This week’s prompt: Miss
Last week’s prompt: Bellow
MidWrites, or Midnight Writes, are a weekly exercise designed to encourage a regular writing practice and discourage overthinking and writer’s block. New prompts are given on Wednesdays, but look at the prompt any day you want to write. Once you look at a prompt, you have until midnight that night to write it.
Writers are encouraged to write a short (less than one page) piece about the topic. MidWrites aren’t meant to be “good.” There is no time for editing. No time for stalling. Just write. Whatever comes to mind. By midnight.
My MidWrite for the previous week will be posted here. Send me your MidWrite in the form below. I look forward to writing with you!
Carly Bellow 4.6.21
The sand is so smooth it feels pillowy on my bare feet; though, they are calloused from walking on rough rock, and that may be contributing to the sensation. How long have I been walking on rough rock that sandstone grit feels like an embrace to the hardened shell of what was once soft pads of feet.
The answer is: days, or maybe minutes, it is very hard to be sure of time in a place like this. In fact, I don’t fully remember how I came to be here. I think I’ve been walking in the desert for miles and miles, but when I try to recall where my journey began… And anyway, I don’t need to remember where I came from, because look at all what’s around me!
That is a cactus, even though it is growing sideways across the ground and has no thorns. Cacti are like that here. I know not to touch it anyway. I have long since learned not to touch what is beautiful, as it generally breaks.
And the smells! What is that scent on the air? (I close my eyes and am momentarily in a jungle. Of course! The jungle is where I came from. I must have been walking for a very long time. And here there are strange bird calls…but no. What was that scent?) Oh yes, sage. The desert always smells like sage, and it matters not that I cannot actually smell it anymore; I know that is what the smell on the air must be.
The bird calls are still there, as if only my ears have not been transplanted to the desert, but remain still in the rainforest. Yes, there’s the jungle-y sound, the rush of water, the roar of life, the bellow of the waterfall, transforming the river now beside me, (which appears to calm,) into a ripping cascade of tide over the rim. I hasten to keep up. I must always keep up.
The rim is near. The roar is sounding inside my own head. Run. Reach it. But I can feel my feet dragging. The sand has gone. Feet stuck. There! The ribbon of river. Smashing the pool. I jump-