried.

Girl: You don’t need to worry about me, nothing will happen to me.

Mother: Don’t say that, don’t say it like that, you’ll tempt fate.

Mother looks around wildly for a piece of wood to knock on.

Girl: Use the swan. It’s got wood in it.

Mother knocks on the swan, it falls apart.

Girl (cont.): Too hard.

Mother’s already panicked state turns into a low level crying.

Mother: Why must you worry me like this?

Girl: Imi, can we skip the part where you wish on me, in the future, to have a daughter in my image?

Mother: One day, you will understand what I go through for you.

Girl: Why is everything such a sob story? Why is everything so hard for you?

Mother: For me? This isn’t about me, I’m worried about you.

Girl: You are worried about me, “you” are worried about me, you are “worried” about me.

(No need to air quote the previous line, in fact please don’t.)

Mother: This is what a mother does, I worry. When you’re not home, when you feel warm, when you don’t eat the lunch that I make for you, when you don’t get enough sleep.

Girl: Yes, yes. I know. When I leave the cereal open and let it go stale.

Mother and the little girl overlap.

Mother: Don’t mock me. Don’t mock me.

Girl: I’m not mocking.

Mother: I was your age once, you know. I terrorized my mom. I went to CBGB’s.

Girl: You terrorized Grammy?

Mother: I know, it’s nothing compared to Testify or Testimony. Or Pee Jeans. Whoever, whatever.

Girl: It’s Testament. And Pissed Jeans. Though completely different bands.

Mother: Whatever.

Girl: One’s thrash metal and one’s punk.

Mother: Why are you doing this to me? I listened to the Talking Heads. I liked Billy Idol in X.

Girl: Mom, really? “Girlfriend is Better,” this is how you spent your prime teenage rebellion years.

Mother: Stop making fun of me, it’s not polite.

Girl: No one would believe me, but I joined the Girl Scouts.

Mother stops.

Mother: You did what?

Girl: Maternal figure, you heard me.

Mother: You did?

Girl: Yes. And I want to sell the shit out of my cookie goals.

Mother (beaming): That’s my girl. And I’m going to let that slide.

Girl: You don’t have to, I know our deal.

The little girl hands her mother a thin rollof dollar bills.

Girl (cont.): For the college fund.

Mother: And for …

Mother unrolls the bills, flattening them out.

Girl: Cursing.

Mother: Yes, saying shit.

The little girl holds out her hand.

Mother: Damn it.

The mother adds several of her own to the ones in her hand.

Mother (cont.): Tricked by own daughter.

Girl (hugging the mother): This hurts me as much as it hurts you.

Mother (hugging back): Finally, some justice.

Daily writing prompt, Day 5
Hours before dawn, you open the door to your parent’s room.
- Michael John Garcés, playwright/performer/director

Hours before dawn, you open the door to your parent’s room.

In the thin light, you could see your mom and your dad standing near the window, their faces two fists apart, arranged in anger and hurt. Their words, hushed and dull, stop immediately — like a water tap just shut off. They turn to look at you, your dad crossing the room, reaching you in three quick strides, “You need to be in bed.”

“What’s going on?” You look at the pained look on your mom’s face. Though she isn’t your biological mother, she’d raised you for most of your life and she did the best that she could — you believe that even now. She must’ve realized that she was still pointing at your dad because her hand slowly dropped to her side, ever so slowly.

He repeats himself, his tall Californian frame coming back into focus, “You need to be in bed.”

A flair of rebellion sparks up in you, it was as the opening riff from “Safe European Home” by the Clash roared through you for the first time, and you feel yourself saying, “No.”

“C’mon,” he starts to say, reaching out to lay his hand on your shoulder but he stops, looking at you in the eye, surprised, and asks, “What did you say?”

It may have been hypothetical but you answer anyway. “You heard me, dad.” The word dad spits out like a racial slur. “Obviously, something’s going on,” you say. “I’m not a child. I have two eyes, what is going on?”

In the background, your mom hurries into the bathroom, closes the door with thud and your dad crouches in front of you, explaining in quick words some things you knew and some things new to you. For instance, you knew that your parents were having a hard time since he got laid off, ends were harder to meet and they weren’t getting along generally. Even your three-year-old sister could’ve surmised that but the news flash to you was his idea of getting a divorce from your mother, but he’d only do it if he’d have custody of you and your sisters, all three of you. He was clear about this, only if he could have custody of all three of you. The word custody rolls around in your ears with a slight ring. “So, you’ll come with me, yes,” your dad asks with a slight edge to his voice. “She’s not your real mom anyway.”

You look at his icy eyes, you watch his tightening lips and you tell him no. Simply and without hesitation. If you’d have thought you could’ve gotten away with it, you would’ve said, “Hell no.” In hindsight, that would’ve been so awesome. Regardless, you spin on your heel and walk out of the room. You go back to bed that night utterly satisfied. Your father didn’t wake you up at 7:30am like normal, he let you sleep in the next morning.

Your parents never ended up getting a divorce, things got better — like they often do. And you are glad though you don’t know if you had anything to do with that, but, ultimately, 25 years later, you still like to think that you did.