One Page for 1/6/2019

Wow. The gap between this post and the last one-pager goes to show how easy it is to look at my red story prompt notebook each night, week, month and say, “I’ll write later.” Today I walked myself to a Starbucks and am trying to set a good tone for the rest of this new year.

I didn’t realize it until I was about a third of the way down the page, but I was inspired by two Netflix finds I’ve consumed. One is a short two-season (god please let there be more) series called “can’t cope won’t cope,” about two Irish twentysomethings in a codependent friendship that is falling apart fast. At first, it seems like it’s the fault of Aisling, a girl who won’t admit to her alcoholism and almost complete lack of direction in life, leading her to lean precariously on her friend Danielle, who’s trying to get somewhere in life with her art. But then it becomes clear that despite her frustration, Danielle can’t let Aisling go either.

The second find was a short (for a feature at least) film called Six Years, executive produced by the Duplass brothers. The title comes from the length of the relationship that Mel and Dan, two young Austin-ites, have been in. About to join the workforce post college, they’re on the cusp of deciding whether to stay or go their separate ways, literally too. Their love is young despite the length of time they’ve devoted to each other, and therefore rash and impulsive, leading to a night in jail, stepping on broken glass, and a bloody crash into a dresser drawer. It’s a movie with seemingly low stakes and an everyday problem people might face, but it’s because of that and because it’s done so well that I didn’t check the time until I was twenty minutes from the inevitable ending.

So you can see where my inspirations for Harold’s motivations came from. 🙂 Here goes.


Ugh I hate this new block editor.
No idea how to rotate this while editing on my phone.

Prompt:

Someone wrote that insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result each time. By that definition, Harold was surely insane. Once again, he was…

My response:

…sitting in his car in the guest parking spot outside Hannah’s block of apartments. Or townhouses. She was the stickler for describing things accurately. She did it with her feelings, too, and the last conversation they’d had—or spiel she gave—had made it clear there was no reason to believe she’d answer her phone now and come out and take him back in with her. At least, relieve him of the awkward wave and smile he directed at one of her neighbors, who’d always, and also now, flared at him for parking (taking up) a spot meant for guests. Goddamn. He was an interloper now. That’s what her neighbor’s look had said no matter how much he wanted to rebel against it. An intruder. Harold raised his free palm and drove it into his steering wheel, narrowly missing the horn. Thankfully Hannah’s neighbor was out of earshot, unable to hear the growl that escaped Harold. Harold and Hannah had been together for five years. Her slap to his face last week was not the end-all to them. They had been through worse—bruises, cold shoulders, doors slammed so loud his ears rang for hours afterward—and didn’t react like this: pretending the other didn’t exist. His existence depended on hers, and she would come out. He always made the first move.

One Page for 10/7/2018

A dear friend gifted me a journal featuring story prompts on each page. Today I’ll begin posting my entries as I endeavor to fill the journal…

10072018 one page story


Prompt:

You know when even the things you dislike about a person make you love her even more? Well, that was Mary. On the one hand, she…

My story response: …was obstinate beyond the point of it being attractive for a woman. I only say that last part because I’d experienced the opposite in the previous few women I’ve dated or spent the night with. When we went out to eat, too lazy and languid to expend the effort to cook for ourselves, spent from our bedroom exertions, they’d loll their heads against my arm, telling me to pick. It put me on edge again, aware that I had to “perform” once more and rack my brains to choose correctly, or risk losing even more favor, first because I hadn’t been able to satisfy them in bed. Mary was something to get used to. When we debated current events, it would take me a second because I’d be astounded by how much conviction she had in her position, and how hard it would be for me to deliver a convincing, let alone logical, comeback. We’re on the train now, sitting knees to knees in the seats on the second level that I used to glare at when I was by myself, on the way to confront the management of a concert venue we were at a week ago. I don’t do confrontation, but Mary, oh Mary. She wasn’t going to let them get away with their snarky email response to our respectfully worded complaint. Our knees touch. Her eyes glint. She’s not changing her mind, despite my clammy hands. Mary…

Partly inspired by: