Ransom Note

             “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:30 pm. That’s what the note said, scrawled on yellow lined paper, in handwriting resembling that of a young child’s, blue ink. 8 words. 1 sentence. Amazing the impact that can have on you.

                My daughter has been taken. My baby girl. Maybe not my flesh and blood, but still my child, my angel. 15. She’s only 15. Is she ok? Is she hurt? Is she calling out for me right now? What is she thinking? I wonder if she had a lunch. Silly thought at a time like this. I haven’t even opened my door yet.

                “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:31 pm. I can’t stop seeing the words written there in front of me. Blue ink. Blue like my eyes. Blue like my heart. This must be a nightmare, a trick. My blue ink eyes must be playing a trick on me. It’s not. I know it’s not, but still I hope.

                I hear screaming somewhere. It’s loud and annoying. I wish it would stop. Whoever is screaming needs to stop! It’s me. I’m screaming. I’m screaming and I’m crying and I can’t stop. My throat and lungs burn with the effort but I can’t stop! Maybe she hears me and knows that I will never stop looking for her. I will get her back. My baby. My angel.

                “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:32 pm. My daughter. My baby girl. She’s been taken, stolen. By who? To where? For what purpose? $1 million. She’s worth so much more than that. More than those 8 words. Than that blue ink. Than that yellow lined paper. I waited so long, tried so hard to get her, and now she’s been taken. Just like that.

                Things are growing. Maybe I’m shrinking. I want to shrink. To curl up and when I open my eyes, everything will be better. Perhaps I’m being swallowed. By time, by God. Is there a god? Surely not. He’d never let something like this happen. What did I do wrong? It’s hard to breathe. Hard to think. I don’t know what’s happening. The screaming has stopped. People are shouting at me now, crowding in close. I wish they’d leave. Everything is black. Silent. Gone.

                “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:33 pm. I’ll find you.

Jennifer Shoop

Ransom Note

“$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:30 pm. That’s what the note said, scrawled on yellow lined paper, in handwriting resembling that of a young child’s, blue ink. 8 words. 1 sentence. Amazing the impact that can have on you.

                My daughter has been taken. My baby girl. Maybe not my flesh and blood, but still my child, my angel. 15. She’s only 15. Is she ok? Is she hurt? Is she calling out for me right now? What is she thinking? I wonder if she had a lunch. Silly thought at a time like this. I haven’t even opened my door yet.

                “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:31 pm. I can’t stop seeing the words written there in front of me. Blue ink. Blue like my eyes. Blue like my heart. This must be a nightmare, a trick. My blue ink eyes must be playing a trick on me. It’s not. I know it’s not, but still I hope.

                I hear screaming somewhere. It’s loud and annoying. I wish it would stop. Whoever is screaming needs to stop! It’s me. I’m screaming. I’m screaming and I’m crying and I can’t stop. My throat and lungs burn with the effort but I can’t stop! Maybe she hears me and knows that I will never stop looking for her. I will get her back. My baby. My angel.

                “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:32 pm. My daughter. My baby girl. She’s been taken, stolen. By who? To where? For what purpose? $1 million. She’s worth so much more than that. More than those 8 words. Than that blue ink. Than that yellow lined paper. I waited so long, tried so hard to get her, and now she’s been taken. Just like that.

                Things are growing. Maybe I’m shrinking. I want to shrink. To curl up and when I open my eyes, everything will be better. Perhaps I’m being swallowed. By time, by God. Is there a god? Surely not. He’d never let something like this happen. What did I do wrong? It’s hard to breathe. Hard to think. I don’t know what’s happening. The screaming has stopped. People are shouting at me now, crowding in close. I wish they’d leave. Everything is black. Silent. Gone.

                “$1 million to ever see your daughter again”. It’s 3:33 pm. I’ll find you. 

Left Thumb

James was always self-conscious about his left thumb. His father had decided to hate him from the minute he emerged from his hemorrhaging mother's womb and anytime James "messed up", he would smash it with a hammer. I mean, it wasn't always a hammer, sometimes it was just whatever was convenient like a rock, a whiskey bottle, or the door. And messing up could be anything from getting any grade less than an A to wearing the wrong shirt to not greeting his father in the proper way. As a result of the constant beating, James had lost most feeling in that finger and it had a weird squished and crooked appearance, like a skinny midget glancing over his shoulder.

When he was a child no one was ever suspicious because the physical contact only happened to his thumb so everyone just assumed he was a clumsy kid. James's best friend knew the truth though so James stayed there a lot. He always felt like people would stare at this mangled thumb anytime he passed so he'd hide it under sleeves that were way too long or would wear gloves as long as he could before and after winter, or really any time he could come up with a semi-reasonable excuse. One summer he tried the Micheal Jackson single white glove thing and that went over about as well as a skinny kid at fat camp. Sometimes he liked to pretend his thumb wasn't really a part of him. He'd give it names, like Lenny or Brock, and pretend something horrible happened like a car accident or something to justify his odd appearance.

"You know, it's pretty warm to still be wearing gloves" a delicate female voice sounded from behind him as James stood in line for his Tuesday morning coffee. He turned and saw a girl he'd never seen around here before, and it was a small town so pretty much everyone knew pretty much everyone. She was a few inches shorter than his towering 6' 5" and had long black hair with faded blue streaks pulled into a low messy bun. She was wearing shorts with brightly colored tights, combat boots and a loose fitting floral top. No part of her outfit matched but it looked stunning and hot as hell on her.

"Thanks for the observation Rainbow Bright" he snapped, fed up with the glove comments as the weather continued getting warmer. Spring was the worst time of the year. When everyone else was donning shorts and t-shirts and constantly droning about how beautiful it was, James bundled up still toting gloves and a hat, hoping for a random snow storm. The birds chirping were music to everyone just James, they were the sirens calling his doom for another year.



"Your eyes are green today" she laughed. He just rolled his eyes and looked away. Those comments always caught him off guard. She looked at him in a way that made him feel like she could see everything he had tried so hard to hide, like she just knew everything. "So why do you wear gloves so often?" she asked trying to change the subject knowing it made him self conscious. They'd been seeing one another for 3 weeks now and he still hadn't told her the truth.

"I told you, I'm cold a lot." He hated lying to her.

"Oh that's bull and we both know it. C'mon. What are you so afraid of showing me? You can't scare me away that easily."

Walking to Class in Her Mind

Walking to class, she walks the same path every day and talks to the same people (no one) and holds never ending conversations with them. She tells them about what’s going on in her life and what she’s stressing about, what fears she has. She is big on fears. Anxiety is her devil on her shoulder.

She’s worried about her sister today. Her sister is struggling with school and being a grown up and there’s nothing she can do to help, but her sister has to learn how to deal with this stuff just like she did. Yesterday she was worried about her boyfriend. She told him how scared she was that he wasn’t talking to her about things he wanted from her and from this relationship. She knew he was talking to someone else and she was too. She loved that it was exciting, exhilarating to be free from that pressure of a relationship and she’s so sorry. But none of that is true. She knows he’s different than the last guy and doesn’t deserve her anger and lies. Tomorrow she’ll be worried about school. She’ll be worried about writing good stories and poems and sharing those stories and poems. She worries about not being good enough and when she knows that she’s amazing.

She’ll invent creatures attacking the people she walks by and she’ll fight them off, saving everyone with her sword and shield and laser guns and acrobatic fighting skills, all without breaking stride or looking up or opening her mouth.

She pulls open the door to her classroom, pulls out her notebook and begins taking notes.

Describe Someone you know well by how they move through the world

He had such a unique walk that I couldn't help but be drawn to him. There was a bounce and sway with every step that was the perfect mix of an old timey boxer and a kid trying his damndest to see over the top of a crowd. His button-up shirts always wrinkled from never putting his laundry away and just grabbing whatever was clean from the hamper while the dirty clothes remained on the floor. In public, he was the most confident man in the room, always sure of his words and actions, committed to each movement like it could be his last. And maybe it could be. He'd pissed enough people off in this world, you never know.
He isn't the friendly, goofy type. His tattoos and gauges are usually enough to send people the other way. Those brave enough to spend some time around him though, instantly see his charm. When he speaks, he draws in a crowd. You hang on his every word and regardless of how many people are around, because it always feels like he's talking to you.
On his own though, he's not the man he pretends to be. He is never sure of himself but knows that if he showed that weakness, he'd only be prey for the powerful. He's been there and he's seen it for himself too many times. His thoughts are always racing, preparing for the next attack, verbal or physical. His fists, with their deep callouses on every knuckle, sit loose by his sides, always ready. He's been in more fights than he can remember. He never starts them, but he always finishes them. No matter how alert he is awake, he sleeps deeper than the dead. Nothing can wake him when he finally lays down.
He hates being social but he loves to drink. Not a lot, but every day he drinks something. Beer, mules, margaritas, bourbon, something every day.

Describe someone's shoes in 4 sentences or less

Light Grey with 3 white stripes, or at least they used to be. He threw on his beat up high tops like he did everyday. Deep grass stains around the edges from too many times trekking across the quad on his way to class. Bottoms worn smooth but his laces still like the day he bought them. 

Light grey with white laces and the brightest neon pink soles you've ever seen. The pink stays on the bottom though and never crawls up the sides popping up like a firework with every step she takes. Their thin mesh canvas material lets the air flow through them as she runs yet another lap around the track. Still clean like the day she bought them despite running in them every day for the last 2 years. 

Describing an Image

Green was everywhere. Not just one green but every shade of green imaginable. The young praying mantis stood his ground for his final fight. He stood tall and strong on his leaf perch as the beast flew close, winds spread in a semi-circle so wide you could see every feather. The beasts soulless black eyes focused on his final remaining prey. Only one would come out of this fight alive and the odds were not in young mantis's favor. 

Describe a smell without saying what that smell is

It smells like a breath of winter ice or high school classes. It smells like trying to stay awake and first dates. It smells like fear and intimacy, the butterflies clawing their way through your midsection as you lean in to kiss her for the first time.

Write a Beginning Scene

"Do you ever shut the fuck up?" I sighed rolling my eyes at my sister's never ending complaints.
"Look. All I'm saying is-"
"I know what you're saying. We go through this every day"
"Ok but we should move camp south. Somewhere just a little warmer"
"You know why we can't do that"
"I know why you say we can't"
"You've heard the traders! You know what conditions are like down there!"
"We could find somewhere that's isolated still! We don't have to go all the way. What about...like...halfway?"
"No. We've discussed this. We're established here. We have a good thing going. We have a good meeting point with traders and no one can find us or hear us."
"Mom would've let us move."
"Yea, well, mom isn't here anymore. You wanna join her?"
"You wouldn't."
"Try me. You aren't the only one I have to keep alive."
"I hate you."
"I know. Now shut up and gear up"

We live in North Montana. There's a north and south to almost every remaining state. We live the furthest north you can get without being in Canada. You can't get any further north without special permission from the government, and I use the term government loosely. President Something runs things now and he decreed that every female aged 15-19 must serve between 1 and 4 years in service in the White House as a maiden. The females who go though, rarely come back, and when they do, they never come back the same. Most are just permanently scarred by First Lady Analeise. The rest have had one or more children for the President's family, more like child army. Once the children are born, they are never seen again. Shipped off to some factory somewhere is the rumor. The shortage of females leaving his service though means a there's a shortage of children and thus a shortage of new females for the President's pleasure. Now there's a bounty on young girls. And my sister, Amy, turns 15 this week.
We don't know who Amy's dad is but mom had her after being in the President's service. She hasn't spoken a word since she returned. She often just sits and stares at the wall. She'll follow commands if I ask her to do something like eat or bathe and luckily she goes to the bathroom on her own but she doesn't do much else.

Gravestones

Gravestones.

Headstones.

Tombstones.

Just place holders.

Like bookmarks for bodies.

For the dead.

Or for the living?

Two faded, moss covered Gravestones.

Rachel A.

Wife of William Corles.

William Corles

Born June 22, 1834

Died October 10, 1863.

Blessed are the Dead who die in the Lord.

Side by Side,

By the tree with the bench.

The bench dedicated to George L. Doll.

A soldier

Born November 9 1896

Died June 14 1957.

Saved by a girl with a camera.

She feels most at home here,

Alone amongst the dead.

Safest in the silent winter snow.

Right before spring crawls in.

When everything is starting to melt.

The dampness clinging to her breath

Filling her slowly dying lungs with soggy air.

She loves to read here.

On the bench by William Corles

and Rachel A.

Under the pine tree.

Because unlike his housemates,

He doesn't die in the winter.

There's no need to mark his place with a tombstone.

She reads here.

Parts of her die here.

Here, she's somewhere in between.

But she'll go home tonight and return tomorrow.

Someday she'll no longer be a guest.

Until then she loves her gravestones.

Her bookmarks left behind.

Gravestones.

For the living.

For the dead.                                                                                    

And for those somewhere in between.