Scene 12: Prompted

I've recently joined a writing group.  The North Texas Writer's Alliance.  I love writing groups.  It's a great way to hone the craft and gain useful insight and feedback.

This month, I was asked to provide a prompt for our group.  Writing prompts are also awesome in my book.  It's a great way to get the juices flowing and allow yourself to open up and spill it out.

The prompt I gave the group was:

We all know how important setting can be in your writing, whether it's fiction or non-fiction.  We even talked briefly about how the setting can become another character in the story.  And I recently stumbled upon this quote:

"Never write about a place until you're away from it, because that gives you perspective."  -Ernest Hemingway

So the prompt for this month is about gaining that perspective.  Write at least one descriptive paragraph about a place, any place, that you've been.  This can be a physical place (a childhood home, favorite vacation spot, you're grandpa's lap, the creepy lady-next-door's house) or this can be a figurative place, a place in time and thought, if that makes sense.  Let yourself be there again.  And as you write about it, try to keep in mind all your senses, even those things that you feel inside your body while you're there.

Here's what I came up with:

Inside

It’s dark in this place.  The kind of dark that paralyzes every muscle and weighs heavy in one’s lungs. It presses in on my ears with its silence, causing them to ring.  I want to scream, but my mouth won’t open.  Every joint and ligament is tense, waiting to spring into action. The very marrow in my bones struggles against unseen restraints.  Sweat collects on my forehead from the effort.  My head spins as my breathing grows evermore shallow.  I’m on the verge of implosion, though, from outward view it probably seems like a quiet collapse.  It is not quiet.  The shrieking pain of it all pushes blood from my ears. I am dying.   No, I realize.  My fate is worse.  I’m a prisoner here.  Fear has me in his clasp and laughs at my timorous attempt to escape.  Hot tears pool in my ears, not blood, though the volcanic pulsing there would suggest otherwise.  Exhausted, and despite my reluctance, I tumble into restless oblivion. It would be many years before I realized: there is no escaping one’s own mind.