Note: This story was created in 40 minutes in one of our writing sessions. The story is based on the following writing prompts: The words ‘always smiling’, an object (a compass) and the song ‘Summertime – Ella Fitzgerald.’

Compass – Miguel Trindade

The dog seemed like always smiling.

It was rather curious, no one knew exactly why. The dog appeared many times by the door of the bar for food and company.

As far as I knew Tuna, named for no special reason other than preferring that fish over anything else, didn’t belong to anyone.

The owner of the bar a friend of mine, began to call him that two weeks after the beginning of summer.

It was hot as hell. And everything seemed to move slower.

Even the few cars that arrived at the village. They were followed by a twist of head from Tuna and immediately return to rest, with his head between his paws.

I looked at the time. The train was leaving tomorrow.

I felt with no energy, but I knew it was what I ought to do, Tuna was going with me, I had a tent, 2 grand in my pocket, one litter of water and a compass. With Plus the rest and my notebook it would not total for more than 8 pounds at my back.

I was as ready as I would be, to change my world, go swim at the lakes, and maybe, who knows, come back from the other side. From the West a few years later.

Note: This story was created in 40 minutes in one of our writing sessions. The story is based on the following writing prompts: The words ‘blind in one eye’, an object (a stopped watch) and the song ‘Summertime – Ella Fitzgerald.’

The Stopped Watch by Debbie Liebenberg

An old man gazes out of a window as his grandson searches for a connection.

“Grandpa, your watch stopped working, here let me…”

“I know it stopped,” the old man barked as he snapped his wrist out of his grandson’s compassion.

“Oh, I, I thought you didn’t realize because…”

“BECAUSE I’M BLIND IN ONE EYE! Don’t be daft boy. I was born with this blindness.”

“Then why the stopped watch grandpa?”

“It’s a reminder Johnny, a reminder of when my life stopped.”

The young man sensed sorrow but he couldn’t let the opportunity to connect go by, “what happened?” he asked.

The old man interrupted his daydream with a sigh. As he closed his eyes he turned his face towards his grandson and began.

“It was 1945, summertime, and the living was easy. I was back home after months in the trenches. Our squad had been sent home for supplies and secrets. The war had been excruciating and it wasn’t over. I knew I would have to go back into battle soon and I didn’t expect to return. So many had died son. So much blood. The children…”

The old man seemed to crumple as he recalled the memories but then his spine shot up as he remembered…

“I decided to go out one night, enjoy the music as if it would be the last time I could. I went to the jazz club down at the docks and Ella was singing that night. My god was she beautiful. Her ebony hair mimicked her waving body as her voice bellowed beyond the borders. Her eyes glistened with enough hope and happiness for the both of us. Every man in that room wanted to be with her, and every woman wanted to be her. As she swayed and swooned her way through the crowd, the spotlight guarded her personal space, until suddenly, I was in the spotlight too. Ella put her feather boa around my neck as she sang the final words, “hush, little baby…don’t you cry.”

Good thing the spotlight turned away at that moment, because all of everything overwhelmed me at once and cry is exactly what I began to do. No one but the most noticeable girl in the room noticed. And she understood. She wiped my tears away, kissed my forehead and told me to wait for her at the back entrance at 9:00.

That was the last time I looked at my watch:8:25

As the moment passed I imagined our life together. I would run away from the war and we could soak up the summertime in love, in happiness…but then, “Sergeant Wilson!” the commander’s voice shattered my dream instantly. “They’ve launched a surprise attack. We need to leave at once.”

And just like that grandson, my life stopped, just as my little stopped watch and became nothing more than emptiness in a hard shell.

Note: This story was created in one of our writing sessions based on writing prompts. The prompts for this story were the words ‘drug dealer’, ‘fish’ and ‘museum’. 

The White Dove Museum by Jakub Dohnal

Frank has never heard of the White Dove Museum. Not until he needed it the most. He had no idea such place can even exist. And at this very moment, he still doesn’t have any idea what to expect from it.

He was born four years ago to one of the most renowned households in the country. And the very same person that brought him to this world, was about to take him off it. But the person has decided to give Frank one last chance. And so, he was sent here.

As he got through the main entrance, having no idea what to expect, he immediately got dizzy. Miserable looking creatures everywhere around him. Broken wings, dirty feet, missing eyeballs…he didn’t know where to turn in order to escape the misery surrounding him. And so he flew into an adjacent room, only to get stopped in his track right in the doorway. Beautiful white statues everywhere. Some looked new, some a bit older, but all of them were completely untouched. Frank began to shake and feel the urge coming back.

But then, he felt someone lightly touching his tail feathers from behind. Frank frightfully jumped up and turned to see who approached him.

“Welcome to the White Dove Museum.” A confident, wise voice ringed from behind the man’s white feathery chest. “I’m Mr. White.”

“Who are you? What is this? I…didn’t expect this.” The words seemed to fall out of Frank’s beak and just shatter on the floor.

“I’m Mr. White. I am the director of this institution. And this is our ‘Temptation room’ for little birds like you. If you want to stop doing what you’re doing, you gotta learn how to say NO to your drug dealer.”

“Hold on…” Frank interrupted him “why is everybody so miserable out there? This place is beautiful!”

“Well, I’m glad you say that”, Mr. White responded calmly “but not everybody was sent here in their own will. And everyone you saw in the main lobby has a heartbreaking story in their lives. I think you’ll get to hear them all.”

Mr. White grabbed Frank by his wing and dragged him to a big hall with about two hundred chairs and a stage. “It’s time you share your story, Frank”, Mr. White said encouragingly.

The lights dimmed and Frank reluctantly stepped on the stage. In the crowd, you could hear nervous cooing, excited peeping and the occasional rude chirp.

„Hi, I’m Frank.“

„Hi, Frank!“, everybody replied.

„I have never been so ashamed of myself as I am today.”, he started to speak with a shaky voice. “I tried to keep clean so many times, but every day at work is just so tempting. I end up slacking, I end up destroying art and I end up pissing off people that are supposed to love and appreciate me.”

He stopped for a very long moment and looked around. It was difficult to make eye contact with anyone in the crowd, because all their eyes were facing sideways.

He took a deep breath and said more comfortably: “This was a line that I was told to deliver today. And I don’t know why. Can anybody tell me what is this place?”

A very fat albatross with a stick of smoked fish sticking out the corner of his beak stood up:
“Frank, thank you for your story. This is the White Dove Museum. A mental hospital for birds and other avians. It’s good to say what your owner told you to say, but perhaps you could tell who you are and what do YOU actually want.”

He straightened his chest and spoke up with confidence.
„I’m Frank. I am a homing pigeon. I shit on valuable art on my job. It’s makes me happy and I can’t help myself, but my owner thinks it’s disgraceful and wants to put me down. But I am a homing pigeon. And I want to go back home.”

Note: This story was created in one of our writing sessions based on writing prompts. The prompts for this story were the words ‘radio’, ‘hippie’, ‘farms’

Hippie Farms by Roderick Mitchell Jr.

Sean looked at the barren patch of land he inherited from his recently deceased dad and let out a long sigh of exasperation. Acres and acres of dirt with only the barest glimmer of possibility were laid out before him. The land wasn’t unmanageable, soil quality and yield had never been a problem, but the work involved to make a decent living off of whatever was produced was a counter-encouragement to starting the entire process.

So naturally, the question became: what should he grow?

Sean walked across the old wooden planks of the farmstead porch, the ancient timber creaked underneath even his marginal weight, and turned on an old AM radio. As he tweaked the dial, the somber voice of a woman cut in and out of the static before it resolved into something much closer to clear.

“34598278,” she said, and then five heart beats later, “9902485.”

Sean closed his eyes and took in the sound of her voice as he breathed in the crisp nighttime air of the country side. As far as he could tell, and he expended a lot of energy thinking about the subject during his youth, the numbers were absolute nonsense. Theories abounded regarding their ties to soviet spies or american black ops operations, but he never subscribed to any of that. The entire purpose of the station was to have a laugh at people who constantly sought a deeper meaning into things.

Instead, he used her voice as a tool to meditate.

“32359002.”

He pulled out a joint he had rolled earlier and lit it, drew in the smoke until his lungs felt ready to burst, and then exhaled at a steady pace.

“00128912.”

The numbers were always 8 digits long. His dad’s cancer ate away at him for eight years. Calling it a coincidence was a stretch. There was no significance to the information, just an idle thought that he took in with a drag and exhaled with a long sigh.

But eight was a good number.

“80018329.”

He looked out at the field again, his eyes transforming the barren expanse into eight distinct plots for each crop he planned to grow. It was plausible. The trick would be to find crops that were always producing a yield each season. Speciality organic crops that could be sold at a premium. He didn’t need much money personally, but the cost of maintaining the land would be high. A lot of farmers went into debt just paying taxes on land they already “owned.”

“00000001.”

Another puff, another sigh. What about one crop that was grown cyclically? He could plant one crop in one plot, wait for it resolve, and then grown another, and another, until every 2-3 months he was pulling in the dough. He shook his head. The wait would be too long and he’d run the risk of not having enough yield soon enough to turn a profit. How had his dad done it? Growing corn every year and watching as his livelihood got trademarked, patented, and then sold back to him for more than the profit he’d gain in the first place.

“12230023.”

Sean turned up the volume on the radio and stepped off the porch while kicking his shoes off of his feet. The cool feeling of grass met his soles before gradually turning into dirt as he walked onto the farmland. The somber voice of the woman still reached his ears, even from much farther away. He took another drag. His dad always hated his habit. Then he got cancer. Sean could still remember the day his dad gave him the news. He had to drive in from the city and was bitter about it. The internet was around exactly for situations like that.

“88210032.”

It was sunny outside and his dad was sitting on the porch looking at his crop with a haggard expression. Sean had walked up and sat down next to him, wary of the silence. Finally, his dad looked at him and asked without any trace of irony, “Got a joint? I hear it’s good for cancer.” Sean rolled one up, lit it, and took a drag before passing it to him. And that was all they ever said about the subject. For the next eight years, Sean would drive down every month and give his dad enough to get through the worst of it, and before soon, the worst was so bad not even that was enough.

“10238742.”

What was he trying to accomplish? Did he really want the responsibility of a farm? The crushing weight of debt and unease at what the future would bring? Did he really want to live life away from the city he knew and loved for dirt and squalor? If being close to his dad was the only reason, in all honesty, he couldn’t even feel his dad’s presence here. Whatever the answer was, if he didn’t try, he would probably never find it. One year. Two Years. Three years. Even eight. Until he tried everything he could, he’d never really know what he wanted out of life.

“59023341.”

Sean took in one last drag and threw the remains of his joint to the ground. As it fell, the seed of an idea took root in his mind and sprouted into full bloom.

He knew what’d he farm.