This is how it works: We place three prompt cards face-down. We reveal the first card, then have five minutes to write. After five minutes, we reveal the second card and take another five minutes to write. Repeat for the third. At the end of 15 minutes, you’ve produced a bit of creative writing.
I wrote this on 21 September 2023 during the Writers’ Group meetup. These are the prompts, in order:
- A yellow bus
- Yesterday’s Wall Street Journal
- The last of the toothpaste
And this is my story:
It was a hot, summer’s day. Schools were still in session and the neighbourhood woke up with the crack of dawn. Families started their morning. Children rolled over in bed. Fathers went to gently nudge them along. Mothers then went to actually nudge them awake. Breakfast was laid out. Milk then poured.
Soon, the street was humming with the buzz of children – their chatter, their footsteps. The space they took up in the world just awash with the feeling of being alive. A number of them stood outside, waiting for something to happen. And then slowly, the noise grew. A yellow school bus turned the corner, picking up its charges, one stop at a time.
It didn’t stop at one house. That house was sullenly quiet. Bereft of the noise the others were emitting.
The fabric of a curtain rippled in the lifeless window.
The yellow bus trundled on.
As the bus travelled further from the house, taking its engine noise and the chatter of tiny humans along with it, the street slowly fell into a quieter hum of busyness.
In the quiet house, a woman – weary and puffy-eyed – walked down the dark staircase and took slow steps into an uncommonly bright living room. She gasped.
The floor was strewn with shreds of paper. Everywhere she looked. On the floor. On the sofa. Trashed in between the leaves of the large money plant. Carelessly flaking the tiled floor like confetti after a party.
She picked up a few larger pieces and realised they were torn from yesterday’s issue of the Wall Street Journal. She sighed. Thank goodness it wasn’t today’s edition, she thought.
He wouldn’t like that at all. No, he really wouldn’t.
She sank to the sofa suddenly, as if her legs were unable to hold her up. The day loomed, long and never-ending, as it did every day. How could she go on?
There was no time to wallow, she thought. She quickly picked up the shreds of paper with her well-worn, creased fingers and tossed them quickly in the bin. And suddenly, the alarm rang, insistent with its blaring noise.
It was time to begin the day.
Crossing over the cool floor quickly in her padded slippers, she left the living room and entered a dim corridor. A door at the end was her destination, a solitary space. Her hands grabbed the handle and pushed it open.
The sheets on the bed were still on top of a breathing figure, as it moved in a rhythmic pattern that showed her that the person underneath was still asleep. Still in dreamland.
She slowly nudged the figure’s shoulder – or what she thought was its shoulder anyway – and said, in a soft, sweet voice, “Wake up my darling, it’s time to wake up.”
The figure moved, but only slightly, protesting with its slowness.
She decided to check the bathroom and went inside. And then realised – the toothpaste had run out yesterday. A look of dismay crossed her face. How would he react?
I haven’t edited it at all, so this is the raw copy from 15 minutes of writing, errors and all! Any thoughts? Let me know!
Devina Divecha's Journals 
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