Prompt: Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands: Do this; do that; contemplate the rear end of the woman who is walking out of your life.
This exercise will be a sort of second-person narration (a you is implied in the imperative). Writing prompt is quoted directly from Brian Kiteley’s book, The 3 a.m. Epiphany: Uncommon Writing Exercises That Transform Your Fiction.
Hear her thoughts.
Act surprised, though both of you know you’re not. Fight against her, try to convince her to stay. Argue with yourself, your family, because her logic is sound. Accept that they’re right, but fight anyway. Convince yourself, and her as well, that you can make things work. Hear the pain in her voice when she counters you. Feel your heart break.
Hear her thoughts: she’s leaving.
Reach for her as she retreats from you. Listen to her thoughts as she struggles not to return to your embrace. Beg her, see her eyes flash with torment as you do. Tell her how much you love her, how much you need her. Reach for her again. Let the pain you feel show in your face. Make it hard for her.
Hear the words in her broken voice: “You’re willing to risk your family, the treaty, everything, so we can be together?” See your agony reflected back at you as she pleads with her eyes for you to give her a reason to stay.
Follow her silent command. Hear the words as they spill from your lips: “I’m willing to risk it because I have faith in us. Not just you and I, but all of us. We’ll get through this, somehow.”
Hear the lie in them. Ignore it. Believe for just a single, infinitesimal moment that you will get through this.
Follow her to the bed. Sit down and accept that she’s right. Clench your fists, feel the anger, taste the regret. Hear her thoughts. Find some sort of hope as she struggles to decide what to do. Reach for her again. Now, see the small pile on the bed. Wonder what it is. Reach for it instead. Take it in your hands, feel the worn paper, the fragile book, the soft velveteen box. Open the box first. Gaze at the ring inside. Remember how you bought it for her, how you planned to ask her to marry you. Think about that night, all those years ago, and how she never came home from her walk. Feel the pain you felt then as you wondered what had happened.
Now, relish in the joy of finding her alive, ninety years later. Smile slightly. Think about how you’re both immortal now. Feel another surge of anger as your mind reminds you that you can’t be with her, even now.
Set the box aside and open the book. Hear the crinkle of the old pages as you turn from one entry to the next. Read the entry from the night she disappeared. Show it to her, ask her to read it. Feel the anguish she feels as she reads your words. Hope it works.
Open your arms to her, let her climb into your lap. Take heart in the fact that you get to hold her again. Feel her shoulders tremble as she cries into your chest. Comb your fingers through her hair. Let its silky strands caress your skin. Press your lips to her head and inhale her scent as you do. Let your fingers glide along the curve of her back as she clings to you. Cling to her just as tightly.
Tell her you love her. Try again to convince her to stay: “Losing you once broke me. If you leave, and I have to lose you again, it will kill me. Do you understand how much I need you?”
Hear the conflict in her thoughts. Remain hopeful that she’ll stay. Cringe when her decision is made. Fight your torment and ask her to make love to you one last time. Hear her sobs as she slowly undresses you. Let your own sobs escape. Hold her close, kiss her passionately. Memorize her taste. Feel her curves, hear her noises, sear them both into your ironclad, permanent mind. Now, find hope. Everything will be okay. Say it, chant it. Promise her that your words are true. Make yourself believe them, because you know that’s the only way she will believe them. Let the chaos around you slip away as you bury yourself within her. Hear her cries of pain and reassure her. Everything will be okay. Lie to her. Lie to yourself. Forget for just this moment that she’s leaving. Ignore her thoughts. Allow yourself to be blissfully ignorant with her.
Hold her close. Repeat your promise.
Lie.
1.7562 Billion Miles 