Give me 20 minutes.
Prompt: Something that you ate or cooked recently.
Last Friday night I sat down to prepare pasta from scratch. I started by measuring the flour in a large mixing bowl which had once been exclusively reserved for all my baking disasters. This time won’t be different. I then plunged my fingers into the soft nothingness to make a little well to shield the flour from the imminent flood of the eggs. Clink. Release. Clink. Release. The yolks did a little jig. The bowl had stopped smirking by then. She might actually succeed this time. Hesitant to feel egg whites webbing my fingers together, I had started slow. And just like that, the ick had passed. I’d felt free. I could almost taste my summer of Aperol. Strangely sweet. All I had to do at that moment was conjure up the pasta to colour in the scene. Everything else happened rather quickly. The dough sprung back up after each press, ready to be rolled out like a beige carpet and cut into long strips. I’d chopped up the log of dough with very little care and with the arrogance of someone who did this for a living. There had still been a shred of disbelief when I had thrown the pieces of dough into boiling water. But it was too late by then. The pieces only needed two minutes to swim back up and I could finally sink my teeth in. That first bite tasted like the kind of thing you wanted to read a 6-part series about. The kind of thing I would want to be snobbish and insufferable about. The kind of thing I would pay for at a restaurant only to declare loudly at the dinner table: I could’ve made that at home.
Prompt: Two people talking. Maybe a thought-track?
The sun was due to set in 3 hours. There were no more deadlines. At least not until Monday.
“So if someone finds keys hanging on a door, they obviously know whose door to knock on. And yet, it took me 3 days and a note on the community notice board to get them back, but I wonder…”
We stepped out of our corporate snow globe and into the sunshine. Everyone who’d been following the conversation closely in the elevator looked disappointed that they had parked their bikes away from wherever this story was heading.
To the people smoking outdoors, the unprepared, this definitely came as a shock —
“…they could’ve made copies and are now planning to break in, murder me, steal my stuff, and harvest my organs.”
“Yeah, of course. But because you left this note out so publicly, everyone will know who to blame if someone breaks in.”
Me?
“Who?”
“You.”
“But what else could I do?”
Get insurance. Change your locks.
“Personally, I, as a German citizen, would’ve changed my locks immediately. And renters’ insurance covers that.”
“Shocking. You know, I did consider calling you for advice. Instead, I just made a list of things you were going to say.”
Some kind of testimonial for the Apple AirTags.
“Funny. Now, yes, someone could’ve made copies. But if I were you, I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Oh, I guess that’s not so bad.
“Yeah, okay. I can just stay at home for the rest of the week.”
“No, I was about to say: Don’t do that. I have no company here.”
At this point we’d already hit our fork. Our voices grew louder as we moved further and further away.
“But someone made a copy of my keys.”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t worry about it.”
“You’re just saying that, so I come in.”
“No, yes. I mean… Get AirTags.”
I was glad that I hadn’t called him for advice. Even more so to find my door locked, my stuff in place, and my organs intact.
Prompt: Max & Janine are not a good couple.
“And so, in the end I learned the 4-5-7 breathing technique to practice mindfulness of the moment.”, said Max before inhaling deeply from the lit cigarette, carelessly perched between his fingers. It was a windy day to choose the outdoor seating area. So windy that it didn’t matter where you chose to sit. Max’s cloud of smoke would find you. Janine acknowledged each insincere “Sorry, babe.” with a nod. She wore a sharp look on her face, her shoulders covered by a sharper blazer.
“It’s really great to see you working so hard on yourself.” a welcome response from the table.
“To Max’s psychotherapeutic journey.” chimed in Janine. As the rest of the table followed a raised glass of Aperol, Max’s face slowly sank.
“Well, I’d prefer calling it my journey to mindfulness.” said Max.
“Nah, doesn’t really roll off the tongue.” replied Janine with a shrug.
“I’d like to see this not as “textbook therapy” but more as something that activates my mind and empowers from within.”
“I don’t know. I did major in psychology, so I think I know just a little bit about what that looks like. On textbook. It’s 4-7-8, by the way.”
“4-7-what?”
“The breathing. Never mind. Excuse me.” said Janine, as she pushed back her chair and headed towards the Ladies’ room.
Everyone at the table passed around knowing looks like salt. Max continued to pepper the starched white tablecloth with his cigarette.
“I’ve also been learning a lot about boundaries.” said Max in an attempt to rally the table to his side.
But the conversation had left the station. Next stop — something about the new Peruvian place. Anywhere but here.
Prompt: “The moon shone brightly.”
There is no more tide. At least not any that I know of. But time still waits for no one here. We quietly slurped on our Soup of Everything. There was nothing to do. Nowhere to be. Nowhere else to go. These faces grew longer and older everyday. The only escape was sleep, and so we would daydream about sinking into our hard-cushioned bunks, only to dream of our mistakes.
Despite the misery of its residents, the moon shone brightly. Like nobody was watching.
Prompt: What’s outside your window?
The white is threatened by the despotic grey. The hedges and the trees are a crisp green, but when you look closer you see the bruises. Unkempt. Uncared for. The little square is decorated with iron rods free from clothing lines. You’d think you were in a cemetery. But all the bouquets of laundry are hidden away in basements and balconies. Not a bird in sight. Not a soul. The weeping begins. Overgrown bushes follow the wind, begging for it to end. To start a new life. It only gets harder from here.
Prompt: Use words you love.
My grandma’s terrace was connected to her adjacent neighbour’s. Ten of them were strung together like a necklace, but no two beads were alike. Some were sloping and others open, like the ups and downs of an erratic echocardiogram. When I was five and living in a state of perpetual summer vacation, I would stop by for an extended moment. I would sink into the foam couch in the living room and wait for all my friends to come knocking. We would sit in circles, play card games and act out scary stories until the harshness of the sun faded and we could run around outside. Barefoot. The ringing of bells could mean two things — ice cream or milk. Either way, the enthusiasm was constant. You would be considered a big kid if you could order milk for the household, even if your feet barely touched the floor. Perhaps, the prospect of running your tongue through frozen milk did evoke a little more joy in comparison.