Story a day: 3.6.2016

Prompt: The artist Michelangelo was born on March 6 (true fact).


The reincarnation of Michelangelo was born in a Syrian refugee camp. Among the 30,000 people squeezed into a desperate mud pit meant for 1,500, the child painted with dirt. The sides of the tents bore reflections of her previous life.

As her father, I thought maybe she could get us through the border. I brought the Europeans to the tents and showed them the eerie mud rendition of "The Last Judgement," the anatomically perfect mud sculpture of David. But they were not moved.

"How could this child know these things?" I said in the face of their disbelief. "How could a child born here even know what David is?"

Judge me for using my child if you will, but it was our best chance. And even that didn't work. So Michelangelo labors away inside the camp, making art from the mud.

Story a day: 3.5.2016

Prompt: Get high. Set a timer for five minutes. See what happens. No deleting. No stopping. Can correct for grammar, spelling, etc.


We could only go one way. Physically. We could only move in one direction. It made looking back with regret impossible.

We held hands, but we didn't want to. It just felt like the thing to do. Trapped on some conveyor belt of future forwards, we held hands with the only thing around us that made sense. Strange, that at the end it would be a human that made sense. All the time leading up to this had been full of inexplicable humans.

Had we known each other before? Were we friends or acquaintantces or family, even? I didn't know anymore. The person beside me was just an impression of a human. I wasn't sure if they were male or female, young or old, familiar or strange.

We continued on, only one way. It felt so much less impressive than all the descriptions of shining stairways and trumpets and pearls and shit. I mean, I guess I wasn't super surprised - I hadn't really expected anything, much less the trumpets and all that. But an escalator and one-way signs seemed like a letdown, even to me.

I think we were supposed to look at our lives or something, but I didn't care and I didn't look. What could be there to interest me? There was only one way, now. One way. When you're only moving one way, there's no space for regret or nostalgia. I preferred it that way.

Story a day: 3.4.16

A five-minute sprint to start the day off strong.


She skipped down the lane. She had to stop when she found the rod. It was not what she expected. It did not sparkle. It did not imbue her with magic. It was just a rusty steel rod, discarded and forgotten.

She kept it anyway and skipped home and added it to her collection of Potentially Magical Things. Skipping was the proper way to find such things. Skipping lured in magic, she knew. Some day, a rod would be a wand or a cone would be a wizard's hat or a shoe would be a portal to a new world. She kept keys and coins, shawls with tattered patterns and notebooks full of scribbled words.

He thought she was crazy. But really, that was fine. He could think what he wanted. It was no concern to her. People like him never encountered magic. They lacked the soul for it. It took a certain type of soul, the type that could skip, to lure in magic.

That's a property of Potentially Magical Things, you know. They can pick out those humans, those Ordinary Things, that have a peculiar affinity for them. They sense a kindred soul, a skipping soul, and reveal themselves to those Ordinary Things. It unlocks the potential of both object and human.

Story a day: 3.3.2016

Written while I walked to aerial class (about 5:30 p.m.).


The grass exhaled the day's labors, a puff of rain drops and sunshine, of dog walks and after-school sports, of "how was your day"s and "good morning"s. The sky blinked its heavy eyes. A burst of color bled from the corners, residue of heat and light that flared before it slept, like leaves fighting the quiet death of winter.

The night waited, suspicious. The hush could only hold so long.

Story a day: 3.2.2016

Prompt: Hopped into a sprint room at for five minutes and wrote a weird story about math inspired by a documentary I saw this morning.


We invented math in order to count our women. Before then, it was too difficult to keep track. The little hens would run off and then we'd have the worst time rounding them back up. But now, with math, we are able to keep track of all our property, not just the women.

This new math we have is useful in so many ways. Just the other day, Jon was praying and realized he'd called on three gods - three! We even know our gods better now.

"I'd like to count," my wife said not long after the new math really got rolling.

I laughed. How could I resist? Such silly hens we have about us.

But it turned really serious when I discovered her trying to learn it herself. Can you imagine? I found her out in the yard, pulling up weeds and putting them in piles. When I asked her what she was doing she had the audacity to look proud.

"Look!" she said. "There is a weed in this pile for each finger on my hand. What is the math for that?"

Five, I wanted to shout. But I knew it wouldn't penetrate her silly head. How could I explain something like "five" to a silly hen who thought fingers were math?

It seems no matter how far we progress, there will always be much to learn.

Story a day: 3.1.2016

Prompt: We're back to prose! Beautiful, simple, straightforward prose! The prompt I found today was to write about what's outside the window.


When I was young, my friends sprouted up around me. They waved like so many green fingers while I wound my way up out of the ground. They made the air sweet in the wet morning heat and soft in the hard cold nights. They crunched when they were moved and whispered when the air rustled us. The ground rose and fell around us and we swayed like the ladybugs tiptoeing up our limbs.

I must have stopped looking down as I curled and coiled upward. Because now I am almost as tall as the glinting glass that arrived and smoothed the ground and there is nothing below me but faceless, smooth white like a block of ice that never melts. 

Story a day: 2.29.16

Prompt: Last day of the poetry challenge! I made it through an entire month. To be honest, there were times I really didn't think I would haha.

For my last poem, I'm giving myself a little challenge. I want the middle and end of the line to rhyme. So each line will rhyme with itself. I will leave the rest loose.


The fairy said, "I'll soon be dead."
The forest cried and said she'd lied,
but in spite of all their fears, I find no cause for tears.
Not for her, that disturber
of butterfly wings and gentler things.

The fairy spread her magic ahead
and all the forest withered to dust.

Can you blame me? Can't you see
that little fairy quick as a bee
will surely flee?

Not dead! But instead
destroying all wherever she calls.

Story a day: 2.28.16

Prompt: Today's form is found. It means that I will take words around me and turn them into a poem (I can add, subtract, rearrange, etc.).

The source for my found poem is going to be my aerial notebook. It is a notebook I've kept with my descriptions of all the tricks I've learned in my aerial class. So the words are really strange.


Slide up the ropes
You can't go back to neutral
Foot caught in a hook
Hollow body in a stradle

The gazelle lifts its knees
Like Peter Pan getting caught
The tail kicks free
While chest and legs are locked

You're looking for a crack
Stand on the bar and find a way
Balance tipped; no going back
To hang here would be deadly

Story a day: 2.27.16

Prompt: Today's form is Spenserian stanza.

It is eight lines in iambic pentameter and one in Alexandrine, with a rhyme scheme of ABABBCBCC. Technically (obviously from the name), it is just one stanza, but I'm going to treat it like a complete poem.


I flee across imagined fields to get
my head up and away. To breathe. To look.
To think without a guard. Perhaps to let
my feet go where they may - unchained, unhooked.

Now running, I think back on what they took,
those trinkets I regretablly released.
In this endeavor I must be the crook.
I am the one who let me be erased.

I hope that now the lines of me may be retraced.

Story a day: 2.26.16

Prompt: Free forming again.


One chip becomes two because cleaning isn't fun
but I will stay here on my knees until the number's none.

A crumb is not a speck, a hair is not a strand,
to a mind set on cleanliness as an absolute command.

So do not wonder if I spend this time here on the floor
scrubbing every "not so bad" until they are no more.