Day 7: Blind Date

Your are going on a blind date for Valentine’s Day. In case the date is a dud, you have your best friend on standby. Your friend is to call you at 9:30 on the dot. If the date is going well, you answer and use the phrase “I already took care of that.” If it’s not, you answer and claim your friend has an emergency. The date is going well and your friend calls at 9:30 as planned—only problem is, the friend calls with a real emergency. What is it and what do you do?

I scan the falling-apart restaurant, taking in every rusted chair and scratched table. I'm looking for a man with black hair and a red tie. He shouldn't be hard to find; today's Valentine's Day and no one in their right mind would come here for an evening out with their significant other. Except me of course, and the guy my best friend set me up with. I should have known as soon as he suggested this place that this date wouldn't go well. I enjoy extravagance--chandeliers and waiters in tuxedos offering me champagne. Not whatever this is. 

Surprisingly, a few tables are filled, but there is no sight of any curly black hair. Showing up late to a blind date is not a good start. I should give this guy a few tips when he gets here--no, if he gets here. I take a seat in a booth, pretending not to care that I'm sitting alone on Valentine's Day. Even though I try not to, my eyes keep glancing toward the door, looking for my date. I look at my watch; it's only a few minutes past eight--he's not that late. 

As I scan the menu for something that would satisfy my growling, vegan stomach, a shadow appears over the table.

"You must be Missy," a deep voice says. I look up to find a beautiful creature standing in front of me. Chiseled and tan, my date looks like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. "I'm Alex," he says, stretching out his hand to shake mine. When I finally take my eyes off his face, I admire the rest of him. He's lean and looks like a marathon runner or Tour de France biker. I decide I need to go to the gym tomorrow. 

"Thanks for coming tonight, Missy. I know this isn't the fanciest place in the world, but they have the absolute best sweet potato fries." I like this guy already. My friend who set up the date told me she would get me out of it if I absolutely hated him. But the way she said it, she sounded so confident that I would love him. I get it now. This guy is perfect--he's healthy, gorgeous and polite. I met him two minutes ago and I already feel like I would say 'yes' if he proposed. 

"Welcome to Miriam's, what can I get you to drink?" 

"Want to share a bottle of champagne?" Alex says, his clear, green eyes glimmering and hopeful.

"I'd love that," I say, running my fingers through my hair and adjusting my posture to match his. I'm not one to be flirtatious, but considering this guy could easily land a Victoria's Secret Angel, I need to make myself seem as confident and attractive as possible. 

After we order (I get a club sandwich with sweet potato fries and he orders a salad), we immediately dive into conversation. I find out that he is indeed a marathon runner, he does logistics for retail corporations, and he recently moved to Chicago from Brooklyn, New York. He's everything my mom ever wanted me to find in a man and suddenly, I'm envisioning Alex and I going to dinner at my parent's place. I imagine my parents finally being impressed with me. 

I expect him to get up and leave when I tell him I'm a freelance writer. It may be true that I can barely afford my rent and that I've never run more than a mile in my life, but Alex stays. In fact, he smiles and tells me how jealous he is that I can write. 

"I just never understood the appeal," he says with a smile that looks like an audition for a Colgate commercial, "I guess numbers are more my thing."

9:30 comes so quickly that I jump when I hear my phone ring. That's when I remember my friend's plan. She calls at 9:30 and if the date is awful, she'll say she has an emergency and get me out of it. It wouldn't be hard too convince Alex of an emergency considering my friend, Cindy, recently discovered she's pregnant. 

"I'll be just a minute, I'm sorry," I say, hoping Alex doesn't think I'm being too rude. "I already took care of that," I say, as I walk away from the booth. That's my assigned line if the date is going well. There's silence on the other end of the phone. "Cindy? The date's going great! Thanks for setting this up." 

A few seconds pass, and still no answer. "Cindy? Hello?" I hear quiet sniffling on the other end and then a muffled, "Help." The call disconnects. I hurry back to Alex's table and tell him we have to go immediately. 

"Slow down, what happened?" 

"I don't know, I just heard her say she needs help." My mouth is dry and I can feel a lump forming in my throat. Cindy has been my friend since we were toddlers; I panic at the thought of losing her. Alex drives us to her house in his 2015 Mustang; I open the door and rush out before he's fully stopped. 

"Jesus," I hear him mutter under his breath. I ring the doorbell and wait about two seconds before frantically opening the door and stepping inside. Alex follows closely behind me. "Cindy?" I yell around the first floor. I take a peek in her backyard, her kitchen, and her family room before running up her winding staircase. 

"Are you hom-" I stop in my tracks when I pass the master bathroom door. The door is cracked open about a foot wide and I see Cindy laying on the ground, blood dripping down her legs. 

"Oh my God," Alex says, and rushes over to her, "What happened?"

Cindy's eyes flutter open; she's about to pass out from the pain. "I think I lost my baby," she whispers.

Day 6: Days of Our Lives

Grab the book, magazine, or newspaper nearest you and open up to a random page. Start your story with the first line at the top of the page and end your story with the last line at the bottom of the page.

I absolutely love this prompt idea! I'm taking my lines from the book Love Me Anyway by Tiffany Hawk, page 148. It's an excellent novel!


She feels his lips brush against her ear. "Morning, babe," he mumbles.

"I am not your babe." Without saying another word, Carletta slips out of bed and gets dressed. 

"Come on, don't be like that," he moans. So much for taking a day off to find myself, Carletta thinks to herself. She was supposed to visit all the places she's never seen in the city she's lived in her entire life. Instead, however, she ended up going to a bar and waking up in bed with a man whose name she doesn't know. Funny how often this seems to happen. 

Sitting on the edge of a stranger's bed, Carletta contemplates her life as a retail store manager. She dropped out of college because she just wanted to be a writer. But then, she kept getting rejected from publishing companies and gave up. It had been almost two years since she gave writing another shot, and she missed it. 

Maybe yesterday wasn't what she needed to find herself. But today she knew what she needed to do. Carletta leaves without saying goodbye (the man has fallen back asleep anyway) and takes a cab to the opposite side of town to her one bedroom apartment. It's all that she can afford. She sits down to her laptop to write for the first time in ages. She isn't even sure where to start but she knows she needs to if she wants to turn her life around. 

It takes her quite some time to come up with a unique idea for a story, but once she gets going it's like she never stopped writing. Her delicate fingers fly gracefully and aimlessly over each key for hours at a time until a few days later, she has a few chapters to take to publishing companies.

Carletta is a nervous wreck as she walks into a few different businesses and drops off her manuscript. She's scared to face rejection again, but she's even more scared that she'll fall into a pit of self loathing and alcoholism if she gets rejected too many times again. Carletta isn't used to rejection from men--in fact, she gets asked out a few times every day at her day job--so when Carletta got rejected from the first company she submitted her work to, she was devastated. It was difficult to realize that her dreams would be harder to achieve than she had initially thought. So like she had with everything else in her life, she gave up and settled for something she hated. 

But this time is different; she can feel it. This time there will be no stopping her. She will take her work to every publisher in the country if she has to and if no one takes it, she'll self-publish. Nothing will bring her down. 

A month passes and she hasn't heard back from a published yet. She's continued doing her day job but now, instead of going out and drinking, she gets out her laptop and writes. Writing helps her vent; she hasn't had the urge to drink or smoke since she started going home right after work. She keeps telling herself that it doesn't matter if she never gets published; she's doing this for herself. 

Slowly but surely, Carletta retreats back to her old ways. Not one company has called her back after four months. At least when they called to tell her they hated it, she knew it was over. 


If she were on Days Of Our Lives, it would be time for the camera to move in for her close-up where she would say, "I've arrived."

Day 5: The Phone Call

Your phone rings in the middle of the night. An indiscernible voice speaks: “There is a car waiting for you outside. Get inside. You don’t want to ignore this.” Your spouse rolls over, eyes squinting, and says, “Everything okay?” What happens next?


"May I have your attention please, ladies and gentleman? Flight 94 to Toronto is about to begin loading. Please begin filing a line behind the flight attendant in red."

I gently tap my husband who has fallen asleep on my shoulder during our four hour layover. "Babe, wake up." I grab our carry-on bags and get in line while my husband yawns and stretches his arms above his head like an actor in a sleeping pill commercial. Sitting next to me on the plane is a burly man with a leather jacket and sunglasses on. He looks like a member of Hell's Angels, minus the motorcycle and embroidering on his back. He mumbles inaudibly to himself when he finds out he'll have to share his aisle space with someone else.

"Hello," I say with a bright smile; I definitely don't want to get on this guy's bad side, "What brings you to Toronto?" He looks up at me and then returns to his phone without giving an answer.

I raise my shoulders to my husband and whisper, "I tried." He chuckles and takes his seat. I wake up a couple hours later to find the mystery man beside me in the same position scrolling through some sort of coding on his phone. Curiosity gets the better of me, as usual, so I slowly lean to the side to see if I can get a better look at what he's doing. He must have sensed me getting closer, because suddenly he switches off his phone and stands up. When he makes it to the lavatory, I tell my husband about the codes, and he tells me that there's been a security breech in the Social Security branch; hackers gained access to thousands of SSA records and the FBI is trying to hunt them down. "But I'm sure that guy has nothing to do with it," he adds, and settles back in his seat for a nap.

An hour later, we arrive at our destination. My husband is here for business and I came along because I needed a vacation from the kids back home. Carl and I have been married for seven years and have two beautiful sons. This is the first time we have left them for more than a day, and even though they're safe with my parents, I haven't stopped worrying since we left for the airport.

Traveling takes all the energy out of my husband, so as soon as we get to the hotel Carl passes out on the king-size bed without bothering to pull down the covers. I snuggle in next to him, excited to finally have a few nights without the kids. While Carl quietly snores next to me, I read the local newspaper and a few magazines left in our hotel room. I begin dozing off just as the phone on the wooden nightstand rings.

"There is a car waiting for you outside. Get inside. You don't want to ignore this." Click.

My mind searches for a possible solution to what I just heard while my husband awakens and says, "Everything okay?"

I question whether or not I should tell him about the call; at this point, I'm not even sure that I'm going to go out to the car. "Yeah, yeah, everything's fine. That was just the hotel desk telling me I left my wallet downstairs. Go back to sleep."

A few minutes later, Carl falls asleep again, and I slowly climb out of bed, my heart pounding. I'm raking through every possible conclusion to who could be calling. Did they have the wrong number? Did someone overhear my conversation about the hackers? Was the man on the phone the same man sitting next to me on the plane? If so, what do I have to do with anything?

A yellow Mustang awaits me when I go through the revolving door of the hotel. A man dressed in black gets out of the driver's seat and opens the back door for me. All of my questions for the driver go unanswered. Twenty minutes later, we arrive in front of a huge glass building. The parking lot is empty except for another yellow Mustang identical to the one I arrived here in.

"Come with me," the man in black says. I nervously follow behind him as we go up two flights of stairs and through a narrow hallway without any doors except for one at the very end. When I enter, the man from the plane is sitting at one end of a very long conference table.

"Have a seat," he says, "and tell me everything you know about what you saw on my phone today." Suddenly, two large men appear from the dark corners of the room carrying guns.

My heart stops. "I don't know what you're talking about. All I saw were some numbers but I didn't know what they meant. I didn't mean to cause any trouble." I shoot him my best innocent smile, but I can tell by his demeanor that he's not falling for it.

"Come on, let's go," the driver says to me, pulling me out of my chair and down another long hallway just like the first.

This time when I enter the room the first thing I see is Carl.

"Oh my God, they have you too? What is going on?" I rush over to him but suddenly he lifts his arms from under the table and aims a gun at me.

And that's when I realize Carl is in charge.

Day 4: Split Second

“I wasn’t planning on this. Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted. Because I know our time would have to come to end. Yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page.” Who is the speaker and who is the speaker talking to? 

In this moment, all I can hear is his slow breath on my neck and his soft heartbeat on my chest. This is what true happiness feels like. 

"I can only stay for five more minutes," I murmur.

"It's only 7 o'clock. Why do you have to go so soon?" Charles' deep, groggy voice fills his apartment bedroom.

"I just have some work to do, that's all." Lie.

The truth is, my husband will be home from work at eight. Yes, that's right. I'm married. But it's not how it sounds, I promise. The person I'm married to is not a man--he's a monster. The days when we were dating were magical; I wouldn't trade them for the world. But the person he became as soon as our honeymoon began--possessive, dominating, and violent--is not the man I knew in the beginning of our relationship. 

Mark and I have been married for almost two years. Two years of threats and bruises is not quite the happily ever after I was looking for. I'd started to give up on love until I met Charles a few months ago when I was going dancing with some friends. My friends were so proud of themselves for convincing me to go out, when really, it was Mark who needed convincing. It took me days to gain the trust I needed from him to have one fun night without him. 

The funny thing is, when all the abuse started, I was offended that Mark thought I would cheat. But then I realized his possessiveness is about power, not his opinion of me. So I danced with Charles the entire evening, and at the end of the night, when he asked for a date, I could not give him my number quickly enough. Of course, Mark goes through my work phone so I have a cheap spare that I use just for contact with Charles. 

When I arrive home from my evening with Charles, I find Mark sitting on the couch waiting for me. He hasn't seen me yet, so I tiptoe back out the door, hoping for an escape. But it's too late. 

"Where were you?" Mark commands.

"I was just finishing up at the office, honey," I gulp.

"Wrong. The office said you left three hours ago." Why do I even bother lying? 

"OK, OK. If you must know, I'm planning you a surprise party. I was out ordering the cake and buying some supplies. Gosh, why can't you let me surprise you just once?" I fake a smile. His birthday is coming up in a few months, so that lie has to be somewhat believable.

Remarkably, Mark isn't the mood for any bickering tonight. He sighs and goes to the bedroom. I breathe a sigh of relief and follow him in.

The next day, Mark leaves for a business trip in Chicago. Luckily for me, that means two whole days to spend with Charles without any fear. We've been seeing each other for a few months, and since there's no chance of Mark being home, I invite Charles over to my place for the first time. Every photo of Mark and I hides in the garage, as well as all his clothes and personal belongings that could tip Charles off. I swore to myself that tonight would be the night I would tell him the complete truth. Charles doesn't deserve to be lied to everyday. He's too good of a man for that. 

That night, I leave Charles in the bedroom while I go out to make coffee. Five minutes later, I push open the door carrying two mugs. 

"Alright, black coffee for you of course. And for me, four sugars and-" I stop in my tracks. There sits Charles holding my marriage certificate in his hand, looking more confused than a deer in the headlights.

"What is this?" Charles asks, a hopeful expression in his eyes. 

"Please don't look at that," I say, rushing over to him and spilling scalding hot coffee down my arms and onto the white rug. 

"Whose marriage license is this? Your parents'?" Here goes nothing. 

"I wasn’t planning on this. Falling in love with you was the last thing I wanted. Because I know our time would have to come to end. Yet, here I am, begging you not to turn the page."

"Sweetie, what on earth are you talking about?" It only took a split second for Charles' face to transform from frazzled to concerned to total disappointment. He didn’t need to turn the page to realize what this means. It only took a split second for him to see through all the lies, a split second for my happiness to come crashing to a halt. 

The floodgates open. The tears fall so heavily I cannot see in front of me. The lump in my throat feels like I swallowed a boulder; the knot in my stomach gets tighter and tighter with each breath I take. 

"Please let me explain," I sob. I reach out for his hand, expecting him to move it from my reach. But he doesn't, and just like the first time I ever touched him, I feel a spark so strong between us, and I realize how goddamn selfish I am. 

Despite all the lies I've told him, Charles, the most patient man alive, stays by my side while I tell him everything. I tell him about Mark--the happy memories as well as the situation I'm currently facing. I tell him how, at first, being with him was a spontaneous adventure, but now I'm in love and I have no idea what I'm doing. I tell him how every minute I spend with him gives me strength to get me through every minute I must endure with Mark. 

At the end of it all, Charles smiles. "Run away with me," he says, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind my ear. 

"What? But that's so dangerous. Not just for me.. he could hurt you. I couldn't live with myself if--"

"Hey, don't be like that. It will be OK; I won't let anything happen to you. The truth is, I got offered a promotion in Tampa today. I was going to ask you to come with me anyway," he says, blushing. And just like that, my life begins to turn around. In ten minutes, I'm packed and ready to go; I'm free. We hold hands as I close the door of my house for the last time. When the door clicks shut, I tuck the key under the doormat. Here we go. 

Charles and I are almost to the driveway when, for the second time in an hour, my happiness comes screeching to a halt. 

"Jess? Is that you? Who is that with you?" 

We freeze in place. 

It's Mark. 


Prompt: Writer's Digest

Day 3: Night at the Museum

You hide in the museum bathrooms until the building is closed and everyone is gone. What is the first thing you do? Do you touch everything you possibly can or go exploring in the back rooms? Don’t forget to watch out for security guards!

Completely alone in a sea of natural history, I half expect my evening to turn into a scene from Night at the Museum; every piece of history is a work of art that could come to life at any moment. However, I'm used to being alone--so here I am, exploring a museum in the middle of the night to collect research for my novel. 

I dream of being a writer. Even though I'm only a sophomore in high school, I've always known this is what I want do. I come from a long line of writers; my grandfather started my city's local newspaper, and both of my parents are novelists. At least I think they are. They both left me with my grandparents when I was really young to travel the world for research. They explore Greece; I explore a museum. So be it. 

As I walk through every important scene in history clutching my notebook, I hear footsteps. I knew there had to be a security guard in here somewhere, but by the time I come to realize what I'm hearing, it's too late. The clicking sound grows louder and louder behind me. Without turning around, I begin sprinting down the tile pathways, weaving in and out of marble busts and paintings. My dollar store sandals squeak as I turn each bend, and soon I am in the clear.

I end up in the dinosaur room. Velociraptors and triceratops tower over me, making me feel like I'm in Jurassic Park. I become mesmerized by these animals that were so powerful, yet failed to survive. Is this what will happen to humans? I jot down notes until my hand begins to cramp, but by that point I have an idea for a new story and I don't want to stop. I take a seat against the glass wall of a display and write. And write. And write.

I immerse myself in my writing, so much so that when I hear a booming voice yell, "Who is there?" I don't fully comprehend it until I see a tall shadow looming behind me in the entryway of the room.

"Lizzy?" Shit. It's security, I think to myself as I turn and see a familiar face. But wait, how does he know my name? The only person who ever called me Lizzy is... 
  
"Dad?"

Prompt; Writer's Digest

Day 2: I Know What You Did

Every morning at 9:00 a.m. sharp, you get a call on your cell phone. The speaker says “I know what you did” and then hangs up. This has been going on for two weeks straight. What did you do and how do you react to these calls?

9:00.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
I already know what the voice will say
but this is the price I must pay,
I know what you did.

9:05.
I'm so sorry.
She can't hear me.

9:15.
I open the doors to the police station,
This is what she would want.
How can I help you?

9:16.
I blink back the salty tears
about to spill like
a waterfall.
I'm so sorry. 

9:17.
It was me, 
I breathe.

9:20.
A flash of bright lights,
clothed in orange stripes,
A metal cage awaits me.

9:22.
Slam. 

Day 1: Tradition

Your family has always been a little off when it comes to holiday traditions. You eat tacos on the Fourth of July and hamburgers on Cinco de Mayo. How did this whacky tradition get started?

Trying to find hot dogs on the afternoon of July 4th is not the easiest task. But when we're talking about my family, nothing is ever easy.

That Fourth of July marked the first ever Baxter-Holliday Family Picnic. My father's family and his new wife, Trisha's family were coming together to create some sort of step-family tradition. The picnic started in just a few hours and we hadn't even bought the typical Fourth of July picnic ingredients yet. So while we're walking through the aisles searching for one last pack of hot dogs to feed thirty people, I decide it's my job as the stubborn egotistical daughter to make things more complicated.

"Trish, you do realize no store is going to have any left, right?"

"You don't know that; have a little faith."

"I know everything."

"Cecilia, please-"

"Normal families are already done eating by now."

"Well, we aren't a normal family then, are we?" My stepmother said, while applying her sixteenth coat of lipstick and simultaneously waving a store clerk over with a flick of her wrist. Clad in a tight black dress and five inch heels, the newest addition to my family gets everything she wants. Despite my desperate attempts to show my dad the gold-digger she truly is, he didn't hesitate to marry her and buy the three of us a six bedroom mansion adjacent to some swanky country club in the suburbs. Can country clubs be "swanky?"

When my mom left when I was six, my dad had to learn to do a lot of things, like cook and teach his only daughter how to braid her hair. I grew up watching cooking shows as my dad tried to make us dinner. Pretty soon, I was taking cooking classes and helping my dad out. I fell in love with it and decided I wanted to be a chef. There's something so calming about following a recipe and making it my very own.

My mom, dad, and I lived in an apartment in New York for my entire life. Living in the city is like being a fish swimming in the opposite direction of his school. I love the hustle and bustle of a big city--but as the saying goes, in a New York minute I was swept out of my apartment and into a big house with an actual lawn and everything.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, we're sold out. There's nothing I can do." I watch my stepmother's Botox-injected face grimace.

"Well," she sighs, "What do you have?"

Luckily for the store clerk, he's saved from answering by my dad, returning from his business call in the car, who wraps his arms around Trish's waist.

"Oh good, you're back," she says, removing my dad's hands and walking over to the "Ethnic" aisle.

"You've got to be kidding me," I remark as I watch my stepmother grab packages and packages of taco shells and throw them into the cart. "Tacos on the Fourth of July? You're serious?"

"Oh come on, honey, lighten up! This is going to be so much fun," my dad says to make Trish smile, but I know him better than she ever will. I can hear the worry in his voice. He was eager to make a good impression on Trish's family by throwing an extravagant party in our new home, but tacos just weren't the way to do that.

We stare as Trish struts around the grocery store, oblivious to the gaze of the men around her, gathering all the taco ingredients she can find. After a few minutes, my dad leaves me with the real-life Barbie to take another business call.

"Darlin', come here--what else normally goes on tacos? You know I wouldn't be caught dead eating meat."

I roll my eyes and ignore her. I wouldn't be caught dead helping Trish solve her Mexican food problems.

Back at the house, my dad cleans up while I watch Trish struggle to cook the beef for the tacos. After five minutes, she has grease stains all over her Guess t-shirt. I try to ignore it but the kitchen seems to be pulling me in. I sigh, knowing my disinterested teenager image is about to be over.

"Here, let me help you," I say, and try my best to smile at her without throwing up. My dad clearly never mentioned to Trish that I can cook, but I act nonchalant as I step in front of her and take over.

I finish preparing the meal just as the doorbell rings; the first guests have arrived.

"Ok, honey, come downstairs, my parents are here! Just smile a lot--I'm sure they'll love you like I do!" Trish yells upstairs, as my dad comes running down the stairs buttoning his shirt, his dark hair still wet from his shower. I look over to see a tight smile plastered on Trish's face.

I could have easily picked Trish's parents from a lineup. The mother has the same platinum blonde hair and fake smile as Trish, and the father looks like he just got back from an outing at the country club with other rich businessmen.

While the other guests arrive, my father and I are forced to make small talk with Trish's parents.

"We'll have to get over to that country club and golf together sometime soon, y'hear?" John, Trish's father grunts.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a golfer," my dad looks nervous. John looks disappointed.

"Oh, what's that I smell?" Trish's mother, Marianne, wrinkles her nose in disgust.

"We're having tacos!"

"Tacos? On the Fourth of July?" Marianne says disgustedly.

I don't answer her; for once, I would rather be talking to Trish.

"Your parents don't seem to be too happy about us having tacos," I whisper to Trish.

She smiles--a real smile, and for once she looks pretty. Really pretty. "That's the point," she says, laughing. Trish takes my hand and leads me to the fridge where I find packages of hot dogs and hamburgers.

"Wait, what? When did you get those?"

"Oh, about a week ago. But it's always fun to upset the parents a little, isn't it? I say we make this a tradition."

I start laughing, and soon we are both on the hardwood floor of the kitchen wiping tears from our eyes.

I like Trish.


Prompt from: Writers Digest