306090 3/9

My last 10 entries for the 30/60/90 project. The above photo was taken at Laura’s Uncle Larry’s. The donkeys are rescues.

Daily writing prompts, Day 17
The confession of a crime.
- Caridad Svich, playwright

I could see the condensation of the milk begin to seep down the side of the plastic gallon container. I don’t know how long I’d been there, handcuffed to the folding chair, but I was sure that my mother had missed me by now.

I remembered two nights previous, sneaking in from a late night with friends. We had spent the last few hours doing donuts in the movie theater parking lot while we threw plastic soda bottles filled with dry ice and water at each other’s cars. For my return trip home, like most nights, I’d wait until the air conditioner — or the heater, depending on the season — clicked on and then crawl past my mother’s room, this was the only way to get to my room. She always left her door open and was the lightest of sleepers. And for whatever reason that night, the air conditioner shut off just as I was in front of her door. I froze and sucked in my breath.

“Wheldon,” she asked. “Is that you?”

This has never happened before, I thought. Fuck, there’s no way she can know that I’m here.

“I know you’re there.”

No way, I reminded myself. No way. My mother had been in car accident just last week and was in a full body cast, she could not get out of bed. I slowly, ever so slowly, let my breath out.

“Wheldon, I know you’re there.”

Nope, you’re not gonna get me, I thought. This is my game to lose.

And I waited, I waited as she called out my name over and over until the air conditioner clicked on and I could get to my room, using the noise as cover for my escape.

That was Tuesday and I wish that I could be back there now. If I had a time machine, I would go back to that hallway and I would answer my mother right away, tell her about the parking lot shenanigans, I would confess to the three suitcases of beer we liberated from the sac ‘n’ pac, I would tell her about hotwiring the Bronco from three blocks over with the super flex off-road suspension with the KC light covers, I would tell her everything.

And now, I was about to pay dearly for my derelictions.

Daily writing prompt, Day 18
February.
- Janet Allard, playwright

no light burns now –
the inkiness of the black, the darkness all around,
unbroken and unrelenting

the clock ticks, monotonous and monstrous,
your thoughts come faster now, swirling like a parade of whirlwinds,
dancing a tedious dervish keeping time with a prayer vaguely remembered from a Sunday school lesson,
the same words repeated over and over like a homework assignment given for punishment

your heartbeats come quicker now,
a quickening mass of hoofbeats while opaque noises are manifesting, trembling, scurrying underfoot,
just beyond, just out of your reach

you lay there listening to a meaningless clarity,
arguing pointlessly with voices that you own

the useless twisting of the sheets,
the twitchy itchiness,
the quivers, the whispers of things in disrepair compete with the desire to get out of bed

at this rate, you could sleep until February — if you ever fell asleep

Daily writing prompt, Day 19
She makes a last ditch effort to live within her emotional means.
- Steven Tomlinson, economist/teacher/writer

Murgatroid (standing next to her sister, who is surrounded by birds, in various stages of repair): One. In all the years that she’s been in the rescue business, she’s only lost one bird — out of two thousand seven hundred ninety five. Yeah. My sister got her start in this line of work because a neighbor’s cat killed the momma bird from a nest that was in the tree right near her, near our (I should say) bedroom window. They waited and chirped and waited and chirped, not knowing why their mother hadn’t come home. The middle of the night, my sister climbs up the tree — 20 feet off the ground maybe — and pulls down the nest. She brings the nest inside, nursing the three birds for six weeks until they began to stumble around and then fly around the room. She opened the window and they flew away into the blue sky, up into the silvery clouds.

In addition to the birds, it becomes clear that her sister — dressed in black — is also surrounded by a collection of luggage.

Murgatroid (cont.): She’s very sensitive, my sister is. Some might say, some say too sensitive. That’s what my mother, our mother, always said.

Her sister begins to collect all of the luggage and bags.

Murgatroid (cont.): And then there was her husband, he died two days after they were married. She was a child bride, she said to me. They eloped in New Orleans two days before her eighteenth birthday, she lied on the marriage certificate.

Her sister starts to move over to the bath tub, which is empty. She moves slowly and deliberately with all of the bags.

Murgatroid (cont.): He died of a tumor that began growing next to his heart, crowding out his arteries and veins, it’d been growing for years undetected. And then, when there was too much — he just fell over. It was my father’s birthday, everyone was over for a cookout. At first, we thought it might be heat stroke but there was something about the way that he was clutching his chest. It was desperate, fierce and completely terrible. That was two days ago.

Her sister opens the bags, one by one. They are full of apples. She begins to place the fruit into the bath tub. The luggage remains scattered outside of the tub.

Murgatroid (cont.): Yesterday, my mother didn’t come down to breakfast. I walked into the kitchen and found it silent, no lights, no coffee brewing, no bacon on the back burner, no fresh sliced wheat berry bread in the toaster. My mother, our mother — I don’t know why I keep saying that — has always been a prompt riser. I knew something was wrong even before I came into the kitchen.

Her sister continues her chore.

Murgatroid (cont.): She died in her sleep. At least she didn’t suffer. My — our mother had the very hint of a smile on her face.

Her sister continues.

Murgatroid (cont.): My sister just found the yellow finch in the corner that’s stopped breathing, just before you got here. It was bound to happen. But on, of all the days, her birthday. And what a terrible wail, what a dreadful sound when she found out.

Her sister stops stocking the tub full of apples and repeats the wail. It’s the saddest sound you’ve ever heard.

Murgatroid (cont.): It’s been one helluva week. She didn’t cry like that when her husband died or when we found our mother, laying on her side with her hands curled under her cheek. But the bird, what was it.

Her sister opens her mouth in the same way that she wailed, but no sound comes out. Murgatroid goes over and removes her sister’s clothes, replacing the black garb with the exact same outfit in white. Her sister climbs into the tub with the apples and begins to bite noisily into and eat the red fruit.

Daily writing prompt, Day 20
What would your mother be doing right now if she hadn’t had children?
- Amy Stewart, writer

Stephen: Right now, she’d be 37. That’s the only I know for sure. I think she always talked about Seattle being the best place to live so maybe she’d live there. I know that she met my father while she lived in Phoenix, living in some trailer park — it sounds so very white trash, I know, but she was always so happy when she talked about it, it’d always bring a twinkle to her eye.

(Direct): Did you know that the average yearly rainfall for Phoenix is under eight inches while the average for Seattle is 38? The difference between the two cities is 900,000 gallons, about the volume of the Great Salt Lake.

Twenty more years until I turn 37, she’d be 57 at that point. But I guess this isn’t about me, this is about her, about where she’d be if she didn’t have me or my sister. I wonder what she’d look like if she wasn’t a mother.

(Reading): “I see other women’s stretch marks and think of how awful they look. I have just spent two years working out faithfully — for what if I have a child? To be fat and out of shape is something I don’t want. I shudder at the thought of giving birth. The idea of possibly having to have a Caesarian, an episiotomy, a spinal and simply the pain involved in birthing is pretty well enough to make me say no thanks to it all.”

When I see my mother, or what I think she’d look like, I see lines, the very faint beginnings of creases along her cheeks and forehead, tightening into thin lines at the corners of her eyes. Her hands are always warm, even on the coldest day of the year. You’d think the exact opposite, given her slightly slumped frame. Her fingers are small, not bony small, but like a child’s small.

She won’t leave the blackjack table these days — that’s what I imagine anyway. Day after day, hand after hand. She always sits at Joey’s station, he’s got a hairline mustache and the faintest Jamaican accent — though I think he’s from Milwaukee. She calls him her lucky charm. I got a letter from the casino the other day, she’s down $12,000 right now though she was up $27,000 last month.

I go and sit with her sometimes, just sit next to her, sometimes I play a hand. But Joey’s cool, he’s fine with it. He understands. He winks at me and deals me in, it doesn’t matter that I never bring any money. He gets it.

You always split aces and eights, no matter what, that’s what she always says. I remember that like it was yesterday, even if it never happened. Always split, no matter what.

Daily writing prompt, Day 21
Imagine standing next to Thomas Edison when he flipped the switch for the first time, or watching Neil Armstrong step out onto the moon….what is it like to stand next to greatness; to be one step away, to experience it second hand, to be one step behind? what is it like to almost be….
- D. Bruce Pate, writer/minister

Man (holding a puppy): Lawrence? You want to know about Lawrence? He’s always, you know, he’s always in the right place at the right time. He’s the fortunate one, you know? Born with the silver spoon in his hand. He’s got that glow about him, like he’s lit from within. Dad always liked him best, Mom always liked him the best, he was prom king, most popular, best smile, girls were always asking me for his number in school. They’d grab me in the hallway and say can I get Lawrence’s number from you. Hell, how can you not like him? I can’t even really hate him, not really.

The man produces a long silver pistol from his pocket.

No more, I can’t play second fiddle to my twin brother anymore. Yes, he was born first. Thirty three seconds. That could’ve been me. He should be me, I should be him. Fuck this.

He inserts the gun into his mouth and fires. The sound is terrific. He collapses, falls to the floor and the puppy does whatever it is that the puppy does after this.

Daily writing prompt, Day 22
President Taft
- Kristoffer Diaz, playwright

A man is working at the front desk of a hotel. It is late, the lobby is deserted. A woman, red-headed and blustery, barges in.

Woman: I know he’s here.
Desk clerk: He who, ma’am?
Woman: Don’t play funny with me, mister.
Desk clerk: I’m afraid I have no idea who he you mean.
Woman: My husband.
Desk clerk: Your husband?
Woman: Yes, my husband.
Desk clerk: And who might your husband be?
Woman: You know who my husband is.
Desk clerk: I’m afraid I don’t, ma’am.
Woman: He comes in here every third Saturday with that blond bimbo of a secretary.
Desk clerk: There are many people who come through, who frequent, this hotel.
Woman (aside): Like anyone could type with nails like that.
Desk clerk: I assure you ma’am that this is not that kind of establishment.
Woman: Don’t you start with me!
Desk clerk: Ma’am?
Woman: Tell me which room my husband is in.
Desk clerk: I can’t tell you what room.
Woman: Would you at least tell me if he’s here?
Desk clerk: That, I can do. What is your husband’s name?
Woman: Michael Hart.
Desk clerk (checking): We have no one here under that name, I’m sorry.
Woman: Sorry, I’m sure.
Desk clerk: Is there anything I can help you with?
Woman: Mike Hart.
Desk clerk: Excuse me?
Woman: Would you check under Mike Hart?
Desk clerk: There is no one registered here under the name H-A-R-T or H-E-A-R-T OR H-A-R-T-E.
Woman: Mike Smith.
Desk clerk: No, there is a Alison Smith.
Woman: John Smith.
Desk clerk: This isn’t a movie, no one really uses that name.
Woman: John Doe.
Desk clerk: He’s not dead.
Woman: Groucho Marx.
Desk clerk: Ma’am.
Woman: He loves the Marx brothers.
Desk clerk (checking): There is no one registered under the last name M-A-R-X or M-A-R-K-S.
Woman: Sergeant Rock.
Desk clerk: Excuse me?
Woman: It’s some comic book, there are boxes out in the garage.
Desk clerk (checking): No, ma’am.
Woman: Won’t you just tell me?
Desk clerk: I can’t do that, it’s against policy.
Woman: Jon Arbuckle.
Desk clerk (checking): No. (Beat.) Who is that?
Woman: The curly haired guy who owned Garfield.
Desk clerk: Never knew his name.
Woman: I know, everyone always remembers Odie.
Desk clerk: I remember that Garfield loves lasagna.
Woman: I got it.
Desk clerk: Yes?
Woman: William Howard Taft.
Desk clerk: Really?
Woman: My husband writes presidential biographies.
Desk clerk: William Howard Taft.
Woman: And that’s the one he’s working on now.
Desk clerk: Ma’am.
Woman: How much more boring can you get? Taft? He was fat, was a horrible golfer and had that awful mustache.
Desk clerk: He’s here, that’s all I can tell you.
Woman: He’s here. Which room?
Desk clerk: I cannot tell you that.
Woman (produces a stack of bills): How much?
Desk clerk: Ma’am.
Woman: Call me ma’am one more time.
Desk clerk: I cannot compromise the integrity of this hotel.
Woman: $500?
Desk clerk: We have a bond with our guests.
Woman: $700?
Desk clerk: They expect a certain level of service.
Woman: $900?
Desk clerk: Without our honorableness, what creatures are we?
Woman: $1000, cash, final offer.
Desk clerk: 367, take the elevator to the third floor. Go down the first hallway, turn left at the third passage, the sixth door on the right.

The woman storms off. A beat. A man pops up from behind the counter.

Man: You really helped me out of a bind, thanks.
Desk clerk: Happy to help a guest.

The clerk holds his hand out for a tip.

Desk clerk: It is my pleasure.
Man: You want a tip?
Desk clerk: I think it’s safe to start at $1000. What do you say, President Taft?

The man blanches and begins to fish around in his pocket.

Daily writing prompt, Day 23
Hanging up without leaving a message.
- Megan Monaghan, literary manager/dramaturg/ new work nurturer

My father is a creature of habit — was a creature of habit, I have to remember the right tense, was a creature of habit, I meant to say. He was always this way, not a judgment, he just always did the same things, he’s always done things in the same way. Consistency, for him, was a sign of strength. For thirty years, the first thing he’d do in the morning is slice open a pink grapefruit — never a red one or a white one, always pink — and eat one half. He’d drink a cup of coffee, black. And then eat the other half of the grapefruit.

He had all sorts of quirks. My father never left a message; he always hung up when someone’s answering machine would click on. He never said goodbye to end a conversation on the phone, he’d just hang up. He’d always thump his inhaler twice on his left thigh and twist the canister four times before he used it. I could go on and on, but there was as sacred as his schedule.

After breakfast, he’d clean his gun on the front porch, I remember this, using Hoppe’s No. 9 Solvent, feeding the bore brush through the barrel, twisting the brush in his hand, pushing the brush all the way through his Smith & Wesson .357 magnum revolver. Every day without fail, as far back as I could recall. You see, everything in our house had a schedule but nothing as often as the gun.

Mondays, he’d dust, vacuum and scrub the floors (on his hands and knees, no less) — couldn’t get as clean when you used a mop, “Look how far that is away from you,” my dad’d ask. “How can you tell if it’s even getting clean?” Tuesdays, he’d wash the windows and clean the oven — we’re talkin’ SOS pads, not some chemical spray-on business but you probably could’ve guessed that. Wednesday was laundry day — our clothes, sheets, towels, etc. — if it wasn’t in the hamper before we left for school, it didn’t get washed. Thursday, he checked the fridge and threw out anything that was at all suspect — nothing was above reproach. Also, every trash container would get taken out and a new bag (regardless of how not full it was). Friday was garden day; all plants, inside and out. One of his favorite activities was sitting in the yard removing anything that wasn’t buffalo grass (visible and invisible weeds, plunging a screwdriver into the ground to loosen whatever the offending sprout and yanking it out). The weekend was our time, Saturday and Sunday we spent in the open air (Nantasket Beach was a regular destination, towels, umbrellas and us, all piled together in the Buick wagon with tobacco brown woodgrain on the sides).

So, it always bugged that me that he decided to do it on a Saturday. Of all the things, I know. Small, I know but that was our day, why not any other day of the week? Nevertheless, I didn’t hear the shot. I heard the sirens first, thinking it was my alarm clock going off early. I remember opening my eyes, focusing on the red digital numbers, realizing how early it was and getting angry. I didn’t think much of the sirens, even as they got closer and closer, until they stopped right in front of the house and I realized the commotion going on below me.

Daily writing prompt, Day 24
A couple (you define “couple”) enters a space (you define “space”) and discovers something (you define “something,” too). But “something” is broken.
- David Gunderson, writer/editor/performer

XX has her ear pressed to the wall. XY enters.

XY: I went out to the car but I didn’t see –
XX: Sh!
XY: What’s going on?
XX: Shhh!
XY (whispering): What is going on?
XX: Mark’s talking to the doctor down the hall.
XY: Mark’s been talking to the doctor all morning.
XX: Valerie’s right there, around the corner.
XY: And?
XX: Sh! Just listen a second.

A beat.

XY: I can’t hear what she’s saying.
XX: Listen carefully.

Several moments.

XY: That doesn’t make any sense.
XX: How long have they been married?
XX: Ten years, they just had their anniversary last week.

Several more moments, XX and XY are listening intently.

XX (cont.): Did she just say …
XY: Yeah.

Several more moments.

XY (cont.): Easy to see why.
XX: Why what?
XY: Why she’s cheating on him?
XX: She’s what?
XY (eyes wide): You didn’t know?
XX: She’s what?
XY: Shit. You didn’t know, seriously?
XX: She’s what?
XY (pulls XX away from the wall): I’m sorry, I thought you knew. I didn’t want to tell you.
XX: She’s having an affair?
XY: I’m sorry.
XX: Since when? You thought I knew?
XY: I’m really sorry.
XX: Since when?
XY: I don’t know exactly. A while now.
XX: “If only Mark would talk with me like that,” that’s what she said. “In all the years of ourmarriage, he’s never talked to me so much.”
XY: And it’s her dad that’s in the hospital. Your grands.
XX: Is he?
XY: Is he what?
XX: Is he cheating on her?
XY: Don’t think so,
XX: But she’s cheating on him?
XY: Yeah.
XX: How do you know?
XY: You really want to know?
XX: Not really.
XY: Fuck.
XX: Yeah.
XY: Fuck.
XX: I know.
XY: How do I keep it from my dad that mom is cheating?
XX: I’m sorry, man.
XY: Who knows?
XX: Everyone.
XY: Everyone but me.
XX: Yeah.
XY: Fuck.
XX: I know.
XY: Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Fuck.
XX: Shit.

Daily writing prompt, Day 25
The space between sleep and dreams.
- Jason Neulander, writer/director/producer

at night, I sleep;
after I wordlessly say my prayers, I sleep;
after I sigh that last exhale, I sleep

straining to reach, crossing the divide,
I stare at the ceiling, see 37 elephants and men intent on thieving and fire climbing the Alps,
but it doesn’t matter to me, it matters to me (no idea how you feel on the matter),
from pillar to post, tooth by tooth, velvet-rimmed eyes,
wish I could make up my mind,
wish I would make up my mind

sleep, sleep, its resolve unclouded

it’s not just sleep though,
there’s something attached, something mixed together, some small comfort glommed on, a taste just on the back of your tongue,
there, in the instant before I wake, when the sun claims the morning, when the rooster demands the day,
all my dreaming happens –
in a split second, in a fleeting moment, in a vanishing crack –
it stretches out before me,
like a black tortoise shell cat just waking up from a nap,
like the joy in the wallop and thump of an electric guitar,
like the very joy I have stored up inside of you

that space, that dreaming space, barely discernible,
just between cool and warm,
between love and hate,
just between al dente and cooked,
in that space, sleep and dream meet instantly,
like a well-meant but excruciating blind date,
like swallowing your pride,
like finding out that your father isn’t the man who thought

promise bright, sleep, sleep

see I may, see I might in that moment,
swimming out further and further into the tide,
one arm length, then another and another,
the sea becoming the ocean (if you think you’ve got troubles now),
one more, you keep telling yourself, just one more and you’re there but where is there really, you wonder between breaths

my mother always said that I walked in my sleep and I never believed her until I saw my sister one night pin balling gently down the hallway,
half-delirious,
half-awake,
halfway into the deepest phase of sleep — I’ve always been fascinated by the word somnambulist in the same way I’ve held onto the idea of leeching blood or fire cupping with a kind of reverence, a mystery, a sentimental way

all night, I garden and clear out the weeds, the remnants of my day

Daily writing prompt, Day 26
I feel guilty when I . . .
- Jacqueline Lawton, playwright/performer/dramaturg

(with apologies to Charles Bukowski)

I feel guilty when I go to Tibet.
I feel guilty when I ride a camel.
I feel guilty when I read the bible.
I feel guilty when I dye my shoes blue.
I feel guilty when I grow a beard.
I feel guilty when I circle the world in a paper canoe.
I feel guilty when I subscribe to The Saturday Evening Post.
I feel guilty when I chew on the left side of my mouth only.
I feel guilty when I marry a woman with one leg and shave with a straight razor.
I feel guilty when I carve my name in her arm.

I feel guilty when I brush my teeth with gasoline.
I feel guilty when I sleep all day and climb trees at night.
I feel guilty when I am a monk and drink buckshot and beer.
I feel guilty when I hold my head under water and play the violin.
I feel guilty when I do a belly dance before pink candles.
I feel guilty when I kill my dog.
I feel guilty when I run for Mayor.
I feel guilty when I live in a barrel.
I feel guilty when I break your head with a hatchet.
I feel guilty when I plant tulips in the rain.

Daily writing prompt, Day 27
Barry didn’t think much of his nickname, but when it cam time to…
- Kristen Gandrow, writer/dramaturg

Barry didn’t think much of his nickname, but when it came time to ride at the National Finals Rodeo — a lifelong dream — ‘Buck’ made sense in a way it never did before. In a way, I suppose, he was following in his father’s footsteps, who was a career rodeo bull rider, winning the world champion gold buckle 26 times in Dallas, L.A., Oklahoma City and once in Vegas — Vegas ruined the event, Pop Spud always said, Pop Spud, yeah, that’s what his friends called him.

Buck sat on the bronc saddle nervously, flicking the hack rein over and over, waiting to be released from the chute. People often complimented him on his spur motion but he knew that he needed to work on his control. His father knew that bronc riding relied much less on strength than bull riding but still thought Buck was too scrawny.

“You need to beef up, son,” he’d say. To which Buck’d nod politely and reply, “Yes sir.” He never called him Pop or Spud, he always called his father sir.

The lights were hot spots of white and Buck could hear the booming sound of the announcer’s voice. Out of 100, he hoped for a score of at least 80. That’d be a respectable showing his first time out and would likely push him into the out rounds. Timing, finesse and skill, that’s what he kept saying over and over in his head, timing, finesse and skill, his body already knew to spur from the front of the horse and back to the skirt of the saddle in an arc. And then the gate opened wide open and eight seconds never lasted so long.

Daily writing prompt, Day 28
The knife is sharper than you thought.
- Michael John Garcés, playwright/performer/director

She 1 (holding his hand): I can’t do this anymore.
He: You mean you won’t.
She 1: I mean I can’t.
He: I should’ve seen this coming.
She 1: I know what I mean, I mean I can’t. I’ve tried. You know I’ve tried.
She 2 (reaches out to hold her hand): This is your fault.
She 1 (avoids): Who me?
She 2: Not you, you. This is all your fault.
He: Me?
She 2: Yes you, of course you. Always you.
He: You need to stay out of this.
She 1: It’s not his fault.
He: This is none of your business.
She 2: It’s not your fault either.
He: Don’t I get a say in this?
She 1+2 (together): No.
He (drops her hand): Chicks, man.
She 1: Don’t antagonize.
He: Triple word score.
She 2: You’re such a dick.
He: That’s what she said.
She 2 (clears her throat): Title: the perfect answer. In a land far far away, a perfect man made the acquaintance of a perfect woman and after a perfect courtship, they had a perfect June wedding, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping. Their life together was, of course, perfect.
He: I already know the punch line, save your breath.
She 2: You’re a real piece of work.
He: Like you have any room to talk.
She 1: Stop it, the both of you!
She 2: I don’t think –
She 1: Stop.
She 2: I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be with you and I can’t be with you either. I’m not a prize.
He: I never said that –
She 2: For once, would you let me finish a thought? Thank you. With the both of you click-clacking in my ear, I can’t even think. Sheesh. You, out.
He: But I thought –
She 2: Out.

He exits.

She 2: And you too.
She 1: Don’t do this.
She 2: I have to, I can’t continue with you.
She 1: Don’t.
She 2: You’ve been a good friend but it’s time to end it.
She 1: Loneliness is sharper than you think.

She 1 exits.

She 2 stands alone. Slowly, slowly, she feels the threat of the knife move towards her but she shakes it off. Then, the point pronounces itself, first touching, then pressing in. Slowly, slowly, She 2 is punctured. The blade begins to cut through her. There is no sound. She crumbles to the ground, the agony slow and enunciated. It seems to take forever but eventually she dies.