Mirror, Mirror – Chapter Buzz Writing Prompt

Now for something a bit different.

In the next few days, I will begin revising my first draft. It currently stands at approximately 50k words and is in desperate need of an ending. Thankfully, it is all in my head.

Searching for some guidance I stubbled upon Timothy Pike, his website Chapter Buzz and the Better Writers Club (which you have until July 15 to join).

His Daily Action Calendar has given me hope the finish line is in the not too distant future.

Check out his current post here for more information..

Today’s story is from a writing prompt posted on the Better Writers Club.

Photo credit: Seosaid on VisualHunt / CC BY-NC

I have watched her for years and yet she doesn’t know. Five a.m. and her alarm clock plays. Gaining volume, it waits for her response. I can tell the day of the week by how long she takes to silence it, throw back the covers and stumble, zombie style, to the shower.

It is a ritual she has practiced, and the steps are automatic. In a fluffy white robe and towel-wrapped head, she emerges from the bathroom and grabs her phone. She deletes cursory emails, saving the ones requiring a response until after her first cup of coffee. Checking the weather app confirms the sun shining through her window. Today will be a sunny, warm spring day.

She dresses, her clothes laid out last night, combs her long hair, letting it air dry and makes the bed. She plans everything, ensuring she forgets nothing. I stare as she checks the contents of her bag; an unnecessary step, but she feels compelled. She flings the bag over her shoulder headed to the door. At the doorway, she pauses, turns and surveys the room. She gives a quick nod and disappears down the stairs.

She won’t return for hours. After stopping for the essential cup of coffee, she has a full day of classes, study groups and individual study time. I have been to her favorite haunts; the hidden nook in the Chem building, the third-floor stacks and the tiny club lounge at the student union. The places she can hide.

I remember when she was younger. She hid in her bedroom reading book after book. While other children played, she created elaborate stories, fantastical worlds, and daring adventures. They transported her beyond this small space.

They are the same stories, worlds, and adventures beating at my brain, begging to be real. I put them off for years, bowing to conformity, to earning a living, and to walking, zombie style, though days on end. I almost believed them eradicated. But a small persistent voice held a precious ember. It ignited the truth I can no longer ignore.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer